The night was filled with anticipation as I stepped out of the
Buchanan's car. Gatsby stood there before the wretched, blood-stained
Cadillac Victoria, and asked diffidently, "Did you see trouble on the road?" With a
heart-felt tone, I replied "A woman died."
Gatsby gazed on the dent that bulged from the woman, and said "I didn't
mean to; this woman, she came out to the road, and...
is Daisy alright?"
How could he only think about
Daisy? A woman had just died and a life
was taken from a meaningless situation, I pondered. (Fitzgerald 143)
Unexpectedly, my
hand lifted into an upright position and ripped across Gatsby's face.
His face was covered with
fear, and emotion began to control his
actions. Like a
wild hog, he tried to justify his actions.
"What was I supposed to do, blame Daisy? If I stopped her, wouldn't her faith and trust in me vanish?"
"You've changed Jay, when I first met you I thought you were an
honorable person. But, now I don't know...
you've changed."
I
unconsciously let out a sigh and with those words, I left Gatsby
perturbed among his thoughts.
