The Great Gatsby Through The Eyes of Daisy Buchanan

It was pouring on Long Island that day. The pattering of rain seemed to have enveloped the entire city. As we drove towards West Egg, I could almost hear a sort of eagerness through the fallen dribbles. With each trickle came a short burst of vitality, as if the bubbles couldn't contain a keenness sealed for years any longer.

Something about today just seemed so nerve-wracking. The rain continued to fall as we reached the other side. It was probably nothing, I thought. Perhaps I’ve been too caught up with family business. It was going to be a lovely afternoon, I convinced myself. It was certainly nice of Nick to invite me to tea, although I do wonder why Tom was not to come.

As we pulled into the driveway, I gazed at the most inappropriate dwelling for a man of Nick’s status. Surely he was capable of providing far more than this.

In front of me stood a modest little cottage. The walls were done inadequately, with the rooftops plastered of dull artistry. The lawn was insignificant and the bungalow almost appeared as if it was being squeezed by neighbouring mansions. In the midst of everything that West Egg was to be, the house seemed out of place — an eyesore even.

Just as the engine shut off, Nick came out.

“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”

He laughed coldly, then helped me out of the car.

“Are you in love with me?” I joked, “or why did I have to come alone?”

“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent,” he replied. “Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.”

So I did.

The living room was rather ordinary as well. Something about Nick’s expression as we walked in seemed troubling, as if he was expecting another form of existence.

“Well that’s funny,” he said.

“What’s funny?”

Right then a knocking came from outside. As he went to answer the door, I proceeded my evaluation of the place. When I heard footsteps again, the rain came down harder.

“So who called at the do—” A wet, yet charming figure stood before me. An elegant stature of a well dressed gentleman, soaked by the rain. His eyes sparkled with a kind of tonality of the past, with that smile of his own that I was particularly fond of. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jay Gatsby, the man I thought I would never meet again in my life, was just meters away.

“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again,” I started.

The room was silent and Nick came in.

“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby.

He was now positioned directly before me, with his head rested against the face of a mantelpiece clock. The pressure of his head was too great, and the clock gave in and fell. However, just before it hit the ground, he caught it with his trembling hands and placed it back in place.

“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said.

“It’s an old clock,” replied Nick.

Before long, we were all on our feet and making tea in the kitchen.

“This was your plan all along?” I asked my cousin.

He smiled genuinely and said no more. As Nick made an excuse to leave us be, Gatsby followed to speak with him.

I was still piecing together the situation at hand. Everything happened so suddenly and I was not prepared for this reunion at all. Gatsby has changed since the last time I’ve seen him. He has gotten more mature, with an unrested composure on his face. I wondered what was it that he had to speak to Nick about. After I heard the door shut, Gatsby returned.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” he began.

“Yes, it really has,” I replied.

“How’s everything going for you?” he asked.

At this point I couldn’t control myself anymore. Tears streamed down my face as I answered.

We talked for what seemed like hours, reminiscing over the past and reconciling the bonds that had been left to wilt. It was only when Nick came back had I fallen out of his nostalgic gaze.

“It’s stopped raining,” said Nick.

That caught me by surprise. We were so engrossed with each other that none of us had paid much attention to the weather. Now that he mentioned it, rays of sunshine had filled the room. For the first time, I noticed the blooming flowers in the room, the scent of dew covered grass from the outside.

Gatsby invited me and Nick over to his house. As I went up stairs to wash my face, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of a house he lived in.

At first, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The sheer size of Gatsby’s mansion captivated every inch of my body.

“That huge house over there?” I cried.

“Do you like it?”

Before I knew it, my mouth spoke the undeniable truth.

“I love it.”

We entered his property by the big postern. I couldn’t help but admire everything that is his present. From the sweet garden to the spacious dinning hall, from the sparkling marble steps to the bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk. Every bits of details rendered intricacy and status through the great estate. As we continued walking through the never-ending periods of inordinate rooms, a sense of repentance crawled over me.

Gatsby led us to his bedroom and opened cabinets full of massed suits, dressing gowns, ties and shirts piled in stacks a dozen high.

“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”

At that moment I felt overwhelmed with emotions. I picked up the shirts and felt tears rolling past. As much as I wanted them to stop, they wouldn't. Was this joy for Gatsby? For how his life was now? No. I knew the answer all along ever since I first step foot into this house. Perhaps I cried for the years that were gone, for our love that seemed so pure and innocent, but it did not mattered. It was too late for us, for me. The longer I stood, the more I felt and dreamed of what we could have been. If only I hadn’t…

“They’re such beautiful shirts,” I sobbed.