Erm…yeah, so, I basically took the plunge and decided to tackle the Father Frex/Elphaba relationship. 'Twas interesting. And v. depressing. Five year old Elphaba is a challenge to write, though…definitely not a point of view I'm going to be going for in the future! Anyway, there's some Melena and Nessarose stuff thrown in as well, and some links with my other oneshot, set about twenty years later, called 'Out of Control' (though this new piece is nowhere near as good as that, I know!). The little murderer, the inner-monologue of fault, fault, fault…it's intentional ;) please forgive any typos, I will find myself a beta, someday...enjoy…
"It's my fault. That my sister is the way she is. You see, when our mother was carrying Nessa, our father began to worry that the new baby might come out...green. He was so worried, he made our mother chew milk flowers, day and night. Only it made Nessa come to soon, with her little legs all...tangled. And our Mother...never woke up. None of which would ever have happened, if not for me..."
- Elphaba, Act 1
"Mother?"
She pushes at the door with one small, tentative emerald hand – must be ever so careful, must be quiet as a mouse, Father must not know, must never, never know – not really expecting it to be unlocked…but to her surprise, it swings forward slowly, laboriously before her, the old wood creaking against its rusty hinges…
…the room behind it is dark, lit only by flickering candlelight, and deathly cold. The curtains are pulled tight closed, and there is a smell, a smell of something…unpleasant…
Mother lies in her bed, a million miles across the room from her, still as an ice-carving, her face turned away into the murky grey pillow.
Oh Oz, she does look so terribly poorly…
"Mother…" she whispers, the name falling from her lips before she can stop it, and her feet are abruptly moving, stumbling her forwards and into the room, and one doll-sized hand, ghostly jade in the candlelight, reaching high to press the door shut behind her with a soft click.
The room plunges into near-total dark, Mother's lumpy form the only guidance left for her to follow as she pads bare-foot across the carpet to her bedside. Shadows play and dance on the walls as she moves, making her think of revelling spirits, of ghosts, of demons of the night like those Father always speaks of…
…oh sweet Oz…
She clenches her teeth to stop them shattering from the cold; the sound brings skeletons and clattering bones to mind – don't be fool, she hisses inwardly at herself, curling her shaking arms around her tummy in an effort to stop it somersaulting. Silly, silly girl. Get to Mother. Mother. Just get to Mother…
She is close, now. Nearly there. She passes a candlestick – light, oh thank Oz, light, wonderful warm light! – and carefully takes it in both hands, wincing a little at its weight, holding it up so as to let the light stream softly down onto her Mother's face upon the pillow…
Her heart seems to freeze mid-beat.
Mother's face is blank, expressionless. Pale as the silky sheets she lies on, grey hollows at her cheeks and under her eyes…her empty, unseeing eyes, neither open nor closed, but somewhere in between…no…no, not somewhere in between, but somewhere else entirely, somewhere that was nowhere, nothing, eyes that saw nothing, and would always see nothing, nothing, not even their own daughter…
The candlestick slips from her fingers and crashes to the wooden floor with a clang that makes her ears ring.
"…Mother…" her mouth is whispering, a hoarse little cry of sound. "…Mother…Mother, what is it, what has happened to you…?"
She reaches under the bedclothes, finding a thin, bedraggled hand that is almost twice as large as hers, and pulling it out so she can hold it to her cheek…
"…Mother…oh Mother, your hand, your hand, why are you so cold -!"
Cold. The wrong word; a hideous understatement. Mother's skin is like ice. Bitter, bone-smooth ice.
She reaches to touch her cheek, her coarse, tangled hair, her slumped neck and slack mouth out of which not one wisp of warm breath is seeping…
"…Mother…Mother…?"
No…no, it can't be, it isn't, silly girl, no…no…
…oh Oz…
And there is wetness collecting in her eyes now; damp, unwanted, irrational – stop it, child, stop it! – but it is no use…
"Mother," her voice is still whispering, choking, thick through the lump wedged deep in her throat, tumbling through lips that refuse to stop trembling. "Mother, wake up, wake up -!"
She shakes her shoulders desperately, shoving at them for all she is worth, tears welling up and spilling down her cheeks as she slaps her Mother's marble-smooth cheek, tugs at her skeletal-thin hand, but nothing, nothing…
Her head lolls to the side like a broken doll; back and forth, the features of her face skull-like in the shadows, skin stretched too-tight over the bones, eyes two black voids swallowing her whole as she gazes into them…
…two open graves…
And she cannot hold back any longer. A cry, a sob, a scream, a sound she cannot put a name to, breaks from her lips – and the thought that has been slithering its way closer and closer to the forefront of her mind ever since she entered the room finally wins over.
She is dead.
The thought is simple. Swift. Easy.
Nothing to say. Nothing to do. No two ways about it.
Mother is dead.
And then there is the sound of footsteps crashing, collapsing up the stairs, and a yell from someone she knows, with a rush of horror, is her Father.
There is no time to hide, to run, to think up a single excuse. She whips around, hands clutched to her mouth to stem her cry, just in time to watch the door burst open, so hard it swings back too far and smashes into the wall inside, splintering a painting that had been hanging there to pieces.
Her Father's face is wild. Terrified. Furious beyond belief.
She has no clever words or bite-backs for him today. Only terror, pure and raging as it tears through her body, causing it to shake uncontrollably from head to foot, her head filling with every memory of his rage at her before now; every tirade, every slap, every blazed beating…
…it is only when he stumbles forward towards her like a drunken man lurching his way down a set of stairs, that she notices the tears streaming from his red, bloodshot eyes.
Just like hers…
"Father -!" she tries to pleads, hands flying up to cover her face in anticipation of what might be to come – not a slap, please Oz, not a slap – but to her amazement…he does not strike out at her.
He knocks her aside as easily as if she were make of paper, sending her tumbling to the floor whilst he claims her place by Mother's bedside, falling to his knees beside her…
…burying his face in her cold, grey, dead, dead hand as he holds it to his face…
"…Father…" she hears her voice choking, and his chokes too, chokes Mother's name, her true, real name, Melena…Melena…
"Father," she manages to whisper, pressing her eyes shut against the water welling over and over deep inside them; she has never wanted to howl, to wail, to weep out the pain contracting inside her so badly in all her life. "Father, what happened, tell me what happened…"
"Too soon," he replies in a broken half-sob; the sight of him like this turns her blood cold with fear. "Too…soon…the child…"
"...the…child…?" she murmurs, confusion stemming the pain for a second, and then the understands. "Oh…oh, the…the…child…"
The child. The baby. The beautiful, pink-cheeked little creature the servants had told her was her new sister, her new baby sister, her pretty baby girl…oh, and she had been so pretty. But…not quite perfect. She had only seen her for a second, screaming at the top of her lungs, gently wrapped in a towel by the midwife-lady…but she had seen enough.
Little sister was hurt. Broken. Her legs – those tiny, tiny little legs – mangled, tangled, gnarled and knotted, twisted…broken…
Too soon, Father had said. Too soon…the child…
Her heart plummets. Drops like a stone. An icy, lead-weight of a stone.
"It's her," she hears herself whispering, barely able to believe it, accept the terrible, terrible truth. "It's her fault…you are right, Father, it's the…child's…fault…"
Silence, for a moment.
Then her Father turns, and slaps her.
The pain is instant; so is her fall. She crumples instantly, a heap of tangled green limbs and raven hair on the floor. The slap is vicious, a fiery whip. Burning across her cheek, flaming the skin scarlet with enough force to make her yell – but she doesn't. The crack echoes around the room; a gunshot in the silence.
"Nessarose," her Father hisses, almost snarls, but chokes, too, the tears still wet upon his cheeks as he bares down upon her cowering figure – don't, Father, don't, please don't…! "is not to be blamed for any part of this, any single part at all, do you hear me, child?"
She says nothing. Feels nothing. Numbed. Deadened. Father is not Father, anymore, home is not home, safe is not safe, life is not life…
…death, on the other hand, so ready and full on the bed next to her, seems more real than it ever could have to her before…
…and what is a nessa-rose…?
"The child will be well," her Father's voice continues to hiss, but she does not hear, does not want to hear, does not even want to look at him, and oh, how her cheek stings… "And the fault shall never lie with her for this, never, never, never…"
Silence again, for a few moments. She waits, not looking at him. One small hand cups her searing, tear-stained cheek, trying to stem the throbbing. Slap me, Father. Hit me again and again and again. Why should I expect any less…?
But then…he is bending, leaning down towards her…and his face is suddenly closer that she wagers it has ever been before, red and swollen and sweaty and so horrible she wants nothing more than to run from the room as fast as her sickly-green little legs will carry her.
She wonders about running away. She is a big girl, now; she can almost read. Oh, how she loves her reading. She will run away to the Emerald City and find the wonderful Wizard and he will help her. She will take the child, little sister, with her. Nessarose. Is that her name? Her thoughts are flimsy, erratic as her Father bends his face to a level with hers and gazes at her with agonized, tear-filled eyes that make her stomach clench with horror to see.
"…Father…" she finds herself whispering, again.
"You want to know why your Mother is dead? Why she spent the past two days in such excruciating agony, why the child downstairs is…is…damaged the way she is, why all of this, all of this has happened…and who the fault lies with? Do you want to know, child? Do you?"
She doesn't like this. She doesn't like this one bit. Her mouth trembles and she shakes her head – but it becomes a nod, halfway through, as he rises a hand to slap her again, and she won't, she can't, but she does, deep down she does want to know, and if the fault is not with little sister, then who…
"You," Father hisses, his spit against her skin, his ravaged expression inches from hers, and his voice full of such raw hatred she wants to sob…
…me? a barely audible voice whispers, deep inside her, in response to the word.
"You," Father repeats, and his face is different, suddenly, almost hopeful as his words gush, collapse over the other in his hurry, his eagerness to get them out. "You, Elphaba, you, are the sole cause, the sole reason for every part of this hell-sent curse you have brought upon us all; Nessarose cries, deformed because of you, half of Munchkinland weeps for the loss of the wife of their Governor because of you, your own Mother lies dead in her bed because of you…"
…why…why…?
The word resounds, pounds, questions, but she knows the answer. She knows it all too well.
Slowly, agonizingly, she follows her Father's eyes down to the glistening, slimy, alien-green scum of her skin, bared across her arms, her hands, her bare feet, her legs…every part of her…
If it had not been for her…
"The milkflowers," her lips mouth, but she cannot speak aloud; there is something wrong with her voice, stoppering the sound as it fights its way up her throat. Father nods, his eyes still on her bare arm, lit by the candlelight. The sight is hideous, and she knows it. She is hideous. Hideous. Hideous…
"…they made…Nessarose…come too soon…" her lips move wordlessly, but now her Father shakes his head, slowly, almost pityingly, a twist of something vaguely resembling a smile creeping up the edges of his lips.
"No, child. No. You…made her come too soon. The milkflowers were simply a pathway for your fault. Nothing more."
Oh sweet Oz…
…oh sweet…merciful…Oz…
She cannot speak. She cannot move. Tears well again, filling her eyes so she cannot see – no, no, no, stop it, stopper your tears, don't you dare! – but…she still hears.
There is a sound of footsteps outside the door, again. The sound of her Father straightening, standing, his footsteps stumbling back across the room to greet the new visitors. Something about a morgue. A funeral date. A murmur of better not let the little girl watch…
Little girl. Little green girl. Little green creature.
Little green murderer…
She has to stuff both fists against her mouth to stop herself screaming.
Murderer. Murderer.
The word pounds, throbs, burns, eating away at her from the inside. Tears well and spill and she scrunches her eyes closed against them, hating them, hating herself, hating, hating, hating…
Murderer. Little murderer.
Her. Always her; the abomination, the distortion, the freak of nature, the horror of her family…
And my fault…my fault…my fault…
She feels arms tugging at her shoulder, a murmur of come now, greenie, let's get you out of here…and she shakes her head furiously; lashes out, kicks, struggles, pounds her fists, and the arms release her. She stumbles back to Mother's bedside, words springing irrationally to her lips, murmurs and pleas of I'm sorry, Mother, I'm so sorry, I love you, Mother, and my fault, my fault, my fault…
But Mother does not hear her. Cannot hear her.
Mother is gone. Taken by those people. The morgue. Is that where Mother is, now? She wonders…thinks…thinking helps; stems the flow of tears, the pain crippling her, crippling her, the guilt, the shame, the hatred…
…oh, how she hates herself…hates her…hates her so much…
"Elphaba."
Father speaks her name sternly, though his voice is still choked, just a touch. She does not listen. She buries her face in her Mother's cold, grey pillow, and does not move. She will not move. She will not.
Far, far away, downstairs, little sister starts to scream again.
"Elphaba, come. The nurses shall have need of your help with the child…with Nessarose."
Nessarose. Such a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful child.
She wonders…did Father name her, Elphaba, at her birth, for anything like the same reasons…?
Elphaba. Such an ugly name. An ugly name for an ugly child…
Oh, how she hates herself…
"You cannot bring her back, child. You cannot. What's done is done. Say a prayer for her, if you like. It is the least you can do."
It is. It is…
"And I want you downstairs in five minutes. No more. I shall be waiting."
The door closes with a gentle snap, and she is alone. Alone.
All alone…
But the tears do not come, now. She lifts her head from the pillow and pulls herself up, scrambling onto the bed where her Mother's corpse laid only a few minutes ago. She curls herself into a ball, as tiny as she can manage, and wraps her arms tight around the pillow.
Mother. Mother. Mother.
It does not help the pain to ease. But it helps to calm her. Even out her ragged breathing. Slow her speeding heart. Dry her trickled tear-stains…
…her hand brushes something hard and cold.
Oh.
She reaches, scrabbles, hand searching to find it again…fingers closing around a small, cool object, smooth and rounded, with a stopper at the top…
She pulls it out from under Mother's pillow. Examines it, curiously.
A little green bottle.
It glints, glimmers in the half-light of the fading candle. Her thumb caresses the rounded indents, dipping in and out of the waves of silken-smooth glass. How strange…but how beautiful…
The glass is green. Otherworldly, ethereal emerald green. Dazzling. Utterly so. She holds it tight in both hands, wrapping her tiny child's fingers around it…
A jolt of something she cannot describe runs through her as she notes how perfectly the two shades blend together.
Mother always did have so many secrets…
But then…so did every family, she supposed.
She pockets it.