Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

Fiyero.

I collapse on the ground and regurgitate my last meal. After furiously storming around and chanting from that damnable spell book, I'm suddenly reduced to a shaking, pitiful wreck. For the first time, I can see what everybody else sees: not an innocent young woman framed by the Wizard, someone unjustly crucified for being different and having strong opinions, but a Wicked Witch, to whom no pity should be given. Truly, I see it now. I thought I wanted to make good, perhaps as an apology for the green skin that people revile, but now I know that I cannot make good; I can only hurt people. Good-seeking is no different from attention-seeking.

Nessa. Doctor Dillamond.

I killed my sister. I couldn't save Doctor Dillamond. I finally saw my best friend again, only to argue with her and call her names. And now Fiyero is gone—if not already dead, then surely bleeding and on his way—all because he made the foolish decision to leave the City with me. And I made the foolish, selfish decision not to stop him. I never asked why he chose life as a fugitive with me over a pampered life with Glinda, but I know that his reasons could not possibly be strong enough to make the situation worth it. In choosing this destructive, green monstrosity, he submitted to a death sentence.

Guilt racks me and I retch again, but there's nothing left in my stomach to come up.

Fiyero.

And then I stand, my moment of weakness gone as abruptly as it began. Though I still feel a touch of hysteria, I supress it and let caustic determination take over; the grim acceptance of someone who realizes she has nothing left to lose.

They want a Wicked Witch? Fine. I will give them a Wicked Witch.

Fiyero.