I want to share with my readers...my original novel, September Blue, is now available on Amazon and Kindle. The link is available on my profile page or by searching for "September Blue" by Cat Whitney on Amazon. :-)

1/26/10…So I did some editing/reworking, since that's much easier once a story is complete. If you've never read this, I hope you enjoy. And please review, because reviews are always appreciated, no matter how old the story.

Also, shameless plug...my website is now up with pics of my Act II dress. The link is in my profile, or go to IAMELPHABAdotCOM (typed so fanfiction won't delete it).


The following is based on these Wicked quotes, to answer some questions:

"no, no, I'm not a harem, I'm not a woman, I'm not a person, no."

"You think all this is new to me," she said, sighing. "You think I am such a virgin."

"You didn't bleed the first time," he observed. "So what's to think about."

"There was an odd shadow near the groin-for a sleepy moment he wondered if some of his blue diamonds had, in the heat of sex, been steamed onto her own skin-or was it a scar?"


Chapter 1

"You are not a person."

The words were spat at her, yet his tone was flat and devoid of emotion. There was no undercurrent of feelings, no strong desire to wound. He just believed them to be truth. Still, she could not stop herself from hating him in return.

Elphaba was kneeling, with her knees bleeding from crawling across the uneven stone floor. She adjusted her gloves, pulling them over her elbows before she plunged her hand into a bucket of tepid, dirty water. Ever so carefully, she squeezed out the excess and worked the worn and frayed cloth over the floor, being very careful to clean the dust from between the stones. She had made the mistake of missing that only once.

His echoing footsteps announced his return to the room. He was dressed in an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. "You are not person," He reiterated, "Therefore you do not need new clothes. Do not ask me again. Should your things wear out, you can clean the floors naked. It would probably help you to work faster," He gave no indication of noticing her horrified expression.

"I trust I won't have to worry about you wandering tonight," He smirked as fat, wet raindrops began to pelt the windows. With a chuckle to himself, he strode out the door, disappearing in a clamor of wood against stone.

The rain began to pound, sounding much like steel, like thousands of locks holding her in, nearly suffocating her. He was right. There would be no wandering tonight. This was her prison.


Much, much later, when the moon was high in the sky, Elphaba lay awake, trying to coil her body around the spring that protruded from her mattress. Since the spring afforded her little sleep, she found she had much time to think.

When did it all get so complicated?

That was tonight's question. Her keen mind tried to focus on the point at which things that had once seemed so clearly black and white had become sullied in shades of gray. Had she lost her conviction? Had she begun to care less?

No!

The strength of her reaction told her this wasn't the case. Animals still deserved to be free. They deserved to have their rights, to come and go as they pleased, to make their contributions to society. Yet something had been lost.

Youth.

The word came to her suddenly, although she sensed the realization had been some time in coming, like a train that had been speeding toward her for miles, yet suddenly emerged out of a deep and heavy fog. She had lost the youthful passion that makes the divide between right and wrong so clear. At the onset of this journey, it had seemed so simple. Good verses evil. She and the Animals on one side of a battlefield, the Wizard and his supporters on the other. One clearly good, one clearly wicked. And wickedness must be punished.

Yet her master was an Animal.

He was a Bison, an intimidating figure. He stood nearly nine feet tall, and was still capable of standing upright. On the day of their first meeting, he had been dressed smartly, as always. His overcoat was impeccably neat, his shoes brightly polished. His fur had gleamed in shades of chestnut and ochre, brushed fastidiously. He carried a large book and seemed genuinely interested in the flyers she distributed that day. Since he had seemed to show interest, rather than brush past her in disgust, muttering insults, so she had spoken more openly than usual. She remembered she had eagerly told him of her hopes of establishing an Animal resistance, of garnering enough support to demand a meeting with the wizard.

"And where do you stay while you're in the city," He had asked.

She had nearly kicked herself for fumbling through her answer, for sounding weak. She had sworn to create ties with no one, to tell no one of the spot, under the East Bridge, where she curled up each night. She was a true warrior then, and only the cause had mattered.

"Perhaps we could….benefit each other," He had begun. "You seem to be in need of a place to conduct your…..project, and I am need of some household help." He had laid out the proposition, detailing how he could provide at least a measure of shelter and food, in exchange for her maintaining his residence. "After all," He had mused, "it is difficult to get the dust from the cracks without opposable thumbs….."

She had hesitated at first, her desire for independence competing with the need to be out of the rain. Baby steps, She had told herself, He helps me, I help him. We work together for the cause…So she had agreed, following him across town to the walkup he called home.

"I'm sorry it's not more proper," He had developed an edge in his voice, "but Animals are forbidden to reside outside the seventh ward, as you know." He had dropped the word you like acid off his tongue and, for a moment, she had hesitated. Yet she had followed him inside.

Why? She asked herself now. Why did I trust? Why did I assume that good and evil were so easily distinguished?

She quickly cut off the moment of self pity. After all, this was just another step. She would survive this, as she had survived everything else. She had learned to live without a mother's touch, a father's love. She had played maidservant to Nessarose and learned to turn a cold shoulder toward classmates with an endless line of green jokes. She had stayed in her room for every dance, every mingling of the sexes, training herself not to expect, not to venture into something she was not born for.

I am not here to feel, She repeated to herself, I am here to change, to make change. Emotion is dirty, unnecessary.

Even so, she fought back tears, fought so hard her throat ached and her eyes burned. She would not cry. She could not cry. She fell into a troubled sleep, her head aching from the effort.