Chapter 4
The light above her swirled and twisted, its ebb and flow drawing her from the dark pool that held and rocked her. She was reluctant to leave the pool. Images seemed to flit around her, skimming the edges of consciousness. Fear. Pain. Shame. And then she felt herself being pulled, against her will, into the swirl and brightness of consciousness.
The floor was hard, cold and unforgiving. She felt each groove and splinter as they pressed into her bare back. Her body seemed to wake up slowly, finding itself part by part in a chain of different types of pain. Pounding head, throbbing wrists, the sting from her thighs mixed with the burn of water, and the overall ache of every muscle, every fiber from which she was made.
She considered not sitting up. She could just lie there forever, or until she starved and withered away, leaving this putrid place behind. Then the memories began to cement themselves in her mind, the blur of painful dreams becoming crisp, vibrant images in the light of day. Suddenly, the feeling of Pierory inside her overwhelmed her and she scrambled to the basin to vomit. She wretched until she was empty, and then somehow once again felt robbed.
He's taken everything from me. I have nothing left.
A loud rapping on the door caused her heart to nearly jump from her chest and her body tingled from the rush of fear.
Hadrick stared at her, crumpled and naked by the washbasin. "Get up," he ordered flatly, "You have work."
Elphaba met his eyes, her pain too great and her emotion too raw to respond. What sort of sin had she committed that she didn't even deserve the mercy of a blanket to cover her nakedness? The previous night she had learned there existed levels of atrocity of which she had not known. That any person, Animal or human, could inflict them on another person brought fresh vomit to her throat. And now, adding insult to injury, he didn't even have the soul to give her a moment's privacy. He simply stared at her, a shivering, sticky, bloody mess of used human garbage.
I am his trash, no better than used rags one throws in the corner between floor cleanings.
She could only hope he would simply throw her out. Instead he ordered, "Cover yourself. A person doesn't sleep naked on the floor. If you want to sleep like a dog, I'll put you outside with the dogs," Hadrick chuckled to himself at the idea as he thumped down the stairs.
Elphaba crawled to the corner and retrieved her dress. It was hopelessly wadded and wrinkled, but it didn't seem to matter. She pulled it over her head and placed a hand on the windowsill. With great effort, she pulled herself to her feet. She stood for a moment, testing her strength. Her legs seemed stable enough, though she no longer had any undergarments to shield her body from the breeze and the brush of her rough dress against her thighs. She ran a brush randomly through her hair, pulling at the snarls and tangles futilely. She finally just tied it in a knot behind her head, figuring perhaps she'd cut it off later. She now felt genderless, asexual even. Her hair might as well match.
She clumped down the stairs, dressed, but somehow still feeling exposed. It seemed as though all of Oz could see straight through to her very core. Surely she wore her shame like a banner, its details written in her countenance. Used. Dirty. Whore. They seemed branded across her like so many scarlet letters.
"You may eat," Hadrick was addressing her, "You need the fat. It'll make you more appealing to the males of your kind." He clumped a bowl of warm grains in front of her.
She sat and spooned food into her mouth, unable to think of a reason to protest. She was numb.
Hadrick left early, mumbling something about numbers, but not before hammering out her list of chores. Still, she sat at the table for a long time, surrounded by dirty dishes, unable to summon the will to clean them.
I could just sit here, She pondered, I could do nothing. I would become useless. A useless lump of wasted flesh, and he would have no need for me.
Where would she go? The thought surfaced. What better prospects did she have? To leave here meant to face the streets, to be left alone to brave the pelting rain that threatened to burn her beyond survival. What greater kindness did she expect to find in this city? What sort of person would take in the green girl? She had seen their stares, the way they hid their children from her. She had been spat on. What better treatment could she hope for?
It was as if something had died within her. The part of her that had left Glinda behind in a blaze of conviction seemed to grow smaller and smaller, like a mocking shadow of her current self. She had trusted in the goodness of Animals, in some part of mankind. She had seen herself riding a wave of protest, a great force of good-hearted people who took in the poor, the lost, and the hungry. She had been sheltered and spoiled by the charmed circle. Her colorful menagerie of friends had given her a false sense of moral conviction, and its ability to bring people together. The beautiful Glinda, the munchkin Boq, the dark, Winkie prince Fiyero, Crope and Tibbett, who always walked left of center, and Dr. Dillamond, the Animal they worked for. They had all been so beautifully different, yet so bonded in their purpose and desire to both change and understand the world. Elphaba had somehow believed that the Emerald City held that type of promise.
Yet day by day, month by month she was learning that the levels of prejudice and segregation went far deeper than she ever imagined. More and more she was surprised that any of the charmed circle had managed to see beyond her greenness at all. It seemed the rest of Oz could not.
And so she sat, staring at dirty dishes in the only place in the great Emerald City where she could find shelter from the rain.
She finally rose and cleared the dishes. Methodically she washed and scrubbed until all was clean. And then she stood, staring, her world now seeming to move in slow motion.
What was I rushing so hard for? She asked herself, What was I frantically running for?
Frederick. St. Aelphaba's. The words came rushing to her, slamming into her thoughts.
What was it? 3pm? The vial!
Elphaba flew into a flurry of motion, if only driven by distraction. She had to make it on time, lest she risk losing her one remaining purpose in this world. She worked hard, her muscles sometimes cramping from injury and now hard labor. By 1pm she was on her way.
She hustled down the streets, certainly appearing to passerby as quite uncivilized. She did not make eye contact. She did not smile. Somehow they all seemed more threatening today, as if they could see through her clothes, see through to her soul, if it existed. In each creature's face, whether human or Animal, she saw the potential for violence and prejudice. She was jaded, both literally and mentally. Good was the exception. Good was a sprig of green in a rocky field, struggling to push its was through the dusty, barren, unforgiving land.
I'll deliver the vial. I'll continue the Resistance, She told herself. It seemed such a small effort, such a drop in the bucket. Yet it was that, or give herself over to pure wickedness, to wallow in the stench of evil that surrounded her.
So she pressed on, walking faster, her breathing fast and hard. When she reached the dumpster she'd passed yesterday, she found she'd have to climb inside to find the vial. Her body cried out as she hoisted herself into the stinking filth, but she pressed on. She found the vial buried deep in the refuse, covered in some sort of molding gravy. She cleaned it as best she could with a discarded napkin and set off for the post office. As the clock tower chimed three o'clock, she placed the vial in box 489.
And then she stood there, the job done. She felt no different, no more 'good' than she had before. Yet, she had stopped spinning, stopped falling. She had reached some sort of numb plateau. She was empty, yet static. For today, it was enough.
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Each day, there was a little less pain. She simply grew number, like a wound that covers itself with skin that can no longer feel. Every day was the same. Sleep. Eat. Work. Run. The rhythm of it kept her going.
"You are not a person," Hadrick stated each time a man came with cash, eager for his chance with the green whore.
And Elphaba had accepted it. The words no longer ignited rage, they were a simple fact. She had been stripped of personhood. She no longer hoped or felt anything, she simply did. She existed to be used, whether it was for the Resistance during the day, or for her body by night.
She had learned to shut the men out. She would squeeze her eyes shut and will herself to another place, usually a lush, green place. She would be free there, alone and free. The ravaging of her body would fade as she imaged wrapping herself in the lush green of nature, taking comfort in its silence.
The men usually departed quickly, which was merciful. She had taken to rubbing herself with oils to remove the scent of them. She had to steal them from the merchant who set up a rickety table at the corner, but it was worth the risk. She found they calmed her nerves, gave her a measure of sleep. One even seemed to take the sting out of the still-fresh scars between her legs. It was a luxury she'd never thought to try before, yet now she realized their value to a person who cannot bathe.
After a thorough rubbing, she'd climb out her sagging window and sit on the roof tiles, staring at the moon. Elphaba had taken to singing, something she thought she'd left behind with her days at Shiz. Yet it was cathartic. It was as if she was casting all the pain, the anger, and the filth out into the starry sky to be swallowed up by the faceless moon.
They were often wordless songs, but her voice was hypnotic, rising and falling like the sea, or lovers in the throws of passion. Surely the very Unamed God himself would pause as her lilting soprano carried upward and out into the heavens. Surely, if he existed, he held something better for this strange green woman he had created.
Yet only silence answered her song.
"But I am not a person," She told the night, "and God has no need for soulless things."
She crawled back into the window to struggle for sleep, for soon she'd face another day. There was always another day.