Sample Rewrite:

Chapter 7.5
By Cwik
Authors Note: I have changed chapter 8 to be told from the perspective of Myrtle after her death. I am also
adding the internal conflict Tom faces, deciding if he should give Gatsbys name.
He almost drove past. Tom. My Tom almost just drove past.
As I looked over my massacred body, I wondered how he could be anywhere near without any sense of
what had been robbed of him. I tried to avoid the thought that maybe his conversation with my idiot husband
had already begun pulling him away from me.
For me, the glue still held firm as I sank into the seat beside him behind the wheel of the blue coupe,
begging to reach out and caress him one more time. His eyes surveyed the scene coldly, almost calculating what
he was passing like an insurance agent.
Wreck! he announced, making me cringe. Thats good. Wilsonll have a little business at last.
His words struck me, almost as cruelly as he had not long before at the apartment. My hand went
instinctively to my nose, reliving the incident, before my mind wandered back to the rich, red walls of that
place. Despite the numbness pouring over me, I found myself wondering who would care for the poor thing
now.
I felt the change in Tom before he spoke.
Well take a lookjust a look.
He was more anxious with each step, each breath, parting the gathered people as he approached the garage.
In the distance, I heard the foreign howling from George. Something flickered in my chest but I kept my eyes
fixed on Tom. I needed to see his reaction myself. With Nick and Jordan hovering behind him, he reached the
heart of the crowd and sharply cleared his throat. His eyes were wilting at the sight of my body laid out on one
of Georges filthy work tables.
But, like always, the slightest vulnerability became a deep, powerful rage. He struck out with his powerful
arms, pushing his way toward me. The living around me jostled out of the way as his brought his strong body to
the edge of the table. His fingertips rested on the edge of the work table, resting in small remnants of motor oil.
The oil marked him, creeping under his fingernails, likely to leave a thick, dark line underneath. As he rested
against the table, the fabric of his suit dipped in the small pools of the slick fluid. Those elegant clothes would
never escape the permanence of that oil.
Tom lifted one hand from the oil as though he might reach out to me, but the eyes of the policeman beside
him kept him away. He was motionless awhile, standing over what could no longer be, oblivious to the
continued wailing of George.
I stayed with Tom as he stared at what I used to be, but my eyes kept turning back to George. He was
standing in the doorway to the office, swaying back and forth like an anxious child. His eyes were wandering,
looking from one thing to another without really seeing. This was his fault. This was all his fault.
Oh my Godoh my God he continued to cry.
Beside me, Toms muscles were locking and tightening. The burden in his eyes was immediately shifting to
something else. He turned away, facing the policeman who had turned away to gather information from one of
Georges stupid friends, Mavrogueor something.
M-a-v- the policeman was saying, -o
No, r corrected the man, M-a-v-r-o
Listen to me! Tom said aggressively.
r the policeman confirmed, o
g
g
Mavrogue stopped at the sight of Tom, who dropped a hand on the policemans shoulder. The officer
buckled a bit under the force of Toms hand, making him spin around in a rage. The authority behind the officer
seemed to fade away upon turning to face Tom.

What you want, fella? he asked flatly.

What happened? Thats what I want to know.
Auto hit her. Insantly killed, the policeman answered.
Instantly killed, Tom repeated.
For a moment, I found myself lost in watching him badger the office for more information. His words
faded away so that all I saw was his courage, the courage that I loved. Every answer from the officer wasnt
enough. He needed everything.
It was a yellow car, a man in the crowd said, bringing me back to the present, big, yellow car. New.
I missed the words that passed between the men after that because Tom changed very suddenly. A new
level of rage played across his face, a contained fury, that Id never seen before. He spun quickly on his heels
and marched across the garage to George at the office door.
Youve got to pull yourself together, he barked, nearly crushing George, who seemed to fall limp in his
powerful grip. Listen, I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupe weve been
talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasnt mine do you hear? I havent seen it all
afternoon.
I didnt appreciate the way his rage and fury seemed to disintegrate. His tone revealed he was more
concerned with absolving his guilt than vindicating me (as Id hoped).
Im a friend of his, Tom said as the policeman approached, blatantly suspicious. He says he knows the
car that did itIt was a yellow car.
And what colors your car? the officer pressed.
Its a blue car, a coupe.
Weve come straight from New York, Nick added, finally breaking through the crowd to join Tom.
It seemed to pacify the policeman, and he turned away. Tom help George upright between his hands as he
moved further into the office. He dropped George into the desk chair.
If somebodyll come here and sit with him, Tom ordered, sending two nearby men into the office.
I had to move quickly to keep up as he marched out of the garage with Jordan and Nick in tow.
Lets get out.
With no intention of lingering at this pathetic scene, I followed them out, again taking my place beside
Tom in the coupe. I watched him as he steadily drove around the bend before pressing the gas pedal to the floor.
Before long, I could see the tears falling from his eyes. I smiled.
The God damned coward! he howled. He didnt even stop his car!
All night I stayed with Tom, even when he sat to dinner with Daisy. The talked in calm, haunting murmurs.
As Tom said it, Daisy had had her fun and now it was time for her to buckle down and be the wife she needed to
be. The little thing just nodded, staring at the plate set before her. There was no fire in her, and there never was.
I leaned down and whispered in Toms ear.
I would have fought for you.
But Daisy didnt fight. She took every word Tom fed her as an instruction, as though that other man never
existed. Her indifference was infuriating. I watched as she returned to her room, a maid on her heels, to begin
packing.
The packing continued throughout the night and into the morning. Tom ordered his people around, making
sure things were attended to and accounted for.
Ill be back in the spring to settle the house, he told one of his men.
The man nodded and turned off in the opposite direction so that Tom was alone in the sitting room. Well,
alone except for me. For a moment, I thought he could sense me by the way he listened to the silence, but he
seemed to brush it off just as the doorbell rang in the distance. As he was climbing the stairs, a small, scared
looking boy hustled after him.
Mr. Buchanan, sir. A man is at the door. He says he needs to speak to you.
Tom, looking annoyed with the young attendance, replied, Did you get a name?
Wilson. George Wilson.

Toms eyes darted in the direction of the front room. He stared for awhile, seeming to piece something
together in his mind.
Tell him we cant be bothered. We are quite preoccupied today.
The young boy nodded and headed back down the stairs toward the front door. I followed Tom up the
stairs, trying to read his expression. Before we could even reach the end of the hall, a door violently slammed
downstairs. Tom returned to the top of the stairs to find George, incoherently tired, muttering as the boy tried to
redirect him out the door.
Where is he? George growled, pulling a revolver from his jacket.
The boy let out a fearful sob and backed away. George moved passed him, marching toward the stairs. He
stopped at the sight of Tom at the top of the stairs.
You! George wailed, raising the revolver.
Tom raised a hand, unsurprisingly fearless.
Im not the one you want, Wilson, he said calmly. You know that.
George kept the gun aimed, but the rest of him fell back into that sobbing fool from the garage. His lip
quivered like a spoiled little girl and his body began to shake. Tom approached him tentatively.
Lets go to my office, he suggested, reaching out to help George.
The revolved dropped at the two men moved down the stairs. With a furious stare and the still frozen
attendant, Tom led George into his office where he sat him down in one of the luxurious chairs.
The yellow car George muttered as Tom sat across the desk from him.
I know.
George looked up with eyes severed by thin, red veins. He looked wild and frighteningalmost.
Tell me what you plan to do, Tom said, gingerly placing his elbows on the desk.
Without hesitation, George said, Kill him.
Tom nodded and seemed to turn back into himself. His expression reminded me of a time wed run into a
friend of his in the city. Hed look just the same, trying to calculate what to say. Now he seemed to be
deciphering something else. As his expression changed, I knew it was something more sinister.
Gatsby, he finally said. You want Jay Gatsby of West Egg.