Rated T for strong language.
If a dream is so vivid that it lives on as a memory, can it be considered reality? After all—what is memory, anyway, but a daydream of the past?
Dorothy Gale, after five years of growing, learning, and trying to live, conceded to the assurance of all her friends that Oz had to have been a dream. People
don't just travel to other worlds, they said, and especially by twister. They don't kill witches, or befriend scarecrows and tinmen and cowardly lions, or meet monkeys that fly, or enter cities made entirely of green. She must have hit her pretty little head quite badly during that storm to make up such a world—perhaps on those sparkling shoes that were carried along with it. And Dorothy, now at an age where she understood the adult mind (if not yet willfully accepted it), realized that they had to be right.
But just because she knew they were right didn't mean that she forgot about it.
The color, accent, and adventure of Oz, even as just a figment of her imagination, shaped life for Dorothy; and now that she was older, she was almost resentful of its whimsical impact. She'd grown high expectations of life because she—unlike the country folk of Kansas—knew what she was missing. And this made it utterly miserable.
She had trudged along for a brief time with her imaginary friends, making good with Glinda and skipping along in search of courage, hearts, and brains; but she had long since outgrown this game, and had nothing left now but the memories of it. Instead, she went to school for a time and stuffed her own brain with Earthly knowledge. But even school had to come to an end, and after being kicked out early for her quick mind, she was forced into the path of adulthood, house-life, and men. Seventeen is much too soon to be married, she believed, but Aunt Em thought quite the contrary—you were not born beautiful to eat my food and darn your uncle's socks, she said. It was a gift from God. Well, then, weren't her smarts and imagination God-given gifts, too? But no one gave a twig about that in small-town Kansas. Now sit down and scrub the dishes.
One day she would get out and see the world. If she couldn't travel to her world of fiction, she might as well explore the hidden corners of her own planet. But how could that even happen? Join a mission or marry a diplomat, her aunt said, or stop wasting time and get your head out of the clouds. But it wasn't that simple, was it; when you wish for something with every fiber of your being, you can't simply ignore it. It seeps into your conversation, pours out in your morning coffee, and becomes a part of yourself.
There was a cozy little storage room on the left-hand side of the second floor, and Dorothy had always liked to claim it as her own. Today she sat inside of it, reading—or rereading, really, for every book she owned was old and familiar. This one was a particular favorite, for it told the story of a senile old witch and the brave heroine who had to defeat her; it reminded her a bit of Oz.
"Dorothy!" She closed her eyes and huffed quietly into the chair cushion. Of course the moment she got comfortable, something would force her to get up. "Come downstairs, there's someone here to see you!"
For a house without character or amusement, there sure was an abundance of interruptions and a blatant absence of peace and quiet.
"I'm coming!"
Dorothy did not want to close her book, or leave her chair, or entertain whoever had come to see her. They were destined to be unwelcome, the poor soul—but, then again, if it was who she suspected it was, they were neither poor nor soulful. After straightening out her appearance, she trudged down the stairs and into the parlor.
"Good afternoon, Miss Gale!"
It figured. "Good afternoon, Mr. Shellstrop."
Mr. Isaac Shellstrop was a gentleman, and consequently everything a country aunt wanted and Dorothy did not. He was young and handsome, and co-owned a little law firm downtown; he sported tightly laced dress shoes and carefully polished cuff links, a highly raised chin, and he was vaguely in love. Vaguely, Dorothy believed, for it was love just strong enough to set his sights beneath his station, but based solely upon the shaky foundation of fleeting youthful attraction to beauty and rebellion against traditional values. Mr. Shellstrop thought himself very rebellious in his courtship of a lovely farm girl; but to Dorothy, he was nothing but a pretentious snob with a pretty face and half-hearted morals.
"I was just taking a walk about town—the sun is exceptionally bright today, if I do say so myself—and I thought, since your house was in my general way, that you might like to join me."
"Well, sir, I was actually—"
Aunt Em twiddled her eyebrows as a pointed hint; and, as per usual, Aunt Em had her way.
"Um...I would be honored. Thank you."
The young man smiled approvingly. "Wonderful! I will let you fetch a parasol as I wait outside."
Controlling little man. Maybe she didn't want a parasol—maybe she enjoyed drinking in the yellow sun, letting it tan her pale face and reflect upon her auburn hair. Maybe she needed a splash of color in her world of gray. But then again, she was just a poor country farm girl, and she had no choice in the matter.
She made her way downstairs, and little Toto attempted to follow her—but Mr. Shellstrop didn't like dogs. She almost brought him along out of spite, but Aunt Em scooped him away before she got the chance. The elderly woman winked subtly and shooed the younger girl away, and Dorothy found herself forced into the path of her suitor. Her aunt had good intentions, to be sure, but she did not share these beliefs; whether Oz was a dream or reality, the memory of it still remained, and her thirst for adventure forever clouded her acceptance of the quiet country life Aunt Em wanted for her.
Mr. Shellstrop took her arm up in his own, and she absentmindedly twirled her parasol. She wanted to avoid conversation for as long as possible, but her companion wished otherwise, and he engaged her in an empty discussion about the unusually pleasant weather. It lasted longer than she would have liked; yet if she'd known what was coming in its wake, she would have easily endured it for many more minutes.
"In fact, Dorothy, this nice sunshine seems a bit providential—for I did not simply stop by to walk with you on a whim." He patted her hand with his own, and she swallowed. "In fact, it has been many days now that I have wanted to ask you something...and I've been so eager for the right opportunity." He paused to try to catch her eye, and she felt his grip on her hands tighten. "Miss Dorothy Gale, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you would consent to be my wife."
And so the monster was unleashed at last. She feared this day from the very first moment Mr. Shellstrop sought her out and kissed her hand adieu, and now she was finally forced to confront her fear. Of course, she had already played this scenario in her head a thousand times; as quickly as she had once tossed a bucket of water on a wicked witch, she would toss the negative at her demanding suitor. But when she opened her mouth, poised to retort, nothing came out.
Maybe this marriage would be a good thing. Maybe settling down, with a little house and husband and afternoon lemonade socials, would help her forget her unrealistic dreams about life. It was definitely a good match; she would have more luxuries with this man than she could ever dream of at the farm, and with this bonus, she might be able to help her aunt and uncle stay financially afloat. They certainly approved of it. And, to be fair, Mr. Shellstrop—though stuffy and disagreeable to her—was generally considered generous and good. Plus, if she was being honest to herself, he wasn't unattractive.
Maybe this was an adventure. Maybe this was her destiny.
Maybe she had no other choice.
"I...I am very honored by your proposal, sir." She bit her lip. "Can you give me some time to think about it? Tomorrow we'll meet again, at this same time, and same place, and I will give you my answer. Is that alright?"
Mr. Shellstrop looked mildly taken aback, but didn't let his discomfort appear too visible. He patted her hand. "I would wait an eternity for you, Dorothy."
Pretentious little twat. But wait, she could not think that now—she was determined to admire him, in case she needed to change her mind.
"Thank you, Mr. Shellstrop."
He smiled, and she frowned.
The sun was still shining merrily, but Dorothy felt like a thundercloud.
She'd been back out walking to clear her head, but it had done anything but clear. What was she thinking, to give this man false hope? She wasn't going to marry him. She wasn't going to marry anyone yet.
Oh, but what if she did? It wouldn't be that bad, would it? All of her books told the tales of true love, but her society said true love didn't exist anyway. It was better to marry someone financially stable and learn to get along in time—and her situation, by this definition, was perfect.
God. Why did everything have to be so confusing?
She picked up a rock and hurled it as far as she possibly could; if she couldn't throw away her problems, she might as well throw something else. It plunked and scuffed the ground a few times before tumbling out of sight, probably into some shrubbery or other. Satisfied with the outcome, she tossed another, and another, until she was thoroughly surrounded by a giant cloud of dirt. She coughed a little; that blocked out the happy, gloating sun, at least.
Maybe this was why everyone contented themselves with a life of gray. Problems had a way of sapping the color right out of you, and making you hate what you thought you loved.
The wind picked up a little, gently tossing the dirt around like the proverbial raincloud above her head. Perhaps she should go back home now; after at least an hour of aimless wandering, she'd found herself nearly in unfamiliar ground—and if she wandered any farther, she would surely be lost for eternity.
What if she wanted to be lost, though? Avoid facing her fears, and simply start afresh in a new land?
But she would never do that. She owed too much to her aunt, to her uncle...even to her little dog. Besides, if there was one thing she learned from Oz, it was the importance of home. There was no place like it, after all.
A bit reluctant, Dorothy squinted her eyes and started to turn back. The dirt was still obstructing her view, though, and she coughed a bit more. How odd—it had been so gentle and sunny just a minute earlier, and now the wind had come to blast that all away. She was used to gusts and dirt like this, so she pulled up the neck of her dress to cover her nose as she trudged back. But as the wind grew stronger and stronger, she started to panic. She was forced to shut her eyes against the stinging dirt and rocks, and her dress bellowed like a cape in the wind. She was cold and uncomfortable, and with the forces pushing her back, she could not make any more progress home. Defeated, she crouched to the ground and placed her arms over her face, fighting with all her might to stay still against the beating winds.
The sunny weather was too good to be true, apparently, and she was now at the heart of a devilish cyclone. How ironic, she mused, that her imminent death would be from the source of all her childhood daydreams. Her eyes were already tearing up from the stinging sand, but now they formed anxious tears. Don't be ridiculous, you're not going to die. It's just a bad wind. But no mantra can relieve a fear of true intensity, and she quickly gave up even trying.
Whether a minute or an hour had passed when she finally opened her eyes, she could not say. In a storm like that, the brain has little choice but to shut itself down; the line between reality and the comfort of your own fiction becomes easily blurred. So when it was beginning to look like she might not even be in Kansas anymore, she just closed her eyes again. Her reality was surely nothing more than a long-remembered dream.
"Are you alright?"
A pause; a fumble for a light in the dark.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"No, you're not. What is it?"
"It's...I just...I don't know. I thought I saw something strange is all."
"That's all? Please, if you're not feeling well, or if you see that something bad is happening—"
"Don't worry about it, it's fine."
"I don't know if I believe you..."
"Trust me.
"You're sure?"
"Yes. I promise. Everything is fine."
But, really, she did not think it looked fine; most definitely not fine. And that was all the impetus needed to stay silent for now.
A/N:
This is a story I started writing nearly 7 years ago, and I honestly never forgave myself for abandoning it- so bear with me for any awkward teen angst or obvious character projection. We all cope in different ways, right...? First chapter is a bit long and expository, but if you stick with me, I promise you'll hear from more perspectives than just Dorothy's (I know, I know. Yes, I love her. Yes, I also stan Elphaba. We exist). Thanks for reading ya crazy hooligans x