Annalise had known Amelia for 8-or-so years. But that didn’t mean they were friends. Amelia was a cynical, mocking, hard-hearted girl who spent 2 years on the wild side of New York, living in the borough of Brooklyn.
A note slipped into her hand in Psych, scrawled handwriting more akin to graffiti on a brick wall than graphite on paper.
You need to run.
Her eyes flick to Amelia’s dead, grey ones. They’re the color of stone, seemingly unbreakable stone. And she excuses herself from class quickly. It’s an voluntary course, anyways, and with barely a fifth of the student population still coming to school, it’s really not that important.
So she gets the hell out, and when she turns the corner quickly and sees, in her peripheral vision, two people in white, starched lab coats striding down the hall towards her classroom.
She finds an abandoned girls washroom (half of them were closed off since the sickness got really bad, the funds normally used to run them now being used for research to the cure) and she finds a seat on the edge of the slightly dirty sink countertop.
Soft but fast footsteps fell just outside of the bathroom door, and it opened just a crack. Artificial light from the hallway spilled in, and Annalise shielded her eyes, hoping for the best as she hesitantly watched the person enter.
Amelia slipped in, composed as ever. The teenager inside flinched, before calming her breath at the sight of the hypodermic needle clutched in her fist, knuckles white. The sadistic twist of the side of her mouth screamed I told you so as she unclenched her fingers to reveal the bright yellow plastic of the casing.
She’d seen the edge of it before, but they never showed the entire thing, oddly enough. But it looked perfectly normal, like the ones they injected into her often since the virus started spreading quickly.
Except for the black biohazard symbol.
“This is what they’ve been putting in you.” Amelia leaned towards Annalise, bracing her hands on either side of the girl’s knees.
“Poison.” The Brooklynite whispered.