Glass

Nessa sat alone in her office, overlooking the rest of Munchkinland from her "throne". It really was just an upgraded version of her old wheelchair, meant to make her feel more elegant and powerful, but she took no joy in it today. Instead, it only seemed to serve as a hollow reminder of what she really was on the inside, and what she would always be: a broken, fragile girl who was weak and unable to fend for herself, even though she had spent so much of her life alone already.

The chair, that cursed chair, her ultimate cross to bear, was mocking her today. Even though it was now covered in satin, bedecked with gold and jewels, and fully automated, it brought her no joy, and she wanted nothing more than to set it on fire and watch it burn into ash. But she couldn't, she needed it. As much as she hated to say it, she still needed it. She still needed that cursed chair. It was a part of her, and she of it. It was her one and only companion, her truest and most long-lasting friend, even though it was also the one thing she hated most in the world. She could not get rid of it even though she wanted nothing more. She desired a companion above all other things, and that cursed chair was the one fulfill that wish. The irony was devastating and merciless. There was nothing she hated more than the chair.

Correction. There was actually one thing she hated more than her wheelchair: the person forever bound to it. She hated herself more than anything else in all of Oz. Maybe she put on a front, pretending to be the prideful and ruthless, flawless leader of Munchkinland, but in truth, not a day went by that she did not loathe herself with every fiber of her own being. She looked like an ice queen, flawless and unflappable, but on the inside, she was melting and cracking a little bit more every single day.

"I hate this. I hate it. I hate it all. I hate my life. I hate my chair. I hate my disability. I hate myself. I hate who I am. I hate my personality. I hate my past. I hate my present. I have no future to look forward to. Father is gone. Sister is gone. My lover is gone. My hope and light and life are gone. Even my religion is starting to abandon me. My subjects do not love me. My kingdom is hollow and fake. I have nothing. I am alone. Again. Just like always. And I shall forever be this way. I hate it. I hate it all. I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate my chair. I hate being crippled. I hate being alone. I hate needing to be cared for. I hate being in charge. I hate it all. I hate, I hate, I hate..."

That was all that was left in the tragically beautiful Nessarose Thropp. Nothing but hatred. If anything had existed within her before, even the tiniest scraps of love, it was long gone now. To have spent her entire life simultaneously lorded over and totally alone was the ultimate curse, the ultimate paradox, and it had left her with nothing but festering hatred. But today was no different from all of those other days and the hate only continued to grow, no outlet to release itself into. She was stuck, with just that one emotion, forever and always. And Oz, did she hate it!

But well and truly, she hated how weak she was. She hated being crippled. Being wheelchair bound. Being disabled. Needing to survive off of scraps of pity that strangers might dole out to her. She was worth nothing on her own. She relied on any bit of aid she could get, and she could feel the disdain and sympathy it was eliciting, and she hated both of those reactions too. She hated being a broken, disabled girl in an ableist world. Next to nothing was wheelchair accessible, she was constantly looked down on (literally and figuratively) and she was always forgotten. She was her chair. The only time anyone ever brought her up was to talk about her disability, her chair. It was never to talk about her, Nessarose Thropp, just the disabled cripple in the chair. She was only her disability. In the eyes of Oz, even though they proclaimed to love the true girl that she was on the inside, she knew better. Whether she was hero or villain, martyr or monster, good witch or wicked, it did not matter. Somehow, it always boiled down to her chair, and that was all. Not her, Nessarose Thropp, her chair.