THE TWINS OF OZ
What if Glinda and Elphaba were twins, instead of just friends?
Glinda's POV
I rejoined the Ozians, amid joyous shrieks all resulting from receiving news of the Witch's death. I bit my lip—thinking, with tears in my eyes, she was my twin sister. I couldn't believe I hadn't done more to save her, my little sister. Now I had to go along with this—this awful celebration, celebrating her death—because of that promise she bound me to—to never clear her name. I locked my jaw, and angrily thought, Elphaba would want you to be strong, Glinda. So be strong for the sake of her memory.
I sighed, as the Ozians kept interrupting me—and began wondering how I kept my temper, unlike my fiery sister. "Exactly, how dead is she?" I hid a soft smile, thinking of what my sister would say—"Dead is dead, well, isn't it?" "She was melted by a bucket of water thrown on her by the farm girl, Dorothy Gale, by the ticking of the Time Dragon Clock, at thirteen ticks. She is dead." I listened to the cheers, and started feeling strangely relaxed—like there was nothing wrong—but something was wrong—I was missing my twin, who would always be the only one who would completely understand me.
I continued listening to the celebrations, below me, debating whether or not to live, and angrily thought, try being her twin sister and sensing her pain as she died. Try not being able to save her. Try living knowing you have lost her. Try feeling guilty for your only sister's death. Try being me.
I tried to move the crowd into pitying my sister, but failed. I knew everyone had hated her right from the very beginning, even me, for a while, up until I'd almost inadvertantly caused her death at college—she'd survived, thankfully and we made peace and agreed to get along—then I realized how wrong I'd been to be mean to her—again, she was my twin, and I could feel how badly I'd hurt her—how it hurt to pretend she didn't care that no one loved her—and now I was the reason she was dead—I silently vowed to myself to never forgive myself for my part in her death—it was almost if I had thrown the bucket of water on her, instead of Dorothy.