She will stand here, a single black mast in the sea of gold. Just a mere shadow, a handful of pieces that have blown away in the wind.
She will stay, frozen in time, with her eyes glazed over and her mouth set in a hard, unrelenting line. Staying still amidst the blood until she fades into it, drenched.
She will watch the crows circling the fence posts until her head spins, silently drowning in her crushing waves of despair. With no one left to save her (and for once, she cannot save herself.)
She will peel back her skin, layer by layer, and slice off her flesh until everyone has the evidence that they were right. That she is evil, evil to the core.
She will burn her past away in one roaring flame, all her attempts and failures and hopes crackling and licking at her feet. Scattered like ashes over the earth.

She will take and take because there is nothing left to give.
(And it will never be enough, because she is at the bottom of a hole and there is no light to be seen.)

Elphaba is crumpled on the ground, a bird with broken wings.
The Wicked Witch rises, a raging tempest, and flies.