She tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear. The conners soft pink lips lifted into a smile, as her hand played with hem of her sleeve. The man, well he was more of a boy, that was standing next to her was speaking. It was easier than I thought it would have been to pretend that I didn't recognize him. I couldn't hear what he said, but I assumed that is was something funny, because she started laughing. When she laughed her face almost glowed. She was the perfect example of light, a picture of perfect goodness and innocence, and I was going to kill her.
I stood behind the pair. The shadows of the building I stood next to concealed perfectly me, so if either of them were to turn around they wouldn't think that anything was amiss. If I shot now neither of them would even know what happened, but that wasn't what I wanted. Glinda didn't deserve to die. I knew this, but there I didn't have an other option.
The unkept grass under my feet was wet, and I could feel it soaking the bottoms of my paints. Glinda seemed not to care that her leather shoes had just reached their expectancy, this was a little odd for her but I didn't dwell on the fact. It had been rainy all week, but I doubted that she had thought to wear water proof clothes for an event held indoors. It wasn't night yet, but the sun would go down with in the hour.
I slowly crept from my hiding place, aimed my gun at the boy first. In a second I had fired the shot through the back of his head. The air rang, but my ears were used to the sound. Glinda spun around, a picture of pure horror painted on her face. The moment our eyes met her horror turned to fear. To my surprise she didn't turn to run away, not that she was faster than a bullet but I had expected her to try to escape. Instead her sank to her knees, her arms cradled Fiyero's lifeless body. Blood smeared onto her white dress from the hole in the back of his head.
I knew it was likely someone had heard the shot, my plan depended on this. Glinda wasn't even looking at me anymore, her tear-filled eyes were fixed of the glass-like eyes of the boy. In a few strides I was next to her. I held the barrel of my gun less than two inches from her smooth forehead.
Slowly she raised her gaze to meet mine. The fear I had first observed was gone, replaced with pure betrayal. The irony was comical.
"Do it," she spat the words at me as if she thought that they could do me harm. I waited for her to say more, to tell me how I would regret killing her, to scream meaningless exclamations of old friendship. She pursed her lips into a scowl.
I could hear voices behind me, and hesitated. If I did not time my next move perfectly the night would end messily. I didn't have a problem with dropping unnecessary bodies, but too many would interfere with the message I was sending. There needed to be witnesses, but not too many.
Glinda's eyes flickered behind me and realization flooded her expression. She looked back at me and I made sure to smirk. The voices got closer. Glinda stood up, the body of her love remained at her feet. I lowered my arm so that my gun was now pointed at her chest. Behind me there was a shrill scream. Glinda closed her eyes for less then a second, and when she opened them I fired.
In death she kept the grace that she had embodied through her entire life. It was time for me to flee, but I risked the precious seconds to watch her crumple. I was suddenly filled with a cold sensation, only now realizing what I was doing. What I had done.
No!
I didn't hear my voice screaming, but I felt the air being sucked from my gut as I let the sound escape me. When the ground rushed to me I didn't feel any pain, that should have been a sign of my not present state. The cause of my fall remained unknown to me, but I didn't try to arise even if I could have. I was only able to hold my mind for a few short seconds more. My thoughts and heart endured the fire that grew as I lay next to the two people that I had loved most in the world and mused at the the wicked thing that I had let myself become.
The dream always ended the same way. In fact it was rare for a single detail of it to be different. I wasn't plagued by this fantasy every night, but it became a chronic burden to bear as I spent my days running and hiding in the shadows. I learned to use this nightmare as a motivation to fight the image that all of Oz had thrusted on me.
I would die before I became the monster that I was thought to be.