Rapunzel
When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest, and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top was a little window.
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This is the white chair where the nobody girl sits and the queen of the castle whispers needles in her ear.
"Witch."
But then, the queen thinks, if the girl is a witch, then she herself is a monster.
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This is the white room that the queen smears with black blame and mud.
"None of this would be happening if it wasn't for you." The blades are at the nobody's throat, metal scalding her skin.
"You love him, don't you?" The monster's voice has quieted, and the moon outside is callous in illuminating the reply expression, resolute and ashamed.
The look in the look in her eyes is enough, and the knives slip from the queen's hands.
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This is the white noise swallowing the world. She never liked the prince. He's too pure, and it makes her shadow that much more visible (like her princess-prisoner and she hates it). No, there aren't many peoplethat the queen feels particularly close to.
He offers his arm, merry flames flickering about him, nimble feet dodging her icy glares.
"Dance with me?"
The jester is a spy, and the traitor is a fool. In the end the roses will burn, petals smoldering quietly into oblivion. She will burn with them.
"The flurry…" she casually flicks a knife past the king's ear, where it thuds into the wall behind him.
"…is lying."
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This is the white paper the nobody girl paints on lovingly.
"I drew you," she whispers. The queen expects it to be an ugly monster. She expects it to have scales and horns and jagged teeth. But no. It's a triangle black smudge with a sunny scribble of blonde hair.
She's a terrible artist, the queen decides.
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This is the white dress the girl wears, sullied with blood and paint.
"Stop disobeying me, witch."
The girl cries, and the tears slide down her face and spill onto the queen's hand. Her hands are gloved, but she screams as if they're poison.
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This is the white lie the queen tells, words slipping easily from her silver tongue.
"No one cares about you."
The girl cries, the queen lies.
She cares, and it's killing her.
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This is the white of the lighting as it fades into the dark of the storm. It's existence is fleeting, predictable.
Larxene wants more.
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