Disclaimer: Just for the record, I do not own Wicked. I have seen it enough times that I feel I should be a shareholder though.

A/N: I actually published this story back in 2010. But I was never entirely happy with how I wrote it and I've been picking away at it since then. I eventually switched from a 3rd to 1st person PoV to try and free up my muse. I'm still not entirely happy with this and chances are I'll make further edits in the future, but I thought I'd get it out there and see what people think. If there's interest and if inspiration strikes I may try to continue it further but I promise nothing.

Enjoy


I come to this place every year. While the rest of Oz celebrates the demise of the Wicked Witch, I find myself standing once again before a lonely grave in a lonely cemetery, tears rolling down my cheeks. For every blazing firecracker that explodes over the Emerald City another sob escapes my lips, for every crescendo of the roaring crowd my heart breaks a little bit more.

I almost smile, almost, as the old goat I have brought with me starts chewing away the overgrown grass & excess weeds, just as he does every year, leaving untouched only the single pink bloom that I planted so many years earlier. Most people think he looks quite ridiculous with his tattered old waistcoat; I know that many Animals think I'm trying to mock them by dressing him up like this. I don't care in the slightest. He deserves to wear his clothes with pride.

I tried to avoid it, but just like every year my eyes flicker over the largely blank headstone, committing to memory the already perfectly memorised inscription. "For Good," I sniff to myself, my fingers tracing the words as the tidal wave of grief batters away my last shreds of self-control.

My tears fall freely now, a steady stream of salt water falling on the dusty ground as great, shuddering sobs wrack my body. I reach out blindly and the goat is there, just as he always is, letting me wrap my arms around him and weep into his coat.

"Excuse me miss, I don't mean to disturb you but are you alright?" The voice is soft, gentle. I want nothing more than to scream at the owner of that voice, to yell and cry and carry on until they leave me alone.

I loosen my grip on the old goat, although I can't quite bring myself to let go, "I'll be fine. I've just come to visit an old friend." I leave it hanging, hoping that whoever the woman behind me is she'll get the message and leave. "I'd very much like to be alone please," I add when she doesn't take the hint.

"Oh I'm sorry miss," and she actually does sound sorry. "I didn't mean to intrude. It's just that today's supposed to be a celebration. It's the happiest day in Oz."

It takes everything I have to not break down again when she says that. "Not for everyone," I manage to force out. "Not for me."

Only silence follows my despairing whisper and I allow myself to believe the woman is gone. My attention returns to the headstone before me, to the hated words of the inscription there, and I struggle to think of happy memories. Of anything really. Anything that isn't the gaping void which exists where the "Wicked Witch" used to be in my life.

"Who was your friend?"

Sometimes I really hate being Glinda the Good, it makes it very hard to be angry at people. I can tell that this woman is trying to make me feel better, she wants to help. And for perhaps the first time I tell someone about my "friend".

"She was someone I went to school with," I say as I wipe the most recent tears from my face. "She was…" My voice hitches as I remember that night, "she was killed by the Wicked Witch, just before Dorothy melted her." It is the truth, in a way. And I like to think she would have liked that.

"Oh, I'm... I'm so sorry to hear that." The woman says, "she must have been very special person for you to still miss her so much."

My eyes glisten with fresh tears but they do not fall, instead I feel a small smile tug at my lips. Annoying as I have found her, this woman has helped me to remember the Wicked Witch I missed the most. The one I went to college with, the one who wore that stupid hat and danced regardless of what people thought. The one who invited me to see the Emerald City for the first time.

"Yes she was," I reply. "She was very special indeed."

"I'll leave you with your very special friend then," the woman says and for a moment I almost feel sad that she is going, because she has given me back something I thought I had lost. "And though I wish the circumstances were happier, it has been a true joy to speak with you again miss Galinda."

"Thank you," I say as I hear her footsteps move away, my thoughts already returning to the nearly forgotten memories, the happy memories, of my first true friend. "It was nice to…" My voice trails away as something sticks in my mind. A trues joy to speak with you again… When had she spoken to me before? The "Gah" is silent… I haven't been called Galinda in years. The "Gah" is silent… Hardly anyone these days even knows I was called that. The "Gah" is silent… I gave up that part of myself when…

"WAIT!" I yell as I leap to my feet, gathering my skirts so I wouldn't trip over them in my haste to catch up the woman. She was already halfway across the graveyard but she stopped at my desperate cry. "What did you call me?" I demand. She is still facing away from me, her long, black hair hanging loosely down to the small of her back. She stands perfectly still and into the silence I continue, "No one has called me by that name for more than 16 years and the tiny handful of people who did know me by that name are either long dead or would never use it. So then..."

She remains as still as a statue, I wonder if she is even breathing. I wait for her to come clean, to say who she is but the silence stretches on.

The old goat startles me, butting his head against my leg to get my attention. I glance down and see the pink bloom from the grave sticking out of his mouth. My first instinct is to scream at him but he nudges my leg again. A tiny spark of hope that I dare not believe in makes my fingers tremble as I take the flower from his teeth. He gives me another nudge, this time pushing me forward and I take a few hesitant steps towards the tall woman.

I know that this can't be real, because I was there and I saw what happened to her. But as I slide the stem of the pink flower into the dark tresses of her hair that little spark within my heart pulses.

As I take a step back her black-gloved hand reaches up to caress the flower.

"You know you were right, all those years ago," the woman says as she slowly turns around and my heart freezes in my chest.

"Pink does go good with green."