The Hooded Girl

Chapter 2: The Hood

RHEA'S POV
Thomas-according to Aris, he is the boy who had the Teresa outburst the day before-takes a seat next to a blond on the bench. He glances at Aris. He's under the impression that only Aris is in on this.

From what I've been observing, there's five people in their group. One of them is a lanky boy with curling hair atop his head, and another a tall boy with dark skin and a skittish behaviour, looking around constantly, both in disbelief and daze.

There's the blond one too. In my opinion, he's the best looking of them, with dark eyes and a tall, lean frame. There's another one I find interesting. A muscular Asian with spiky black hair and black eyes. His hair is distracting. It's spiked up but isn't gelled.

"We need to time it properly," Harriet mutters, tearing my attention away from their table. I focus back to what we're currently discussing-the plan to get behind that locked door where everyone is disappearing to in coffin looking cases.

"Rhea? Any bright ideas?" Quill asks jokingly.

Thing is, I have an idea. Thomas needs to get that key card. I would gladly do it, except we need to know he trusts us. We need to know that he can help us. Usually, I wouldn't be for so easily trusting a gang of strangers, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"In a moment," I say.

And so after Janson calls out the names, Thomas looks at Aris. I raise my brows in amusements as Thomas and his friends exchange a few words. Then he jumps up from his seat and rushes after the group of people whose names were called out.

He's a bit far behind when he reaches the guards and they push him away.

They try to restrain him, even as he fights against them, and the loud commotion causes heads to turn. Harriet lets out a low whistle as we watch on, trying to figure out how Thomas is going to go about doing this.

"Excuse me, but I don't think your name was called," One of the WICKED guards says. In the otherwise silent room, his voice is projected around the room.

"Listen man, I just want to see my Friend. Can't I see my Friend?" Thomas fights back.

"Sorry, but that's not allowed," The guard says once more.

"Please, I just want to see my Friend. Come on, man," Thomas stubbornly persists.

"Get your ass back down on that bench," The guard orders, annoyance creeping into his voice, his hands gloved clenching at his sides.

Thomas turns, looking like he's about to go back. But I can tell he isn't. His posture says it. I've been taught to read body language and have been practicing doing so for long enough to note how the muscles of his back tense, how his jaw tightens and his fists clenches.

It takes him a split second to turn back to the guard and lunge at him, pushing him up against the wall. They wrestle a while with each other before his friends run up to them and Janson comes back. Thomas's friends pull him away, but not before I notice Thomas slipping the card into his pocket. Smooth.

They go back to their seats and I let out a dry chuckle. "Well that was entertaining," I mutter.

"Now, sorry for that everyone. However, we'll need to see Rhea for now. Continue on with your breakfast, please," Janson says.

I feel my entire body stiffen. This is different. They've never called me out personally in front of everyone before. I don't like all the attention sent my way. Heads turn, eyes trail me as I stand up slowly and walk towards Janson, scowling under my hood. Janson grins.

"Great. Come on, Rhea, we've got to discuss some matters," Janson beckons me.

I follow him out, knowing everyone's looking at me. I'm tempted to run off, break the window. I've already made up countless of escape plans for any situation. Planned everything. But I can't leave without the other girls and I can't run from them in their own facility.

We head out and down a corridor.

"What is it?" I ask harshly.

"We want to show you something," Janson says.

He leads me into a room with a screen in front of us, closing the door. I hate the idea of being alone in a room with Janson, but what can I do? I watch the screen as a video starts playing.

There's a twelve-year-old me. I faced Janson, eyes dark with hatred and tears streaking down my pale cheeks. My black hair was in an absolute disarray, and I looked half starved.

My heart misses a beat. I know what this is. I shake my head, not wanting to see this. But it's like I'm unable to tear my gaze away, my eyes fixing on the screen as if compelled by some external source that won't release me.

"I will not. I told you before and I'll tell you again. I'm human," my younger self in the video said.

"You can't stop us from running tests on you," Janson from the video said calmly.

Already at twelve, I wore a hood, though in that instance at the video, I had let it fall back. It's the same hood that I always wear and never take off unless I'm alone-of course now I'm a couple of sizes bigger. But when I was younger, it was just because I wanted to hide from people. Now I wear the hood for another reason as well.

Twelve-year-old me pulled a knife out from the sheathe at my waist. I brought it to Janson's throat. Janson was shocked for a moment. But then a glint of metal cuts through the footage, spinning so quickly that it's practically a blur. The knife slices against the skin on my face.

It slides down my face, skipping past my eye and continuing on, from my forehead to my jawline.

Then it dropped to the floor. My knife as well. Blood on my face. Janson smiling and I looked at the person who flung the knife. It was this Spanish man, whose face I still remember now.

"Let that be a reminder to you, Rheana," Janson in the video said. "We won't be helping you to treat it. That's for you to do yourself. And you will comply."

The screen goes black, and I'm shaking a little I think, my throat dry and my eyes unable to leave the screen just yet. I can remember everything after that incident clearly. Walking to my room, crying, shaking uncontrollably. I had had a personal room for some reason, and that had been a saving grace that day.

I had grabbed the small medical box and forced myself to the bathroom mirror, taking off my jacket and flinging it away. I locked the bathroom door and looked at my wound. The blood was now so much, already coating the left side of my face.

My left eye had a cut running from above it and below it, but it wasn't pulled in any direction. It was totally okay. I could see my flesh from the wound even with all the blood there. First I had applied as much pressure to the wound as possible, but I knew I needed stitches.

So I started working on it. They had taught me how to stitch wounds here at WICKED, but I had never done it to myself. And especially not on my face. I continued working though. For one whole week, I didn't see anyone. One whole week my head had throbbed with pain. That wound is the reason I have to take a pill everyday and hide my face. If I don't take a pill, the pain will come back-terrible headaches and shaking all over.

"What's your point in showing me this?" I ask coldly.

"We just wanted you to see it for yourself. A reminder. Now, let's get on with training shall we?" Janson says casually.