Author's Notes: I wrote this after listening to Dar Williams' version of the Pink Floyd song, "Comfortably Numb." The story itself is loosely based on the song, but it really focuses much more intensely on Nessarose's perspective. (Note: This is NOT a song fic.) One-shot, alternate universe, somewhat.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of "Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West," niether the novel nor the musical. Nor do I own anything to do with the song, "Comfortably Numb." This is all used for recreational purposes only. I am not making any money off of this in any way, shape, or form.
Hollow, like winter. That's the only way I can think of my heart now, cold and bitter like the last snowfall. I've descended into ambiguity-I don't know who I am anymore. Without him, I've found that even the loneliest of places look far more charitable than my own current situation.
It's quite surreal, one would think, to be glancing down, watching as the living go on without you. Even that sensation's naught but a false advertisement, so much like our former wizard. Elphaba would be proud, I assume, of the developing distortion within me. She'd comfort me with the fact that intelligence holds so much more weight over beauty.
She can't always be right.
After all, if that was the case, why did he choose her over me? Boq, that exquisite jerk. Even as my body fades, like an ice angel trapped in a cage of heat, rotting into the most primitive state of decay, my heart blooms (that pathetic excuse of a wilted rose) at even the mere mention of his name. I hate myself for such desperation, but I hate him even more. For using me, lying to me. Make-believing that if he took me dancing, he could buy himself into her good-graces with good deeds.
He'd always brandished the hero's complex like a trophy when in all honesty it better resembled disease.
His new tin form is fitting, to me.
I should be stronger than this, but no. I love him, and he only continues to prove to me one thing: the one possession he truly owns is his metal heart. What use is it, anyway, to have within your chest something that so easily rusts? So much time has passed, I can't be certain that anything remains.
But he, despite his artificial form, he is as a god within me, a deity to be praised and carried about like some sacred piece of jewelry. He is as a miracle, giving life into my unresolved ghost, this caricature of what I should have become. I am but his temple, shelter to a being who deserves no less than ashes and coffins, as far as I'm concerned.
I am but a shadow of myself, and his temporary sunshine is to blame. I am so far from innocence, I guess you could crown me with my sister's title of wicked. Father would be so ashamed, but Father has moved on to his imaginary kingdom with his imaginary, unnamed God. I outgrew the fairy tale of religion long ago, and I guess it shows. But then, I outgrew many things.
So here's to you, dear Boq, may you rot away in existence until there's nothing left of you but metal scraps. I can only hope that the fire that consumes you burns brightly, so I can claim witness to your dying breath. You probably still presume me naïve, yet another child of wealth and ignorance. Well guess what?
I have become comfortably numb, like the transparent affections you once gave me.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.