A/N: Yes, another angsty oneshot.
Disclaimer: Ce n'est pas a moi.
Elphaba Thropp. She is young, yet. All of life blooms before her, but in her mind all of that has withered. She is brilliant, but she wants- needs- to think of nothing. She is even beautiful, in her way, in what was once her passion and intensity, but now her once glowing eyes are dull and empty, and all that remains of her intensity is her focused determination not to focus on anything. She is alive, unrelentingly, unfortunately, achingly alive, but her heart and her soul are dead.
She is still asleep. Physically, she is awake now, but she imagines that she is not and that everything is a dream. None of this is really happening. Better: none of that ever really happened.
She pretends this, and she does as she is told, for the first time in her life. She cooks and cares for the children and cleans and scrubs as if the floor is her heart and she can purify it of its painful love-stains. Which do not exist.
Now, she lies in her monastic cell, staring at the ceiling, purging her mind and heart. The word ceiling doesn't stab at her heart. She lets herself think of that. Ceiling. Floor…she closes her eyes against the images of blood blood blood how is there so much of it make it stop someone please, repressing it. Floor. Floor. Floor. Bed…oh sweet Lurline…she forces the aching memories away; she locks love in the deepest dungeon of her heart. It will never see the light of day again. I vow it. It will be as silent as my voice is now, until the hour of my death. I will not love. Pushing even that away, she goes on with her litany; she must be able to hear words without breaking down into a sobbing ball of agonies.
Bed. Door. Window. Do it now, Elphaba, do it quickly. Diamonds, she thinks and she nearly falls to the floor with the pain of it. She feels her heart constrict. She feels the emptiness of where a soul should be.
She is defined by absences now. She is formed by the places that are not filled. She has no hips; they are where hands- his hands- should rest. She has no back; that is where he should lie against her, holding her up. She has no arms now, too; they do not exist without him to fill them.
She does not exist. It was a lie of the worst kind when she told him that before. The truth was that she did, she did exist, but only with him was she real. Only with him was she a person. Only with him did she have a soul.
He had filled her. Without him, she was empty. She was nothing. She was less than nothing. She had told him before that she was not an individual; she hadn't had any idea then. She had been an individual. She and she alone had been with Fiyero those nights; she and she alone had heard his words to her. But now. Now she wanted, wanted so terrifyingly badly not to be an individual anymore. Because being one meant that she and she alone carried this grief. It meant that she and she alone had lost her love. Her life.
She screamed into her pillow. Please take me away please…please please, God, Lurline, Kumbricia, fucking Wizard, someone please! I…want…to…die!
She couldn't even kill herself, she would bludgeon it and end up rescued, maimed, and cast out into the streets. She was an abject failure and she didn't want to exist anymore. She wanted to sell her soul so she wouldn't have to be herself anymore, but Fiyero had stolen it away from her, and she could never get it back.