It was mid day when the Witch walked through the front doors of Kiamo Ko, boldly carrying a rifle across her shoulder, not caring if Liir or anyone saw her. It didn't seem to matter anymore.
She was doomed. Nest Hardings General Hospital was probably going to sue any day now and it was beyond her capabilities to come up with five hundred thousand dollars. The last thing she wanted to do was go to one of those back street loaning co-operations, she could end up homeless or even dead, tossed in a gutter and left to rot. She'd rather die in a more dignified way. And there was no way she could keep up with the interest rates.
Glinda had called upon an ambulance for Frexpar with her prototype 'cell phone' that was about the size of a thick novel. Turns out, Frex literally had a dent in the side of his head and had lapsed into a coma. The Witch wondered with little concern what her thirty year old brother was going to do now that his source of income was no longer in commission.
She found couldn't hate Frex nor could she love him. She had always thought of him as an unpleasant roommate or if she wanted to amuse herself; a cranky house cat, striking her as a pathetic substitute for intellect. So she'd mock him for it, lying on the ground while Frex stood above her like the unevolved caveman he was, his belt wrapped around his fist, looking down at her in fury and fear as she'd burst in peals of high pitched laughter, holding her sides and pointing up at him, cackling until tears began to run down her face.
How like a toddler she thought to herself, a smirk creeping onto her face. Throwing a tantrum like spoiled child – a sorry excuse for expression. It's hilarious coming from a sixty year old priest of all things!
A voice dragged her back to the present.
"What in Oz happened to you're face?" shrieked Liir who had suddenly appeared in front of her. She could really do without this.
"That's irrelevant to you." muttered the Witch and went to move past him but he drove on hysterically.
"And why do you have a gun? Did you kill someone –"
"Really Liir," snapped the Witch, silencing him. "You pick the most inconvenient moments to develop character. Save yourself the trouble of speculation and leave me in peace will you?"
He didn't sulk at her remark like he used to. Instead he muttered. "Whatever." and rolled his eyes before marching past her with as much dignity as he could muster. But he didn't completely forget her for he curiously glanced over his shoulder as the Witch continued to shuffle towards her room, her arms dangling at her sides and her head drooping like a sleepy drunkard.
What happened to her this time? He wondered, remembering a few months ago when he found the Witch lying on a black, leather couch in the east den, curled up and covered in stale bandages over her legs, her arm and head and all over her torso. She was dressed in a hospital uniform; white, slightly baggy pants and a loose white shirt, stained with grime and atmosphere. He called Nanny over who shook her head at the sight of her charge and sent Liir to fetch an extra mattress which he put against the couch so the Witch could easily be lowered. For days the Witch tossed and moaned in the sheets, dreaming of an accident and feeling the results until she was finally able to sit up then stand.
Liir walked up to his chambers and went to the cupboard where he kept a newspaper clipping of the Witch's accident. The headline was clear, blunt and unimaginative, reading:
Wicked Witch of the West: A Hit and Run Victim.
The Witch was a mystery to him, one which he strove to solve out of…..well he couldn't say he cared for the wretched woman for he held no sympathy towards her no matter what her predicament. He held himself guilty for that. He was probably just bored, desperate for a game of some sort. And he considered this clipping clue, a glimpse of the world outside the stone walls that isolated him.
Nanny appeared at his open door.
"Has our Elphie got herself in a spot of trouble again?" she asked and Liir nodded, not taking his eyes of the paper, the grainy photo of the girl, Becky was it? She was exotic, he'd give her that. With a strange yet flattering hair cut with low bangs that highlighted her eyes and long, straight hair that framed her heart shaped face. She was trying to avoid the camera, her head in the motion of turning away and her hand halfway to covering her face.
He heard Nanny sigh dramatically, desperate for attention probably.
"I'm calling for a doctor." she muttered.
"Or better yet, a physiatrist." said Liir, half joking. He was picking up the Witch's sarcasm it seemed.
"You know, you have got to be the unluckiest person in Oz." said Fitz. He was kneeling in front of Elphaba who was seated on the edge of the bed, one arm, the one linked to the fractured collar resting limp on her lap and the other being used as a kickstand, making her posture crooked. Although he'd never admit it, he quite liked being Elphaba's doctor – to see such a fiery character in such a humbling position, making her suddenly dependant. Dependant on him.
"I am not a person." she replied.
"You're enough of a person to require a doctor."
"Whatever." she mumbled, not in the mood to argue.
"Now, are you going to be good this time?" he asked, grinning as he remembered their first encounter.
"Long as you don't give me any orange pills."
He examined the cut above her eye and was surprised how artificially straight it was, a thin, red line against her emerald skin. He shined a penlight into the eye below the cut, searching for any signs of sensitivity such as tearing, blinking or verbal complaints. He moved the light left to right then up and down to test for movement without pain. She seemed fine but symptoms can always occur later on. He'll give her his number in case anything came up.
"Well there doesn't seem to be any damage done to the eye." he said
"There doesn't seem to be any damage." Elphaba repeated. He knew she'd pick that up.
"For now at least. Symptoms tend to occur later so you can give me a call if anything comes up – I'll give you my number later."
He reached into his briefcase and retrieved a bottle of peroxide and a roll of gauze. He cut two strips one of which he dipped in the peroxide and placed it over the cut. The other acted as a cover.
"Fitz I…I'm not sure if I'll be able to pay you for this."
"Oh yeah, cause of Nest Hardings."
"Yes I owe them…..quite an impossible sum." For a moment she hesitated before choosing to admit it. "I have a debt of five hundred thousand dollars and they're already sending red bills."
Fitz felt himself freeze and he had to remind himself to keep his hands working. But wasn't surprised, after all Elphaba had been hit by an amazing, alien automobile that must have been driving at over ninety kilometres an hour – the speed of a cheetah! Or Cheetah. She had to be scraped off the Yellow Brick Road and was brought to the hospital in a hysterical mess, requiring numerous surgeries, antibiotics (sometimes eight dollars a needle!), tests, the service of numerous doctors and nurses and of course a room. But five hundred thousand dollars was just disastrous beyond telling!
"Well…..shit, do you eve have a job?"
"I do." she replied and he waited for her to go on but she left it at that. It was probably best he didn't know.
He unbuttoned her shirt and slowly pulled her defective arm out of its sleeve so half of her torso was left exposed. He observed in what he decided to be a doctorly manner, Elphaba's overall physical state, the flowing shape of her muscles, the flatness of her stomach, the curve of her side, her chest and the purplish, protruding ridge of fractured bone. He leaned closer and reached out, trailing his fingers along the edge of the bruise, noticing the warmth of her and the tenderness of her bruised skin. He felt her tense reflexively as he ran the flat of his palm upwards, curling around the nape of her neck, then pressing down the arch of her spine, following the smooth, flowing shape of it, searching.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his breath warm and whistling in her ear. She said nothing.