The Great Gatsby was, and still is, arguably one of the best classics in history because of its depth, its symbolic presence. As difficult as it was to endure in the moment, in order to maintain that symbolic presence, that depth, Gatsby had to die. But what if we actually witnessed Gatsby's death? What if there was someone there to tell the story?

Disclaimer: There are spoilers.

I was tending to the outdoor succulents, humming along to a tune I'd faintly heard at one of Mr. Gatsby's most recent parties, when I saw a shadow moving through the other side of the garden, towards the pool. I couldn't make out who he was, but I did hear Mr. Gatsby tell the butler he'd be relaxing in the pool just 30 minutes ago. And, when I heard that 30 minutes ago, I made a mental note not to bother him.

However, the shadow I saw wasn't moving with Mr. Gatsby's swift, distinctive, elegant swagger. No – this shadow was trembling and hunched, but not in a way that hinted at any uncertainty; even in his shadow, I could see that, for whatever purpose, he had already made up his mind. Originally, I'd thought that it was just another drunken man, stumbling upon Mr. Gatsby's lawn in the hopes that his drunk state brought him into the makings of another elaborate, Gatsby-style Saturday night. But, even as plausible as that scenario may have been, I knew it was just a place holder, a way for me to feign a sense of assurance in the place of the growing dread that was becoming unable to ignore.

And so, against all of my logical and fearful protests, I moved forward into the night, crouching down along the side of the house while straining my eyes to keep track of the shadow.

I shifted my line of sight to Mr. Gatsby a few yards diagonal to me, and I watched as he looked up past the tree branches into the abyss of the night sky, seemingly liberated and untroubled. I turned back to see the man steadily approaching the pool, and only then was I sure that he was far from intoxicated by anything other than grief. I was there, hunkered in the shadows of the house, paralyzed by fear and by reality.

And it was as if I was being held back and forcibly silenced, because I watched, helpless, as the man's face set with a certain determination I have never seen before in a man, and I watched, helpless, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his revolver. He held it in his hands, and I heard it click as he rotated the capsule, bringing the bullet to its place, readying it to be released by a simple pull of the trigger. And, to this day, I can still feel that cold, distant, empty feeling that engulfed me as I watched the man raise the revolver; and, to this day, I am imprinted with the murderous, grief-stricken look in the man's eyes as he pulled the trigger, releasing the bullet pointedly into Mr. Gatsby's head.

I let out a strangled sound from the back of my throat as I heard Mr. Gatsby let out his own slight, almost soundless cry, and I watched as his blood slowly dripped into the water around him. I watched as he slowly, helplessly slid off of his raft, plunging into the warm water of the night. And, as I heard the horribly deafening sound of the revolver click once more in the otherwise deathly silent night, I turned my eyes towards the man.

With his mouth slightly aghast and with his eyes so glossy and red that I could see each haunting detail with clarity from across the garden, he raised the revolver to his own head, pulled the trigger, and fell into the grass.