The Great Gatsby Monologue

It was after Gatsby had been shot, after Tom and Daisy had left their reckless carnage, after Wilson had ran over to the Buchanan’s house and shot Tom, and Jordan had informed me of her dislike of my dishonesty- after I had come to terms of the unutterable, undeniable fact that I am deeply in love with Jay Gatsby. It was not until everything appeared to be crumbling, the very fabric of what I had once known to be true was fraying, that I accepted the realization I had so vehemently dispelled from my mind countless times prior. Jay Gatsby had been shot in the chest, yet it felt as if the bullet had torn through my own flesh. I did not see him for three weeks. Each day was agonizing, a lifetime of not knowing whether he had fallen victim

A crisp uneasiness floated amongst the breeze, taking my attention and turning it to the shadow of a figure lingering on the steps to my neighbors entrance. For a moment I believed that my eyes had deceived me, that a phantom had played tricks with my mind. But as the outline disappeared, stealing with it any doubt I may have held, my head felt dizzy. My heart beat so loud I was sure he could hear it as I ran across the lawn. My heart sinking with each step, knowing it was a trick. The front door was left open, the only source of light in the dusty house. A film blanketed all surfaces, filling the air as I shuffled forward. There he was, standing amongst the dust in a lavender suit. I tried to speak, tried to call out to him, but found the words stuck in my throat as my heart momentarily stopped. I must have made some sort of noise, for Gatsby turned with an almost startled expression. A smile crossed his face, drawing me in as he made his way down the stairs. That famous smile that melted away everything wrong and scary in the world. That smile I’ve dreamt about a thousand

Gatsby pushed it aside, pulling me towards him both mentally and physically. His scent enveloped me, arms encompassing my body, and I once again found my mind drifting to the fancies of my heart. The smell of roses and grass in the early spring morning. The warm embrace lulling me into a daze. Though I returned the affectionate gesture, it was accompanied by the dull ache of unrequited longing. It seemed that without him, it was all so wonderfully bleak. There were no more extravagant parties, no drunken strangers, or inconvenient car trips to New York. Though peaceful, it was all so empty. Yet, it was almost worse to have him- or rather, to not have him. Here he was, standing right before me, yet it felt as if he were miles away… Or perhaps, if I were miles away, watching from some incomprehensible distance. It all felt so terribly lonesome, to be here, but also