Julian Baxter, a man consumed by delusions of wealth and grandeur, descends into a life of deception and self-destruction, only to face the harsh reality of his illusions.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
Julian Baxter saw himself as the living embodiment of Jay Gatsby. In his mind, his small apartment, with its peeling paint and flickering lights, was a sprawling mansion.
His wardrobe, consisting of worn-out thrift store finds, was to him a collection of designer suits. And his evenings, filled with cheap vodka and occasionally drunken guests, were lavish parties attended by New York’s elite.
To Julian, it was all a mere matter of perspective — he wasn’t poor, he was misunderstood. “They envy me,” he muttered to himself, swirling a chipped crystal glass of vodka. “Greatness breeds jealousy.”
His grand delusion had been years in the making. Julian’s father, a failed businessman who had spent most of his life chasing get-rich-quick schemes, had planted in him the belief that life was about ambition — no matter how unattainable the goal.
As a child, Julian would watch his father’s ill-fated ventures collapse, but in the back of his mind, he always held onto the idea that someone had to succeed. That someone would be him.
***
It was during one of his late-night “gatherings” — if they could even be called that — that Vivian entered his life. She was stunning, her eyes sharp, a predator cloaked in charm. She moved like someone who knew what they wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.
“You want to live like royalty?” she asked, settling herself into the armchair Julian had salvaged from a second-hand store. Her voice was silk, but there was a calculating edge to it. “I can make that happen for you.”
Julian, a little drunk on ambition and vodka, leaned forward, his heart racing. He had long dreamed of such an opportunity, and here it was, wrapped in the seductive allure of a woman who seemed to see the same potential in him that he saw in himself.
Her proposition was simple: marry her, and they would inherit an estate worth millions. The details were hazy, but Vivian assured him it was a surefire thing. All they needed was for him to take the plunge and marry her, and soon, the riches would pour in.
The problem, of course, was that the estate didn’t exist. Neither did Vivian’s promises. But Julian, blinded by loneliness, desperation, and the intoxicating idea of wealth, quickly pawned his late mother’s engagement ring to fund their “wedding.”
What followed was a months-long whirlwind of lies, empty promises, and spiraling delusions. When Julian finally realized he had been scammed — his accounts drained and his life in tatters — Vivian was long gone. She had left behind a fake marriage certificate, a stack of bills he could never pay, and an impending sense of doom.
When the last eviction notice arrived, Julian staggered into the street, clutching a bottle of vodka for comfort. He collapsed on the sidewalk, rambling about mansions and estates, his voice slurred and incoherent. A few pedestrians gave him odd glances, but nobody stopped to help. It was then that the paramedics arrived.
They found him in a stupor, muttering about his “legacy,” about the mansion he swore was just out of reach. Their latex gloves squeaked against his clammy skin as they tried to revive him, but Julian’s vision was already fading into the haze of his fantasy.
***
When Julian awoke, it wasn’t to the gleaming white pillars of a mansion. Instead, harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above him, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils. His wrists were bound to the bed, a cold weight he couldn’t ignore. The room was small, the walls painted a sickly shade of white that seemed to close in on him.
“Welcome to reality, Mr. Gatsby,” a voice said, cutting through his confusion.
He turned his head. A nurse stood by his bedside, her eyes sharp, her movements brisk. A flask of something dark hung from her pocket, and she jotted something down on a clipboard.
Julian blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. “Where am I? This… this isn’t my mansion,” he slurred.
“No,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “It’s the part where Gatsby doesn’t wake up.”
“There’s been a mistake,” Julian insisted, his eyes wide with panic. “I’m a millionaire. I’m wealthy.”
The nurse — Maggie, according to her name tag — rolled her eyes. “Sure, you are. And I’m Daisy Buchanan.” She clicked the pen in her hand, scribbling something in her notes.
Days turned into weeks. Julian’s grandiose delusions clashed with Maggie’s blunt reality. Yet, behind her cutting remarks, she harbored a grudging pity. She had her own demons — numbing her grief with whiskey-laced coffee — and Julian, for all his theatrics, was just another broken soul.
A delusional, alcoholic, narcissistic sociopath who thought he was living in The Great Gatsby but ended up in a version of Misery and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
***
***
But Julian was nothing if not determined. He quickly realized that his best chance of escape lay in manipulating the one person who seemed to have power over his release: Dr. Leo Kastle, the institution’s head psychiatrist.
Dr. Kastle was known for his overly confident demeanor, penchant for bowties, and obsession with case studies. He was writing a book about narcissism, and Julian saw an opportunity.
He began to charm Dr. Kastle, subtly working his way into the psychiatrist’s good graces. Julian spent hours studying self-help books, crafting a narrative of redemption and humility. He feigned a desire to get better, quoting passages about overcoming personal flaws, and even volunteering for group therapy sessions.
It didn’t take long before Dr. Kastle, eager for the perfect subject for his book, bought into the act. He marveled at Julian’s ability to construct an entire life out of thin air, to weave a story so compelling that even the most hardened professionals could be drawn in.
“The Illusion of Greatness: A Case Study in Narcissism” began to take shape on Dr. Kastle’s desk.
Finally, after months of manipulating the good doctor, Julian was declared “rehabilitated.” He had made significant progress, Dr. Kastle said and was fit to be released. Julian left the institution, but he left with nothing — no money, no future, no mansion.
***
Julian returned to his apartment building, only to find it was condemned. His dreams of grandeur had crumbled into dust. But instead of facing his failure, Julian decided to hold one last “party.” He found an old bottle of cheap champagne, stole a few candles, and set them up amidst the ruins of his former home.
The guests were few — mostly curious onlookers who had heard rumors of the man who used to throw extravagant parties. They watched as Julian toasted to his fading illusions, murmuring about the roaring twenties and how he was on the brink of something great.
It was then that Maggie appeared. She had heard about the spectacle, and despite her better judgment, she found herself walking to the building.
“Come on, Julian,” she said, arms crossed, her eyes hard but her voice softer than before. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Tears streamed down Julian’s face as he held up his glass, his hands trembling. “This is my legacy!” he cried, his voice cracking with emotion. “Gatsby never quit! This is my party!”
Maggie sighed; her face weary. “And look where that got him.”
The sound of sirens cut through the moment, and soon police arrived, dispersing the crowd and dragging Julian away. His protests were frantic, but they were no match for the reality of the situation.
Maggie stood in the doorway, watching as the officers carted him off. Her heart twisted in a way she didn’t understand — part of her was relieved, another part felt a flicker of sympathy.
***
Back in the institution, Julian sat across from Dr. Kastle, who slid a book across the table toward him. It was a hardcover, with bold letters on the spine: The Illusion of Greatness: A Case Study in Narcissism.
“You used me,” Julian spat, his voice bitter with anger.
Dr. Kastle adjusted his bowtie, unruffled. “You taught me. Consider it your legacy.”
For a long moment, Julian stared at the book, his fingers tracing the edges. Then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh — a hollow, cruel sound that echoed through the sterile halls of the institution.
The mirage of Gatsby was gone, and in its place was something far sharper. It was reality, cold and unfeeling, yet strangely honest. For the first time, Julian wasn’t running from it.
As Maggie passed his room, she stopped, hearing the laughter that filled the sterile air. She shook her head, muttering, “Maybe there’s hope for him yet.”
