black and blue ,, sally

[gatsby oscar tanner]

you left my heart black and blue

There had been rumours. Hardly even rumours, more like whispers. That Sally Valentine. Gatsby’s Sally Valentine had joined the tour. These were rumours that Gatsby needed, with all of his heart and soul, to confirm or deny. Most people didn’t seem to realise that Sally and Gatsby had history. Gatsby supposed he was lucky that the media wasn’t making a big deal out of it. History was putting it lightly; the couple had a child together and had once been engaged. Not knowing whether she was there or not was driving him crazy so he put on his darkest sunglasses, pulled on some skinny jeans, a white tank top and a denim waistcoat and left his tour bus at one in the afternoon. He proceeded to walk around the tour arena as discretely as possible.

Inevitably fans noticed him and Gatsby was forced to interact with them; smile, laugh, pose, sign, nod, hug and pat the back of every teenager who approached him. He skirted around as many large groups as he could. He bought himself a beer and a hotdog and continued his search, using his best confused face when fans pointed at him in an attempt to cast some doubt over whether or not it was him. Gatsby stuffed the hotdog into his face, realising he hadn’t eaten in more than a day and chugged his beer, leaving both the wrappers on the ground just because he couldn’t see any bins.

Moments later, Gatsby saw something that caused him to stop dead in his tracks. A girl with pink hair, with a large camera, photographing a merch table where Smoke and Sex were doing a signing. Gatsby could hardly even think of what to do. He stood very still and just stared at her, willing her to turn around. Maybe it was just that kid Cat? She had a camera? She always had brightly coloured hair. There was something in her stance that made Gatsby acutely aware that this was Sally Valentine. A fan approached him from his left and asked for a picture. Gatsby smiled as brightly as he could but he didn’t take his eyes off Sally, the fan thanked him for the picture, told him she loved his band and left to re-join her friends.

Gatsby edged closer to Sally until he was around four feet from her. He couldn’t bring himself to get in closer or to reach out and touch her so he simply stood behind her, saying nothing, doing nothing and waiting for her to turn around.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

Today was shaping up to be a long day. Up since the crack of dawn in search of a replacement 35mm lens and a teething ring (of course, it had to be their first day on site that Rosie would start to cut her molars) she was already feeling frazzled. There was just so much of everything, everywhere. Noise, Light, Hustle. And people. So many people. Lecherous roadies, desperate groupies, brutish security; you name it, all the stereotypes were present and accounted for. Furthermore, they all seemed to be making it their mission in life to get in Sally's way.

Pushing back her loveheart pink fringe in a universal gesture of exasperation, Sally tried to explain for the third time to the freakishly tall man who was insisting on standing in front of her that yes, it really was part of her job to squeeze past him. She would have tried flashing her media pass at him, but a fat lot of good that had done her on the previous attempts.

Glancing at the clock Sally noted with alarm it was almost half past one. Smoke and Sex were only staying until two. With a sigh of resignation she took advantage of her own petite frame and knelt down on the muddy floor of the merch tent. Weaving slowly in between the legs of the band's adoring public, Sally snaked her way to the front, thanking God she had left Rosie and her torturous teeth with a friend for the day. By the time she stood up, the knees of her light jeans were thoroughly caked in mud. But she was finally in position.

Lucky for her, the band themselves were relatively photogenic and with a few clever angles Sally bagged several decent shots before the band went on their merry way enjoying a good old smirk at Sally's less than pristine appearance. Sally hung around as the tent was quickly vacated, focusing on the toes of her well-worn converse until the dull roar of the crowd had fully ebbed.

"Damnit," she muttered to the thick canvas walls, dabbing at her ruined jeans. "Because now I look super professional. Not like some kid that fell in the playground. Super, Sal, way to go." Giving her jeans up as a suitably hopeless case, Sally turned to leave. And bumped straight into the broad chest of what she had presumed to be empty air.

Falling back squarely on her ass with a thump that brought tears to her eyes, Sally swore and inhaled deeply in a bid to snatch back some of the wind that had been knocked out of her. The scent of stale Marlboros caught in her nostrils.

"Little help?" She enquired, trying to keep the embarrassment out of her voice. She stretched out a hand and blinked up into the face of the human wall she'd just assaulted. And the wind was knocked out of her all over again. Oh yes, it was going to be a very long day.

[gatsby oscar tanner]

you left my heart black and blue

Gatsby had observed Sally doing her thing for a long time. He had never watched her work before and he was impressed with how her tiny, slender arms could support such a huge camera. She was looking great, Gatsby had expected that. Even when Sally thought she looked like crap, she looked great. Kids had brushed past him without noticing who he was, and for this, Gatsby was thankful. The last thing he needed was for a bunch of kids to shout his name and alert his ex-fiancé to his presence. Gatsby lit a cigarette and began to suck on it as if it held all of the answers to all of his problems. He didn’t really know what he was planning to do. He didn’t think he could bring himself to touch her, to tap her on the shoulder and say, “Oh hey Sally, how’s it going?” That would not cut it.

Gatsby had sort of just, text Sally to let her know he was leaving. “CAN’T HAVE ROSIE FOR A WHILE, GOING ON TOUR. FROM GATSBY X” had been the exceptional message that had marked his departure. He had gotten himself extremely drunk to send this message because he could not bring himself to tell her. In hindsight, Gatsby knew that this had not been the way to let her know, he should have at least called her – if not, told her face to face. But as they say, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

As Smoke and Sex got up to leave, Gatsby found himself panicking. All of the kids cheered and then began to disperse, leaving him exposed. Gatsby contemplated leaving, darting, running as fast as he could back to his tour bus and hiding, but when he went to move away, he found that he could not move. He was rooted to the spot. Great work, legs! Gatsby thought to himself sarcastically. He wanted to kick himself but he obviously couldn’t – immobilised legs and that.

Gatsby was beginning to panic. What was he going to do when she saw him? What would he say? How should he act? He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, to calm himself. Maybe she wouldn’t notice him, maybe he was overthinking this. All of a sudden he was bumped into. Gatsby stumbled backwards a step and then looked around wildly to find Sally sitting on the ground in front of him. He stared at her for a moment, mouth aghast. He couldn’t believe that this had just happened.

“Little help?” She asked him. He had been in a stunned daze. She obviously had not realised it was him. Gatsby took her outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet. “Of course.” He said in a hoarse voice. He didn’t know what to do now. Now that she was standing in front of him, with mud on her. In the old days, Gatsby would probably have set about trying to wipe the mud off her ass, flirting, laughing, teasing. But these days, that was inappropriate. “Hey Sally, how’s it going?” He asked, and immediately wished that he had thought of something better to say to her.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

"Of course." As she was pulled to her feet in a motion oozing familiarity, Sally felt the blush of embarrassment race from her cheeks. It was replaced with the cold hard fury that she'd been holding onto since the single line of text that had announced this one one-man-hurricane'a swift exit from the lives of her and her daughter. he hadn't even bothered to turn off caps lock, to even attempt to offer the situation some of its emotional gravity. Part of her hoped the first sentence to pass his lips would be some sort of admission of guilt, that he would drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. But, oh, no, that would be too much to ask for.

"Hey Sally, how's it going?" He breezed as if he'd only nipped out for a packet of fags. As he gave her a sweeping glance (which even a blind dog in the next town over could have confirmed rested for an undue amount of time on her ass), Sally used all her powers of restraint to prevent her arm reaching up and smacking him across the mouth.

"How's it going?" She finally managed to choke past her rage, glaring up at him with all the menace her stature would permit. How's it going?!" So, now he wanted to know. Words couldn't even express how it was going - the emotion she felt was so intense it felt like her tongue would simply crack in two should it try to work its way around such feeling. Anger at Gatsby for leaving and for never really having been there in the first place. Frustration and humiliation over how he'd simply took up and gone without a backward glance. Fear what this meant for Rosie and how this wrecking ball and all his addictions would hurt her next. And above all those things, an overarching feeling had grown, unbidden, binding all the above tightly: anger at herself.

Because really, this was all her own fault. It was her fault she'd gotten involved with him in the first place; her fault that she'd let him walk all over her. But most of all, it was her fault that his name still caused her heart to flutter and it was her fault that she still kept one of his old band shirts to wear to bed on those nights when the loneliness crept in. But, enough of that.

"You," she began, measuring her words ever so carefully, "have ruined my jeans."

[gatsby oscar tanner]

sometimes it feels like i don't really know what's going on

Gatsby had immediately known that, “How’s it going?” had been the wrong thing to say. He had known because of the feeling that he got in his gut, the fact that he thought he was going to burst from shame and the fact that his legs could not move. Sally’s repetition of his question just proceeded to make him even more fearful than he had previously been. If he could have taken steps backwards then he would have.

Sally was looking up with a menacing glare that on numerous of previous occasions had made Gatsby leave the flat and go to the bar. But today, Gatsby could hardly move, let alone run away. He kept trying to will himself to apologise, to change the subject – to do anything other than stand there like a complete moron. But of course, just when he needed to do something, Gatsby could do nothing at all.

As much as he tried to deny it, Gatsby had missed Sally. He thought about her every night and regularly during the day. There had been a couple of occasions that he could have slept with someone and he had backed out at the last moment. Claiming to be a gentleman and letting the women go off to find someone else to ravish them. The truth of the matter was that Gatsby, although it seemed ridiculous, still felt like he was in a relationship with Sally and he could not bring himself to cheat on her.

Gatsby was almost positive that Sally had no feelings for him anymore other than loathing and bewilderment. And it killed him that he felt something more than her. There was nothing worse, nothing more pathetic, than unrequited love.

“You have ruined my jeans.” Sally had said in a way that let Gatsby know that she was trying to keep her anger in check. He put his hands together in prayer formation and whispered, “I’ll obviously get them dry cleaned for you, or new ones. Whatever you want. Anything.” Gatsby immediately felt like he had over compensated. But he also felt like he needed to overcompensate. He had been a horrible person to her. He wanted to say sorry about the text message, sorry about abandoning her and their child, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt like the moment had passed.

“I see you are on tour now.” Gatsby said stupidly, gesturing to the world around them and trying with all his might not to bite his lip. Sally always knew he was uncomfortable when he bit his lip. It was not that he wanted to appear comfortable in this awkward situation; it was that he did not want to appear uncomfortable around the mother of his child. “Is Rosie with you?” He asked, his eyes suddenly shining with excitement as he thought of being able to hold his baby girl.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

Some things never change do they, Sally thought, beyond exasperation. Harking back to timeless occasions, here stood Gatsby Tanner making promises he would never keep with such an earnest manner anyone who didn't know him would expect the dry cleaner he spoke of to appear from thin air through Gatsby's will alone. Sally had often wondered if that was how Gatsby himself thought promises worked, which was why he never followed through on them. But thinking such a thing was to offer him a kindness that his asshattery had negated long ago. He was lazy. He was selfish. He didn't fulfil his promises because he didn't care. So, neither would she.

"Of course," Sally nodded her head with false enthusiasm. "And don't forget to take a picture when the pigs take off, okay?" She adjusted the camera strap round her neck which had become tangled when she fell, anything to distract her into breaking eye contact with him. His eyes, just like his attitude, had failed to change. They were still deep, dark compelling pits that could pull a girl in with the bat of his abnormally long lashes. Damn him.

“I see you are on tour now.”Gatsby muttered, causing Sally to arch an eyebrow. What was he playing at? Was he honestly trying to make small talk? "Why yes, it would appear that I am, Sherlock," Sally snapped back, she didn't have time for this. The make up girls were only watching Rosie until five and she had so much more to do. Almost as if he'd heard her thoughts Gatsby was onto Rosie. The thought of him seeing her made Sally feel slightly ill. She'd made the mistake of permitting him contact before. Every time he visited, Rosie would be horribly unsettled for the rest of the day as if even in her infancy she could tell he was trouble. Sally had half the mind to lie and say Rosie was staying with a relative, but lies like that had a horrible way of coming round and biting you squarely in the ass.

"Yes, Gatsby," his name still glided across her tongue with a smoothness no other word held and she cursed herself for it, "my daughter is here and you, by God, you will be staying away from her."

[gatsby oscar tanner]

i'm so high on misery

Gatsby had smiled as pleasantly as he could and looked at her with eyes as wide and innocent as he could muster. He was hoping, praying, that they could just pretend that things had never happened. That they would just star fresh. He thought, for a single moment, that his wish was coming true when Sally said, “Of course,” accepting his offer, seemingly. The sarcasm hit him like a tonne of bricks. “I promise, I’ll get you new ones.” He said with more conviction and an earnest look in his eyes.

Gatsby could feel irritation building in him, she always doubted him, always. He supposed that Sally had every reason to doubt him, he had let her down at every turn for as long as they had been together. Gatsby just didn’t know how to be a good person. He didn’t know how to help others or help himself. He was selfish, he wasn’t very understanding. He hated these things about himself, but he could not help it. He could not fix it.

There was some serious bad feeling in his stomach when Sally snapped at Gatsby. He forgot how good she was at making him feel like a stupid, worthless man. He supposed that he was a stupid, worthless man in her eyes. “I-I’m glad.” He heard himself stutter. He was a little surprised by it. He looked at her with a pleading, desperation in his eyes that he couldn’t express with words. There was so much anger and frustration growing in the pit of his stomach. He always forgot about these things when Sally was not around. He idealised her when she wasn’t around. He supposed she did the exact opposite, because he was such a failure at everything that she could simply think about how awful he was and be completely legitimate.

Sally made it very clear with her sentence and her diction that she did not want Gatsby to see Rosie. He wondered if it was possible for him to express how this made him feel. “You- you can’t do that?” He whimpered, positively whimpered. He wondered if the hurt was showing on his face, “She’s my daughter too!” He said, suddenly, rather loudly, and rather aggressively. He had descended suddenly into anger and found himself standing a lot closer to her than he would have liked. He wished he could control his rage but that was not who was.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

His emotions were almost comic in their transparency. Every flicker of a feeling danced across his features as it occurred. Being closed was at least one thing Gatsby could never be accused of. Sally watched the earnest look disappear from his eyes, and felt grim satisfaction in the hurt her words obviously caused him. But it wasn't without its barb. Still, after everything, a part of her didn't want to cause him pain. A larger part than she could admit to herself.

For a moment when he was digesting what she had said about Rosie she actually thought he was going to cry and her pulse leapt in her throat, an unpleasant twist forming in her stomach that only screwed tighter with his naive pleading, "You- you can't do that?"In that moment she was a split second from losing her restraint and, not hitting him, but comforting him. But then, as had happened so many times before, the soft, lost look on his face was gone replaced with a hot anger that sat in juxtaposition with her own icy wrath.

He took a step closer (she doubted he even realised) so that he towered above her, his breath hot and heavy in her face. Sally couldn't quite believe her ears as he loudly asserted ownership over her precious girl. This was the point at which she'd always cracked before. She would concede out of fear or weariness or a terrible combination of the two. Not this time. Taking a step closer still, her heart pounding, Sally rose up on her tiptoes so they were almost nose to nose.

"No, Gatsby, you lost the right to call her yours when you left her time and time again. She's not a toy you can put away until you're ready to play some more. You weren't there for her first word or the chicken pox or her first steps. She is not yours. Sally tried not to shout but before she knew it her voice had risen in a bid to match his, shaking with the weight of what she was saying. She'd written something similar many times, in the million different replies to his text message she had constructed but never sent. It felt good to send the message. Breathing heavily Sally realised it wasn't just her voice that was shaking and balled her hands into fists, hoping he wouldn't notice.

[gatsby oscar tanner]

everywhere i go i drag this coffin just in case

In all honesty, Gatsby was expecting Sally to bow to his will, as she had so many times before when had had gotten even slightly aggressive. She inched closer to him, suddenly seeming bigger, taller, like a forced to be reckoned with. He glowered down at her with as much force as he could. She could take many things from him – for God’s sake, Gatsby felt like she had taken his heart and flushed it down the toilet every time she’d asked him to leave. But he wasn’t going to, - he wouldn’t - couldn’t! – let her take his daughter.

Despite his actions and despite what it seemed, Rosie meant everything to Gatsby. She was so perfect. She represented everything he missed about childhood and everything he wished he had in his life – innocence, an amazing mother. There was something in Sally’s speech that seemed so planned and yet so spontaneous. Numerous things stuck out to him.

Leaving time and time again. This made Gatsby think of both his mother and his father. His father who would leave for work and come back days later, and his mother who waltzed in and out of his life whenever she pleased. The comparison that he could draw between himself and his mother made him feel physically sick and Gatsby contemplated that maybe that beer hadn’t been a good idea.

She’s not a toy. He had to admit, this was something he had had to remind himself a couple of times when he was visiting her. Rosie was precious. Sally had showcased in this sentence one of Gatsby’s many flaws, the fact that he was so obsessive, the fact he went through phases with things. Rosie had at one time, just been one of his obsessive phases – he had been obsessed with fatherhood. But that had waned like all his other obsessions.

You weren’t there. Gatsby knew that if he ever met his mother again he would tell her, upfront, that he hated her. And if Daisy Brown had dared to ask why, Gatsby would reply, “You weren’t there.”

One might think that the comparisons Gatsby just drew between his parents and himself would have devastated him – maybe shocked him into reforming. But don’t be fooled, he had noticed all of these things before. His inability to change, his inability to surpass the parental skills of his parents enraged him more than he could possible express.

“You wouldn’t have let me be there!” Gatsby shouted, closing the gap between them so they were almost nose to nose – or chin to nose, considering the height difference. “If you recall, I never wanted to leave you and I never wanted to leave Rosie. You always forced me out.” He was no longer shouting, his voice was overtaken by a dangerous quiver. “I wanted to change, but you didn’t want me to. You don’t want me in Rosie’s life. You want her all to yourself.” Gatsby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to decide if he should continue talking or whether his words had done enough damage. “You can never deny that I am a big part of Rosie. She will always be mine, no matter how much you wish she wasn’t.” Gatsby leant back so he could look Sally right in the eyes, “I love her.”

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

Sally couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You never wanted to leave us?" She demanded incredulously, "Then why did you go out and get lost at the bottom of some bottle every night? Every night you left us and I was never sure if you were coming back of your own accord or in a goddamn body bag," her voice cracked and Sally fell back on her heels feeling thoroughly deflated. She hadn't meant to be quite so melodramatic, but it was the truth of how she'd felt.

Speaking of truth, what Gatsby said about being a big part of Rosie hit home in a way he would never know. Every night while Gatsby had lived at home and gone out daily to destroy himself with liquor and Christ only knew what else, she had sat up clutching Rosie listening to her steady heartbeat and reminding herself it was half-Gatsby's. If she could just keep it going and make sure nothing every touched this precious little bundle that was half his DNA that would somehow balance out the damage that Gatsby was doing himself. Not that that had stopped him ending up hospitalised.

"Gatsby, I know that, don't you think I know that?" She sighed, feeling his eyes pulling her in once again. And then he said the one phrase that she'd been fearing.
"I love her," he scarcely whispered, yet the words struck her resolve with all the ferocity of a blowtorch on butter. And she melted.
"Gatsby," why couldn't she stop saying his name? "Sometimes love isn't enough. I love you and it's not enough."

Wait. What? She didn't- Oh, Christ. Sally's eyes widened in horror at what she'd said. Her heart, which up until this point had been beating so intensely froze in her chest. Her mouth flew open in a bid to retract her statement. But nothing would come out.

[gatsby oscar tanner]

maybe some day you will know, maybe someday you will end these tears

Gatsby shifted his weight from foot to foot as Sally summed up his past indiscretions as eloquently as he never could have. Gatsby looked at her, he knew he had nothing to say to counter her so he simply said, “I didn’t do it to hurt you.” He mumbled, he didn’t really want to say something to her that would make her know that she had won. He often regretted these things, the drinking, the partying, the way that he had treated her in the past. But Gatsby also knew that he couldn’t fix these things – not then, nor now. There was no way for him to stop partying.

He watched her eyes as they did so well to hide her emotions from him. He wondered what she was thinking. Then she sighed, “Don’t you think I know that?” And Gatsby sighed and looked at her with a bit of guilt. She seemed a bit upset about this statement. Gatsby wished he wasn’t as pleased about this as he was. “You know it, but you don’t always remember it.” He smiled a thin, grim smile.

“I love you and it’s not enough.” She said. Gatsby squinted at her and wondered if he had misheard her. Judging by the look on her face indicated that she had in fact said it. “Why isn’t it enough?” He demanded, then he looked at her, a softer look on his face and leant down, so he was almost eye level with her. “I love you, too.” He said so softly that he wondered if he had actually managed to say it. He smiled at her slightly and looked at her with earnest. He wanted her to say, “Great, it doesn’t matter anymore – let’s be a family.” But he realised that this was unlikely.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

Sally recovered her composure enough to quit the goldfish act. She adjusted the strap of her canon in a habitual gesture of anxiety. ”That’s the worst part,” she explained gently, ”you couldn’t have done it to hurt me because when you were drinking or partying I never crossed your mind. Neither did Rosie.” She placed a hand softly on his arm, the only sympathetic gesture she felt she could manage at this point.

”Gatsby, it’s not enough because your love of your lifestyle weighs greater than your love of her. Us. That needs to change and we both know change is one thing you just can’t do.” She spoke as if to a small child who was finally questioning the notion of Santa. She wanted nothing more than to throw up her hands and say, ‘Never mind, let’s just play happy family now’. But she couldn’t. This wasn’t for her, this was for Rosie.

”Are you clean?” She asked the question bluntly, but not unkindly. ”If you are, and if you can stay like that then maybe you can come and see my daughter. our daughter,” she conceded. It was far more than she had ever intended to offer. It was almost embarrassing how quickly she was crumbling to his will. So much for ‘not this time’ In all serious though, the likelihood that he was clean…well, they’d already spoken of flying pigs.

[gatsby oscar tanner]

IGNORE ME, I'M DRIVEL

good shoes won't save you now

Gatsby looked at her sadly when she explained that she knew that he wasn’t trying to hurt her because he was too intoxicated to think of anything. Gatsby wished that he wasn’t inclined to agree with her. “I-” He whispered, but he was unable to finish his sentence or think of anything else to say. He looked at her pleadingly. He wished he could say something helpful or comforting but anything he would say would be a lie.

Gatsby grimaced when she described his antics as the reasons that he couldn’t have a family. He had released this before, but he always thought, ‘other rock stars are mental and they have families.’ These things didn’t really apply ro Gatsby, “I- I can’t.” He mumbled and looked at her with shame all over his face and eyes.

“Are you clean?” She asked, and Gatsby could not speak he could not think. She offered that if he was that he could see Rosie and he found himself wanting to tell her that he was entirely clean. But there was nothing he could say. He was not clean. He could never be clean. He wanted to cry, he wanted to sob, he had no feelings other than despair. “I want to see her.” He mumbled, unable to say anything other than that. He couldn’t express his desperation in a single sentence.

All he wanted was to hold Rosie in his arms and feel her tiny presence in his arms. But he knew how easily that Sally could withhold that from him and he found himself unable to defend himself or offer a reason as to why she should allow him to see her. He was a despicable human being, she had known that when they started dating, but she hated that now that he was a father.

[/s]

[gatsby oscar tanner]

REPLACEMENT NON-DRUNK REPLY

good shoes won't save you now

Gatsby could feel his heart breaking when Sally told him that she knew that he was not trying to hurt her when he was partying because she didn’t think that Rosie or Sally ever crossed his mind. Gatsby regularly thought of Sally and Rosie when he was partying, more so since he was not with them as much. Usually the thought of them and what they thought of him made him so sad that he drank, snorted, smoked more than anyone else. He depraved his body to punish himself. But this was all subconscious, so how could he explain it? He looked at her and opened and closed his mouth twice before he eventually said, “I never intentionally set out to hurt you. Either of you.” He emphasised, he touched her arm very gently, simply with the tips of his fingers, he was almost afraid to touch her in case it was too soon or too forward.

Sally suggested that Gatsby’s love of his rock star lifestyle was what kept them from being a family. He grimaced and looked at his dirty shoes and dirty jeans. God, he was so dirty, how could she bear to look at him? “It- it’s not that I don’t want to change…” He mumbled, unable to express in one sentence the shame that he felt. Gatsby never liked to think of himself as an addict. He wasn’t addicted; he could stop at any time! So long as that time was not today… Gatsby hated that he had quite possibly become an addict, just like his brother, just like his father. He hated that he was as weak as them.

“Are you clean?” The question winded Gatsby. He could hardly breathe. He was one of those people. One of those people that people thought of as unclean. As an addict. As a junkie. He wanted to jump into boiling water and scrub at his skin until he wasn’t seen like that anymore. But there was only one way to solve this, and Gatsby did not think that he was capable of it. “I’m not unclean…” Gatsby said with a slightly hopeful look on his face, he squinted his eyes at her and arched an eyebrow, “I’m just the same as when we started going out?” He offered. Gatsby reached out to touch her arm and then withdrew his hand again.

[Sally Weatherfield Valentine]

Sally couldn't help but feel mild satisfaction at the discomfort on Gatsby's face when she enquired about his drug use. Good, he was supposed to feel bad. If it made him feel even slightly bad, just a touch of shame then there was still hope that he could make amends. A chance that he could find his way out of the early grave he was rapidly digging.

"I'm just the same as when we started going out?" He suggested and her heart sank. He said it as if his consistency was a good thing. Gatsby Tanner was quite the walking contradiction: ashamed of what he also considered his redeeming feature.

"But, Gatsby, don't you get it?" She asked softly, hoping against hope that his persistent use of drugs and liquor to smother his problems wasn't his best offer. "Change is good. Everything changes, because it's meant to. I've changed, my life has changed, Rosie has changed. You wouldn't even recognise her anymore," Sally herself heard the warmth that entered her voice as she spoke of the fiery bundle of energy that was her be all and end all. "She walks now, did you know that? Not that dumb crab walk, proper people walking. She's growing a personality, too. She has a favourite colour, a favourite song, a favourite smell. She is change, she is progress, and she is perfect." Sally was breathing heavily now, her mind racing as she tried to make him understand even just a fraction of how magical her daughter, their daughter and her constant change was. "And you walked away from that. You walked away so you could stay just the same as when we met."

Looking into Gatsby's eyes, Sally was again struck by his apparent walking contradiction syndrome - the look they held was so innocent, so naive. It was utterly juxtaposed against the dozens of despicable things she didn't doubt he'd been up to the night before judging by the bags that sat beneath them. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "Do you even remotely understand what I'm getting at?"