A/N: Bwahahaha, another school POV essay that is really Wicked fanfiction. Oh, by the way, reviews denoting whether this one or The Intruder is better would be much appreciated, since my English teacher is- not the most encouraging person in the world- and won't read/grade them both. I'm severely underappreciated by my school, but aren't we all?
Fear
She appears in a puff of swirling red smoke, clearly angry. They have killed her, her little sister, dropped a bloody house on her, for Oz's sake. So she has a right to be angry, accident or no. But to some extent, it's herself she is angry at. They had their problems, she and her sister, like all siblings, but the last time she saw the woman who now lies dead beneath this house of faded white clapboard, that was the worst fight that they had ever had, and now her sister is dead.
And this stupid little girl has had the unmitigated gall- to kill her, and then to take her shoes? So she, the Witch, stands here in the town square of her childhood, watching the people she has known forever celebrate her baby sister's death.
How dare they-
So the rage balled up inside her chest comes spilling out her mouth, vitriol spewed at the smiling Glinda and that awful, unrepentant little girl, in the form of pointless threats and hysterical cackling, and she cannot stop it. She can feel herself teetering on the edge of sanity, and suddenly, terrifyingly, she knows she is going to fall, and there is nothing she can do.
A sweep of her arms sends the Munchkins cowering on the ground, and this sends a thrill of delightful power up her spine that she enjoys, despite herself.
They were not afraid to throw rocks at her when she was seven, she reflects, and now a single gesture or word or laugh gives them apoplexy! Is it wrong, to enjoy such wonderful revenge? It is not her fault that they are afraid of her, is it? She has not actually done anything to them. It is not her fault that they believe everything they hear.
And if they are so gullible and small-minded and ignorant, well, is it really wrong for her to revel in it? After all, one could say that they, with their small penetrating cruelties, made her what she is.
And they tremble in fear at their creation.