George Wilson Monologue

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For a brief moment, miles away from the eyes of god, time itself stood still. And the singing birds went silent in their canopies, and the gentle licks of a passing breeze abated, as if the entire world, save Gatsby, knew. Knew that, like an old timepiece, the gears within the depths of George Wilson’s being had long since begun to fragment, and with the urgency of newfound knowledge, he had only one thought on his mind.
Certainly, as he glided towards Gatsby’s mansion—and ultimately, into the foliage that surrounded it— Wilson’s breathing was neither slow nor rapid, nor shallow nor heavy, but rather, it fluctuated with an unrelenting attitude, and trapped between immense grief and rage, he carried himself dangerously with each step. ‘Why?’
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A mirror, nevertheless, that reflected not an image of him, but rather a vision of a life he could never, and would never have. All because of Him! Wilson turned to face the semi-nude figure now, with eyes red as the roses in Gatsby’s garden. Alas, the man was not only a murder, but a thief! And whilst that may never have been further from the truth, it mattered not in Wilson’s eyes as he loosed the safety on the gun.With arms shaking like the swells of water beneath Gatsby’s mattress, from hours of fatigue and delirium, however, he hesitated.
And so, momentarily, George Wilson simply watched, right arm tense and outstretched, as the final streaks of daylight were shrouded by a passing cloud, and the golden tan of Gatsby’s back skin disappeared. He watched, as in its place, the ashen suit grew, contouring to his body with familiar ease, never truly gone, and never truly forgotten. For free from the fine clothes, and the boisterous parties, and the mounds of pretences, Wilson realised something staggering about the man they call ‘Jay Gatsby.’
But as he did, Gatsby turned over, and taken by surprise, a shaken Wilson did what he had come to
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