No One Mourns the Wicked - But What About the Good?
Glinda is shattered. Every day, a new piece flakes off of her. She lives in her little room. She sleeps in the bed, eats what is brought to her, and writes at the desk.
She is observed constantly by the orderlies, but no one comes to see her. The citizens of Oz take pains to avoid looking at her house. Small children dare each other to run and touch her door. If Glinda is aware of this behaviour, she does not acknowledge it. In fact, she doesn't acknowledge much of anything.
Her hair is completely grey, and has been since her mid-forties. Her face is lined and drawn. She appears much older than fifty. She wears a shapeless, white cotton shift. It is tied with a pale pink sash, a poor imitation of the fancy and beautiful clothes she wore as Glinda the Good, socializer extraordinaire.
Truth is, ever since Elphaba's death, Glinda went downhill. She was hailed as a public figure, had many admirers, organized many important social events. Her main responsibility was to orchestrate the big celebration every year as the anniversary of the death of the hated Wicked Witch of the West rolled around.
Every year Glinda would spend several days ordering decorations, preparing menus, choosing color schemes. The night would come and Glinda would feel her soul split in half as she bore a happy face for all of Oz to see, while the small pearl of sanity inside her shielded itself from the massive feelings threatening to crush it.
For a long time, she blamed herself. Fiercely, brutally. She tortured herself every minute with 'What If'. She toyed with the notion of using her influence and power to change history's impression of Elphaba the Wicked, but backed down. She was afraid that the town would turn its unforgiving eye on her as well. Images of the hate in their faces as they spoke of the Witch haunted her waking moments, while memories of her own disdain for Elphaba at Shiz haunted her sleep.
And now, Glinda is coming apart. She gets up in the morning, feeling as if she has left another chunk of herself behind in the dreaming world. Eventually there will be nothing left on this side of reality except for an empty shell.
Her slender frame has lost some of its grace, now appearing almost skeletal. Her face is permanently lined with worry, and her blue eyes are flat and dull. The orderlies watch from the outside, unaware of the battles she faces with every waking moment. They whisper, enjoying the gossip about the former social icon. Schoolgirls wonder how someone who had everything could end up like Glinda. Housewives share whispered conversations, and old acquaintences go on, as if she never existed. No one comes to visit her.
Every day blurs into a pattern, and Glinda takes a small measure of comfort out of the routine. This morning, Glinda seats herself at the desk, but does not pick up the pen. She can feel herself being pulled inexorably in some direction, towards something. It adds a little more life to her eyes, puts a little more color in the pale grey cheeks.
She eats all of the hot breakfast that is brought to her, much to the staff's surprise - and relief. Then, in a move that shocks the orderlies, she begins to brush her hair.
An orderly slips into the room, parting the drapes. It washes the room with the pale pink glow of sunrise. Glinda does not stop him.
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AN: I do not own Wicked, Glinda or Elphaba. I want to, but what can you do?
Thanks for reading!
Love,
B