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It was late morning when they found her in the bathtub. The sun had risen hours ago and her duties had been left untended to.
Her things left untouched, and her bed left unmade. Papers lay scattered across the desk, notes scribbled in the margins, half-decisions that would now never harden into ink. Because of course she hadn’t been fully committed to the task at hand when filling out the papers, she had never really committed to anything.
So when she finally committed to something, she surprised everyone, truly, she did, but no one as much as herself.
Of course this would be the first thing she ever fully committed to, because she was weak.
She couldn’t commit to her “friendship” with Elphaba.
She couldn’t commit to her “Good Witch” façade.
She couldn’t commit to standing up against what’s wrong.
But she could commit to this?
So when she had put the knife against her wrist, her pulse beating wildly underneath the sharp blade, she couldn’t say she had expected herself to go through with it.
But no one mourns the wicked.
The stream of crimson was a stark contrast to the milky white of her flesh, it hurt . Oh Oz, it hurt. But she had kept on going. Continued to rip through the veins and flesh until she reached nearly bone, then repeated on the other side to the best of her ability. Her breathing had been erratic, no, she was hyperventilating. Her vision blurred at the edges as she fought to stay awake, and her eyelids slowly closed when she could no longer. The excruciating pain in her limb had been replaced with a dull ache as she felt herself slipping away. The melancholy reminder that she wouldn’t wake up didn’t linger.
Her choked sobs had been but a whisper to all else residing in the palace, and her pain but an afterthought. However, it didn’t matter now. They couldn’t burden anyone anymore than the blood staining the bathroom floor.
It was true, the wicked die alone.
___________________
Elphaba had never truly left Glinda alone. She couldn’t be seen with her, but she found ways to pay her visits when no spectators would be around. A ghostly presence behind a frosted window. That, of course meant that Glinda couldn’t see her either, but she was there, watching over her sweet.
And oh, how hard it was.
To watch her cry herself to sleep, her tears soaking the bedsheets and choking on guttural sobs, hurt her more than Elphaba thought humanly possible.
Still, she stayed by the side of her first friend. She knew it provided no sense of comfort to either of them, but she returned night after night to hear the somnolent song of her cries.
Of course, she couldn’t see her every night, for some days Glinda had another occasion at the time of her nightly visits, perhaps a ball or council meeting, so she’d promptly leave as soon as she realized her sweet wasn’t available.
That was surely what was going on tonight. Glinda had some other occasion which required her presence, and she so happened to leave her bathroom light on. For there were no other explanations. Elphaba had been waiting, looking through her window hoping to catch a glimpse of Glinda, lingering in air she was no longer allowed to exist in, but retreated back to her hideout when an hour had passed without a sighting.
She’d come back tomorrow.
___________________
Glinda shot up from her bed, chest heaving wildly as she fought for her breath. Every inhale felt like a dagger in her chest, and her head spun with confusion as she tried to process the anguish she was in. Her throat was raw, and she was drenched in sweat and tears. She realized she had been screaming.
She lay in the empty room, violently shaking as she tried to regain some sense of control over her body. Her whole mouth was dry, and her sheets were sopping wet with a mixture of tears and sweat. Her tongue felt like sandpaper in between her lips and her golden blonde hair was stuck to her neck. Squeezing her eyes shut, she peeled the sweat soaked layers off of her body before swinging her legs over the side of her bed, and her bare feet made contact with the cold, shiny floor.
Wiping her forehead with a trembling hand, she blindly looked around with eyes still wide with terror.
She was fine, just a nightmare.
Except, it was more than just that.
The nightmare may not have been real, but the events that took place were. The water. The fire. The smell of damp stone. Elphaba’s screams echoed through her head like an unbearably loud reminder of what she had done.
Glinda stood up and stumbled to her desk, taking out a piece of paper.
On the top of that paper, she wrote:
Dearest Elphie,
After that, she stared at the bold ink against the white paper, unsure how to continue.
Maybe she shouldn’t.
Look at her, writing to a dead woman. She was losing her mind, surely.
Her hands shook as she angrily crumpled the pink, fragranted paper into a ball and tossed it into the trash bin.
She’d never see Elphaba again, she was dead, so there was no use pretending she would. That was just foolish, to provide herself with that false sense of hope.
Hope. A dreadful thing indeed. Why she kept on grasping at its fragile strings, she didn’t know.
___________________
Her Goodness had always been ready bright and early, her hair would always be curled and her lipstick impeccable. The picture of perfection, of goodness.
So when she was not ready at the first signs of new light, it was a bit alarming.
But just a bit.
She deserved a break every now and then too, they supposed. After all, Lady Glinda was a human as well. Far more human than any of them knew.
And besides, she had been seeming a slight bit fatigued as of late, so it certainly was no cause for concern.
She’d be present when she was ready in a few minutes.
Those minutes turned to hours, and then the palace was really wondering where their witch was.
So, they send a handmaid to “check on her.”
The handmaid screams at the sight of the body,
She calls for others and takes the body’s pale, placid hands, searching for the nonexistent pulse and covered in crimson. There was so much crimson. The bathwater that had run cold had turned from crystal clear to a deep, murky red, tinting the blonde tresses on the head slightly bobbing above the surface.
When others arrive, no one asks what happened. It’s painfully obvious from the moment they lay eyes on the scene.
Ding-dong, the witch is dead.
They hoist her out of the bathtub, getting covered in blood themselves and don’t bother with compressions, she had gone cold hours ago, must have been left there for longer than she should have been. Her wide, lifeless eyes stare back at them, lacking the spark that they once possessed. She is laid down on the cold, bathroom tile slick with blood as they cry for her.
How strange? They cheer for the death of one witch and sob for the death of another. In fact, it was quite backwards. No, surely they should be cheering for the death of the wicked witch.
They cradle her blood streaked face as if they could fix this, blame lying heavy on their hearts. Oz mourns the death of the leader they once knew (but which of them actually knew her?) and the palace grows somber.
How many people had tried to help Glinda the Good? Tried to notice something?
She had covered it up well.
No one mourned the wicked. And no one asked who decided she was.
___________________
“I, Glinda the Good, announce that… no, that’s not right.” She straightened her crown and cleared her throat, starting again.
“I happily announce… “
She slowly trailed off before letting out a groan. How was she supposed to do this again?
Tossing the script to the side, she decided she’d come back to it later. Besides, she had all day to rehearse. To rehearse things that should come naturally, but didn’t. At least, hadn’t in a while.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her watch glazing over her sunken eyelids and hollow cheeks as she practiced looking convincingly happy. She smiled and laughed, a perfect, polite mannerism that she couldn’t perform without proper practice, of course.
A maid abruptly opened the door to her chambers, startling Glinda.
“Would you like lunch, Your Goodness?” She offered sweetly, presenting a tray full of luxurious foods which caused her to salivate. She really was hungry, so her own reply surprised her.
“No thank you dear, go about your day.” Her stomach growled in disapproval as she dangerously swayed.
“Are you all right my lady? You look rather pale…”
“I’m absolutely splendid, there’s no reason to worry.” She forced a strained smile, regaining her footing.
Sometimes, Glinda wondered what would’ve happened if she said no.
With a polite nod, she exited the room, leaving Glinda alone in utter silence once again. She had been spending a lot of time alone in her chambers as of late, but it was no cause for concern. She was getting so much done! Sure, that meant that she was left with practically no time to sleep or eat, but Glinda was doing great, really.
Well, except for the nightmares that were near constant nowadays, and consistently crying herself to sleep with that Oz-damned hat, but that didn’t count.
Turning back towards the tired woman in the mirror, she had a hard time seeing Oz’s beloved Good Witch. In fact, she saw quite the opposite. The being before her was nothing but a wicked, wicked witch.
___________________
Sir Chuffrey wasn’t very… involved, per se, in his wife’s personal life.
They saw each other on a daily basis and exchanged enough forced pleasantries to know where both of them stood, and nothing beyond that.
Their marriage hadn’t been one of love or devotion, but simply a political convenience. They were married in nothing other than name and ink, and no feelings ensued. So when she never showed up for breakfast, he hadn’t been alarmed, he simply went on with his day, expecting to cross paths with her.
Well, not like this.
As soon as he entered the room, he was greeted with a sharp metallic pang. Maids had been rushing in and out for the past several minutes, and the faint sound of crying would radiate out every now and then. He stepped further into the room, and looked in the dreadfully correct direction, into the bathroom, and that’s when he realized.
There lay a body, and one he knew.
Time stood still as he took in the sight that stood before him. A blood-filled bathtub, a set of razors, and a familiar looking body. He hated to admit, but it took him a long moment before he processed what had happened.
She had died.
Right in the room next to his.
And there lay the body of both the murderer and the victim.
“Oh… Oz, Glinda?” He heard himself choke out, which got him noticed by the maids and guards.
He was shortly ushered away, and promptly removed from the room without further notice.
For the rest of the day, he receives news of what happened in short, hushed phrases. They found her in the bathtub late morning, with her left wrist torn open. She died alone sometime that night, and left Oz deprived of a leader. He wasn’t sure if he could mourn her any more than any other citizen would.
They weren’t exactly close, only interacting when the means felt necessary. There had been no conversations to look back on for signs, and if there were he hadn’t noticed. She had always been an excellent actress. To excellent for her own good.
He remembered her smile in photographs more clearly than her voice, and the sound of her laugh but a forgotten memory.
It was a horrifying discovery, truly, that this was the extent of what he knew of her. Of what anyone knew of her.
___________________
They sat alone in the dining room, the taps of silverware against ceramic the only sound breaking the awkward silence. Chuffrey ate as Glinda pushed her food around her plate half-heartedly while reading over some unfinished edict she had been working on.
Sipping a glass of wine, she cleared her throat and made attempts at polite conversation.
“The council meeting went on longer than expected today.”
“Yes,” he replied after a beat. “I heard.”
Was this man even going to try and reciprocate her efforts?
“They’ve been pushing for trade restraint in the Vinkus… it’s all so complicated.”
“I’m sure you’ll handle it,” he said, not looking up from his plate. A compliment, technically.
His eyes caught her hand as she reached for her wine glass. “That’s your second?” Ah. So that’s what it takes to get his attention.
Glinda’s brow furrowed. “Third.”
“You should at least try to restrain yourself, Glinda.”
“Well, I waited until after lunch,” she stated with a wavering voice, because she knew he was right. “Small victories.” Glinda gave him a smile, which he didn’t requite.
After another moment of strained silence, Glinda excused herself, claiming to be fatigued.
She stood up, and carefully gathered her papers into a neat stack before picking them up and pushing her chair in, wincing at the sound it made as it scraped against the marble floor.
Chuffrey had noticed these small things had been happening increasingly more frequently. Skipping meals, drinking, symptoms of fatigue. He wasn’t exactly concerned, but it was strange. If she needed help, she would ask someone, surely.
Certainly not him though.
___________________
When it was announced that the Good Witch would not be making a return, a strange melancholy flooded the city and poisoned the very air they breathed.
The Good Witch, the kind, benevolent ruler who always had a smile on her face, was dead?
That couldn’t be right. Yet, it was.
Rumors flooded the streets, an assassination, an illness, kidnapping. Anything to help wrap their heads around the fact she was gone. Anything but the truth.
She’d left them for good this time, and no one could bring her back. Oz was left deprived of its most significant figure, and it felt strange for it to still exist in her absence. The atmosphere itself felt heavy, yet so empty at the same time. As if nature itself had noticed a solemn change.
But Oz would be fine without her, there were various council members who had practically been praying for her replacement, and it would finally happen for the best.
For the best, she had told herself.
People wondered what had happened to their beacon of hope, she had always seemed so happy before. Or perhaps that was another one of her skillfully worn masks. It seemed like she always had the answer to every problem, an idea, term, or phrase.
So maybe the only problems she couldn’t answer were her own.
Perhaps that smile was a façade, and her leadership an escape. The flags flew half-mast as confused citizens longed for answers that Glinda herself didn’t have.
The day treaded on, not just in grief, but confusion— trying to reconcile the image they loved with the truth they don’t understand.
Oz would be okay without her, that much was true, but her absence spoke louder than her presence ever did.
___________________
Glinda sighed as she closed the door to her bedroom, the brass doorknob cold and smooth against her sweaty palms. She had had an absolutely horrendeble day. More so than usual.
She shakily walked over to her vanity and grasped the knob to the drawer to put away her accessories. She tugged, and seeing it did not open right away, yanked a little harder.
In the small wooden area lay old ribbons, charms, useless childish trinkets, broken objects she had meant to have fixed, nothing very unexpected. Whilst placing her belongings back into the drawer, her hand brushed something sharp and cool.
Wincing and drawing her hand back, she examined the contents of the drawer further.
Brushing objects to the side, she discovered a small pocket knife.
“Oh,” Her breath hitched slightly at the sight of it, she hadn’t remembered placing a blade in her vanity.
Carefully running her fingers over the handle, she tested the sharp blade against her wrist. Slowly applying pressure against her pale skin until the knife broke the surface and beads of red began to seep through. She watched, mesmerized.
It was nice to feel something other than numb for the first time in months. It reminded Glinda she was human, she was still here. It snapped her out of the melancholy trance she had acquired as her new normal.
She turned the blade over in her palm, testing the weight, before placing it back down beside her bed. Then, after a moment, picking it back up again.
It wasn’t fear Glinda felt from the object… but a strange sense of reassurance? Like knowing where the exit was in a crowded room. Something to ground her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the knife resting loosely in her hand.
“I wouldn’t,” she whispered quietly, as though someone were listening. “Of course not.” She wasn’t that far gone yet. She hadn’t made a decision. This was simply… a precaution.
Yes, it could be a precaution.
Everyone had contingency plans, and this was simply hers.
She didn’t want to disappear, not really. That felt too dramatic.
She just wanted the noise to stop.
Besides, she’d never be able to commit to something that treacherous. She watched her reflection in the blade's shiny, silver surface. It was good quality, she’ll admit that. Very sharp.
Eventually, she slid the blade back into its place in her vanity beneath the gloves and accessories, and closed the drawer with a soft click.
Laying back on her bed, she stared at the ceiling, convinced that she'd never actually need to use it. It was just a backup plan.
As the nights passed, she found her gaze lingering on that drawer increasingly more often.
__________________
They’d gotten the news the same way any other citizen did, through the papers.
Headlines read, Oz’s Good Witch Found Dead After Suicide.
Time stopped.
Their daughter. Found dead.
That couldn’t be right. Glinda was fine, living happily in the Emerald City, adored by all. She’d never kill herself.
Or, that’s what she had thought. Because the daily newspaper said otherwise, but she wasn’t inclined to believe it.
The same little girl who brightened a room simply by the mention of her name, the girl who danced wearing tutus and painted poppies for her father, dead?
She couldn’t be gone.
Larena Upland pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and quickly filling with stinging tears as she choked on a sob. A placid hand shook violently as she dropped the paper and let out a gut-wrenching scream, still not fully accepting the cruel fate her daughter had been gifted.
Her husband barreled into the room at the sound of his wife’s distress, but his eyes caught hers as they traveled their way towards the wretched newspaper. She watched him carefully as he picked it up, and listened to the slight wrinkling as he smoothed it out.
The understanding dawned upon him, she could see it in his eyes, which had suddenly become devoid of the spark of urgency he had been presenting just a moment ago. It’s visible as questions become confusion, and confusion to sadness, and then sadness into pure terror.
She buried her head into his shoulder as they held each other, visibly breaking down before their very eyes. She cried and screamed until her throat was raw. Surely she’d be unable to speak for days, but she didn’t care. Her daughter was dead.
She felt as though a part of her had been violently ripped away and destroyed, no mercy spared. She crumpled to the ground like fallen petals and let her knees hit the cold, hard floor as she felt every part of herself collapse and give in. She’d never see her baby again.
And the worst part was, they could’ve known.
There were signs, they just decided not to listen to them.
Glinda had been losing weight for a while, every time they went to visit she had appeared smaller than before. Her cheekbones more pronounced, her eyes hollower. At meals the plate of food before her would remain full throughout, and the glass emptied. She had been slowly disappearing right before their very eyes.
So many signs.
The letters stopped coming as frequently, and when they did they were dreadfully short. She claimed she was oh so busy, and had trouble finding time to write, but it was another sign they had chosen to ignore.
And these were the consequences.
If they had visited more often, or maybe even cared to write more consistently, then perhaps she’d still be here instead of in a cold, empty freezer.
When she was but a child, Glinda would sit in the tub for hours at a time, singing to herself happily. She’d stay in the water until her tiny body was covered head to toe in wrinkles and her water had long since run cold.
How cruel that she would die there too. The parallels hurt more than she thought they should. She wasn’t there to pull her out of the tub this time, to even attempt to save her. How could a place of such joy be replaced with such a heavy reminder of grief?
In the days that followed, they would more often than not discover a casserole or basket of goodies left at their front porch. But Larena didn’t want their sympathies, she wanted her daughter back.
When she and her husband went to the coroner’s, he had requested to see the body.
So, there she lay on the shiny, metal table, an object devoid of life placed in front of them like a spectacle. It made everything feel all the more real.
His gaze lingered on the heavily bandaged arm and reached out to grab her deathly pale hand, wincing at the touch. The same small hand that once held firmly onto his with such adoration, now lay limp and cold in his grasp.
“She left a note.” She heard the coroner say as he gently pushed an envelope into her hands.
Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she slowly opened it, running her fingers over the carefully folded edges of the pink paper. She read the same name she taught the girl how to write, and resisted the urge to scream.
The note explained about as much as the newspaper did. That being almost nothing. Glinda claimed to be sorry, but Larena wasn’t sure if that was true. If Glinda were sorry she’d still be right here.
Her hands shook with a mixture of grief and rage as she read the rest of the letter while willing herself not to fall apart again.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, there was a little girl who’d grow into Oz’s symbol of hope.
And at some point, that little girl would be crushed under the obligation of existence in this cruel universe. And without any pillars of hope to support her, she’d collapse, and her façade would come crashing down too.
___________________
Glinda carefully placed the blade on the ledge of her bathtub before turning to twist the faucet on. She watched as water began to slowly drip out of the cold metal pipe, and then quicker and quicker until the tub was filled past her toes.
The water was scalding against her bare skin, but she didn’t adjust the temperature. Any sensation was far too rare to come across as of late.
So there she sat, absentmindedly caressing the scar on her wrist from all those nights ago, feeling the slight elevation of the thin, white line. She hadn’t expected it to go this far, but perhaps it was for the better.
She swirled her fingers around in the steaming water, watching the small ripples radiate out from underneath her fingertips. She took a deep breath, letting the steamy air fill her burning lungs before wiping her hands on the old nightgown she was wearing. Stray threads caught on her unkept hangnails, eliciting a small wince out of her.
She glanced down at herself. The nightgown was old, fabric thin from use and the lace had long since begun to unravel. The pale pink cloth was faded and washed out until appearing nearly white.
It was something simple. Something no one would miss. That was sort of the point though, that was why she had chosen it. It wasn’t flattering, and wasn’t meant to be.
It would've been a shame to ruin a perfectly good nightgown.
It would soak easily, but Glinda didn’t know why she was worried about that. It didn’t really matter anymore.
Come to think of it, nothing did.
She thought of that half-finished edict laying on her desk. Someone would be annoyed by that. And the meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. Of course, she’d be a no-show and rightfully anger some of her colleagues, she was sure. None of them were ever patient.
But that didn’t matter, at least, not to her.
Who would mourn her? Momsie? Popsicle? Chuffrey? Well, she doubted the last one. He certainly wouldn’t be affected in the least. Her parents would move on, she was sure of it. They never saw each other anyway, in all honesty their relationship wouldn’t change in the slightest.
How odd. She truly would die alone. Oh, the irony! It was hilarious, really, it was. She let a bitter laugh escape her chest before lowering herself entirely into the burning water.
She hissed at the unpleasant temperature, promptly twisting the bath knob further in the opposite direction. Glinda held her hands underneath the running water until the temperature shifted from searing hot to frigid cold. She wasn’t sure exactly how long she sat there, eyes fixed on the icy waterfall cascading through her fingers, but by the time she tore her eyes away the water was spilling over the edges of the porcelain tub.
“Shit!” She spat before yanking the water faucet knob off.
Instead of cleaning the spill up, she lay there with her back against the cold, smooth edge of the bath. Her nightgown darkened as it absorbed more liquid, the fabric clinging awkwardly to her frame. Further submerging herself, she closed her eyes, allowing the darkness to envelop her.
Baths used to be her one source of comfort. Ever since Glinda was a naïve child she’d sit in the bath for ages, soaking in the liquid until her fingers wrinkled and the water ran cold. Sometimes, after a night out, they’d come home to her asleep in the tub. Her parents would always have to try their very hardest to manage to coax her out.
Sitting up once again, Glinda grabbed the cold, silver blade and held it firmly in her hand.
Perhaps the world would miss her, although the possibility was fraught. Hopefully, she wouldn’t linger in their memories any longer than she deserved, that being nigh no time.
It sounded terrible, and selfish, and downright evil of her, but she wished that everyone could see the grief they’ve caused her. She wished everyone would know that while they were off celebrating, she cried and screamed for the soul they called wicked. For the one person who truly mattered, even if she had realized it far too late.
Elphaba and her used to spend countless hours bickering over her bathroom habits during their days at Shiz. Her positively emerald skin would glow bright red in frustration, and her adorable freckles nose would scrunch up. Glinda would give anything to see that face again.
But Elphaba and Fiyero were gone now.
And it was all Glinda’s fault. The blame had known where to settle.
When the jolly little group which Glinda sent on a hike to meet the Wizard showed up to kill her Elphie, she hid in an Oz-damned closet. And when Glinda’s guards beat her ex-fiancé to death, she stood by, utterly useless. Her childish cries resounded through the field of death, and tried to no avail to save the man.
Could she even say she tried? All she had done was wail like a child. Stand by while others faced the consequences of her actions.
And now, they are both gone.
Blood on soil, the sickening crack of bones breaking, it was all embedded into her memory like a branding. A scar on her conscience, far uglier than any physical one.
She tried to scrub it away. She drowned her sorrows in alcohol, letting the burn of liquor melt her grief into a haze of tears. The Good Witch didn’t have time to grieve, she had deaths to celebrate.
She disgusted herself, truly, she did. Glinda was wicked in every way. And wickedness must be punished, right?
Once, she’d kept a blade in her drawer, but she was convinced she’d never use it. She would have been humored at the thought, because she knew.
That she’d never, ever use it.
___________________
It was late morning when they found her in the bathtub.
Her duties left untended to and the room in slight disarray, like someone was expected to come back to it.
The water had gone cold, and Glinda the Good was finally put to rest. No one knew where she was, just that morning had come and gone without her.
When they spoke of her later, they’d say how it was a tragedy, avoidable if they had known.
But it was late morning when they found her in the bathtub.
And by then, she was already gone.