No One Mourns the Wicked - But What About the Good?
The room is cold. The walls are a dingy grey, riddled with cracks. A single cot sits in the middle of the room, and a bundle of black cloth lies upon it. The street outside is silent. The sound of dripping echoes through the dwelling, and the figure on the bed shudders slightly.
In her mind, Elphaba moves down the street at a brisk pace.
The pavement lurches sickeningly beneath her feet, as laughter
echoes in her ears. She whirls to look behind her, and the
faces spread along the street blur together in a nauseating streak.
She turns back and begins stumbling along the street, but a boy
runs out of the crowd, delivering a vicious kick to her ribs.
She collapses on the ground, gasping for breath, and an aged face
looms up in front of her. The eyes are sunken, rimmed with tortures
unspoken, but the the look deep inside them is familiar. Grey curls
fall past the figure's shoulders, in unkempt spirals. Deep worry lines
are etched into once rosy skin.
"Elphaba." The figure says to her, in a voice choked with anger.
"You left me alone, alone with my guilt."
Elphaba sits up on the cot with a gasp. Another terrible vision of her old friend. With trembling hands, she pushes back dark hair only beginning to be shot with silver. Taking a few deep breaths, she steadies herself and turns sad eyes on the doorway, still caught up in her thoughts. She was thinking about Glinda much more often than usual lately - the old school friend with whom she had been so close. She had left everyone thinking she was dead, including her friend. Along with haunting her waking thoughts, images of Glinda had recently been invading her sleep as well. Elphaba's eyes are red with lack of sleep, and she knows that she can't let this continue.
Elphaba is skinny as always, though her eyes are a little more sunken, and her face slightly creased. She wears a long black robe, covering the green body that holds her so seperate from society. A veil adorns her head, effectively covering her face, but the odd clothing draws curious looks as well, so Elphaba always keeps to shadows, drawing as little attention as possible.
The dark woman looks towards the dripping noise, drawing her arms around herself protectively. With a deep sigh, she rises to her feet. She begins to move about the room, gathering her few belongings, but she halts at the window. Gazing out, she remains absolutely still for a long time. Her eyes flicker slightly as she weighs her options.
"We did it wrong." She mutters, a catch in her voice as she thinks of her pretty, bright friend, and she closes her eyes in pain as the image in her mind turns into the aged figure in her dream.
Looking around the room with a new fire in her eyes, Elphaba walks to the door. Pulling on her old cloak and veil, she covers her green hands with a pair of gloves, and draws some money out of her pocket. Leaving it on the bed, she slips into the night.
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AN: I do not own Wicked, Glinda or Elphaba. The plotline was a product of my brain, and chocolate.
Thank you for the reviews! I'm sorry for depressing you... I like dark fics.
And I must confess, when I wrote the first chapter I wasn't really thinking of continuing, that was going to be it. I had to, though. Thanks for the prodding.
Thanks for reading!
Love,
B