An undecided fate

(I apologize in advance for this being long and somewhat uneventful. I ended up writing more than I thought I would.) 

The sound of a gunshot echoed in his head, prompting him to a sudden awakening. His eyes sprang wide open, but a fierce brightness forced them shut once more. As he felt the light subsiding and his eyes adjusted, his surrounding gradually came into view; the confusion instilled in him only growing. He found himself standing amidst an immensely empty space; where on either side of him the room seemed to stretch out endlessly. Beneath him the ground was inexplicably soft against the hard feel of his leather shoes, and the ease with which he shifted from one foot to the other made him feel almost weightless.

  He looked around once more, perplexed, for he knew neither where he was nor how he had gotten to be here. In fact, as his thoughts trailed further in search of an answer, his mind cleared and with the abrupt realization that he had but a mere sense of who he was though no actual memories; an overwhelming sense of confusion and panic overcame him. Absent-mindedly he brought his hand to his heart, his fingers lingering on his chest, as though feeling for something that wasn’t there. Suddenly aware yet puzzled by the nature of his gesture, he stopped himself and glanced up; noticing for the first time the outline of two doorways as stark white as the walls they lined up against; camouflaged if not for the handle and hinges protruding.

 Hesitant but led by curiosity he slowly walked forward, a shaking hand reaching for one of the handles. The door slid open, revealing behind it an array of images, playing back like a film reel against the backdrop of the room. He stood by the doorway, bewildered by the sight, but more so by the familiarity of the faces and the events screening before him. It wasn’t until he saw her that everything came rushing back. That sunshine hair and careless attitude, and that voice, full of money he once called it. Only her name escaped his lips. “Daisy…” Daisy Fay, or Buchanan as she later became known. The name which had reverberated in his mind every night and day; the one for whom he had accomplished everything in his life. He reveled in the memories of their love fuelled by youthful exuberance and ignorance; but unable to withstand the pressures of social dichotomy. 

 His gaze, now hollow, drifted back to his life so mysteriously and vastly projected on such a magnified scale. With every scene depicting the choices he made and the path they led to, his mind filled with the sudden clarity that his life had been lie; a decades long scheme to win the one prize he had always longed for but which even until the end he would never claim – Daisy’s unconditional love. And as the motion picture of his existence neared conclusion, the conviction that his life’s purpose had been pillared on a false idea, on a mere an illusion of a corrupted memory was finally affirmed.

 Helplessly he watched the final act unfolding, the most heartbreaking and dramatic of them all, but more importantly the most defining moment, for it was then that he proved that his was an unrequited and undeserving love. He looked on without recognition at the discernible images playing above him; the fragments of events that he had not witnessed but which would nevertheless eventually affect his outcome. Though the figures onscreen were muted, he did not need to hear their voices for he already knew what words, accusations and false promises escaped their lips. This was after all a moment in his past.

 Daisy appeared onscreen at the wheel of his car, he by her side, driving back to East Egg from a luncheon, he recalled, that had turned into a confrontation with her husband Tom and his mistress Myrtle. Promptly and cruelly, the scene delayed, the sequence of events melded together now playing in slow motion. His heart thumped louder, the sense of dread overwhelming. Paralyzed he witnessed once again with horror Daisy’s carelessness; Myrtle’s distorted, limp body sprawled across the sandy road. Like the unwilling spectator that he was in that moment, he watched George, Myrtle’s husband, overtaken by an uncontrollable grief and vengeful rage racing towards him, gun in hand. It was Tom’s unscrupulous and wrongful denunciation that had led George to the man he believed responsible for Myrtle’ death – to him.

 But he had had enough. He stumbled backwards, no longer wanting to see and relive…. Relive his death, he realised. His mind blanked out, his thoughts came to a halt. Again his hand lifted to his chest; though this time he did it consciously, knowing that underneath the soft yellow fabric of his shirt, should be wounded flesh. He backed further away from the door, unable to comprehend what was happening to him; letting go of every notion he had of the world he lived in and the life he had. For hours, or so it seemed, he remained motionless; his eyes transfixed on emptiness for nothing around him seemed tangible. Finally he recomposed himself and his gaze darted back to the room, and then slowly drifted across to the closed door. Even more reluctantly and vigilantly than the first time, he approached the second door, and after of a minute of composure he turned the handle. Once more the room screened a compilation of seemingly real-life events, starring the same familiar faces but eventually new characters appeared onscreen. The longer he watched, the more he became aware that though it was him on display, this was not the life he had come to lead in the last few decades. Stranger still was that this version of himself aged on, his hair changing, from salt and pepper to entirely grey. And gradually, the veil of scepticism and utter bafflement lifted and a different reality set in.

 Both doors now lay open as only entrances to two brightly illuminated rooms for both reels had reached their last acts. Gatsby stood there, reflecting on the last moments of this surreal experience. Eventually he had come to grasp the nature of his presence here. From whatever realms, he was being handed the opportunity of starting over, of taking a path different than the one that had led him to this very moment. Yet his predicament could not be so easily resolved. He was to face the consequences of the decisions he did make, the life he did live out; in pursuit of a quest that was never worthy of his commitment and one that would end in betrayal. Or he could start over, embark on a possibly better and longer life, but one without his only constant; it was a life in which he and Daisy parted ways and never reencountered.

 But despite everything, he had loved her. Or at least he had spent so much time thinking of nothing but her, he could not imagine any other life. Yet he knew that their love was only as perpetual and epic as conceived in his delusions. “Two roads” he murmured to himself. But what do you do when neither of them lead you to your heart’s desire? And so he remained, unable to seal his fate.