Girls On Fire {an RWBY Novel}

Chapter One: The Five Pictures

part one: red like roses

Today, it has been twelve years since the incident.

Nobody knows, because nobody remembers the date. Nobody but me.

Mother dearest, she only knows it was around this area of time. This week. And she has been properly sober for the occasion, only getting drunk once since Sunday. But today is Friday, and even if she knows that I must be 'mourning,' Friday's are the nights of her parties. She has an important reputation to uphold after all. It's not like her guests know about what happened anyway.

I almost hate her for it. Almost.

"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to come out to the white room with everyone else?" Whitely asks. He's standing in the doorway of my room, maybe fifteen feet away from where I stand in front of my mirror. "I assure you, you look just as decent as always." Normal Whitely, never one to give out a real compliment. Decent. I look better than decent, and we both know it.

The Schnee family is not just known for their wealth. We're known for our beauty as well.

I turn to him. Whitely, as much as I wish I didn't have to admit it, is a perfect example. Tall, slim, he has a sharp chin and slanted blue eyes. The girls go crazy over him, partly for his looks, and mostly for his fortune. He, of course, also has the trademark Schnee feature. Bright, white hair. We aren't allowed to dye it, and us girls aren't allowed to cut it past our shoulders. Our white hair is a symbol of Schnee pride. To hide it would be to disrespect our family.

I try waving him away, but he only walks in further, taking a place beside me. "Here," he says, frowning as he pulls a hair tie from a nearby dresser, wrapping my hair into a high ponytail, "I don't know much about hair, but I can do this. Mother will have a fit if you come out having done nothing with your hair. You'll make the impression that us Schnee's lack sophistication." I know that, of course, but the woman who usually does my hair, Cora, called in sick. Which is a blatant lie, everyone knows she's been running around with some poor fellow she met at a bar. I'd bet my life that's she's out with him tonight. Abandoning her duties, not I'd ever expect anything less from a middle class parasite. But Whitely doesn't keep up with my appointments, so of course he knows nothing about her recent abandonment. He just assumes I made no plans. And I wish I could tell him, I wish I could talk to him about her. Complain a little.

Sometimes, I really fucking hate being mute.

"There," he stands back. My hair looks fine. It's a ponytail, so it's not exactly spectacular, but there's no bumps and it gives off a modern, working-girl vibe. Trendy, or at least I can manage to make it look trendy. I nod and smile. A smile he doesn't return. He pats my shoulder once, and walks out of the room without another word.

I know he doesn't want anything to do with me. No proud family wants a disabled member, it makes the bloodline look weak. And maybe he's thinking about how it's been twelve years since the incident. I wonder if he remembers what my voice sounded like. I don't.

When I leave my room, the hallway is dark. It's usually dark, nobody ever walks down it but me, and that's only to get to my room. Every door leads to a room that's unused. One bathroom, two guest bedrooms, a study, and a storage room, none of which have been properly used in twelve years. Lining the wall across from the entrance to my room, are five large portraits, taken by a once famous photographer, whom's name has escaped me. One picture of each member of my family. Taken when I was four, they reflect our youths. The time before the incident. Two pictures hang in black frames, a tradition for the dead. Father and Winter, I can barely remember either of them.

Looking at the pictures is like looking into the eyes of fate.

I can remember the way I looked at these pictures, when I was younger. Winter, the wall. My sudden responsibility as her replacement.