CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ZIMBARDO

( — american psychologist, known for his 1971 stanford prison experiment. )

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON HEARS IT BEFORE SHE FEELS IT.

          The distant chirping of the scared birds slowly returns, as soon as they find a safe hiding place. On the other hand, the thump barely echoed around them, muffled by the shock clogging everyone's ears, but Rhiannon is almost certain she felt the ground wobble beneath her feet.

          She heard it inside her head. The shattering of the invisible walls separating them, the cracking of the glass, the shuffling of Rowan's feet as he tried to move close to Isla as soon as the weapon went off. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears, slowing down momentarily before racing like a hummingbird's, as she watches Isla stop moving.

          When Rowan gets to Isla, she remains upright on her feet, and Rhiannon allows herself to breathe. Rowan's father uses that opportunity to pull Laura away from the duo, even though she's still too out of it to react properly, dropping the gun by her feet; Rowan's mother has some strength of spirit and pulls herself out of her half-conscious state, throwing a jacket over the gun before picking it up.

          Isla hiccups when Rowan cups her face between his hands and presses his forehead against hers, but she's fine. Laura, with her hair falling in front of her eyes and gluing to her face with sweat and tears, says something Rhiannon doesn't understand, but Rowan does. He pulls away from Isla for long enough to look back, and his mouth drops open.

          That's when she feels it.

          It begins as a tiny spark of pain before it spreads across her abdomen like wildfire, scorching everything it finds as soon as Rhiannon looks down at the crimson ink staining her sweater, coming from a smaller, darker hole above her hipbone. The contrast of the red against the white fabric is blinding and her lips expel a surprised 'oh', wondering how she hadn't felt it at first.

          Noradrenaline. It activates some almost supernatural abilities, but it decreases the ability to feel pain, focusing on keeping you moving and active.

          She doesn't feel that active at the moment.

          Surprisingly enough, her muscles still find enough energy to carry her back until her shoulder blades hit the brick wall behind her, and she huffs with the contact against the hard surface. Her fingertips tiptoe across the wound, as if it would help, as if it would send her back in time before the shot rang out, before Laura sent that first text, before she stepped into that office.

          As if anything could be changed.

          Even Rowan seems to be moving in slow motion, dropping his hands and stepping away from Isla to run up to her, out of all people; regardless of how truly despicable she was, he still rushes towards her, not knowing exactly where he should hold her to prevent her legs from giving up.

          His stare drops from her face to the wound on her abdomen, one she tries to cover up with both hands, but that's not nearly enough to stop the flow. It's too much, too quick, and her body is too weak to function properly and hold its own like it's supposed to; when she stumbles forward, Rowan is the only reason why she doesn't fall flat on her face.

          He doesn't let her fall, with an arm looped around her shoulders and the other around her waist, and the ground beneath them grows closer with every passing second. Isla's eyes widen in panic as she leaps towards them, and Rhiannon attempts to take a deeper breath, just this once, but the sudden change in position, from vertical to almost horizontal, sends jolts of pain across her nerves.

          "Isla," she tries to say, in a ragged breath, and one of her hands presses against the wound in the most pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding. The other clenches around Isla's fingers, in an iron grip she can't allow herself to ease.

          "Stop it," Isla scolds, holding her hand with both of hers. "Stop that right now. This isn't it, okay? Not after all we did, not after all we went through to get to where we are right now. We know the truth and we're giving those families the closure they deserve. We're not throwing that all away"—Isla moves one of her hands until she finds Rhiannon's other one, over the wound—"and I'm not losing you to this. Not now, not ever. This is not how and when it ends; you're supposed to get out of this town, make a name for yourself, get married to Jude and open a cat shelter—"

          "Dog," she weakly corrects, and even Rowan manages a small smile, still holding her. Whenever she breathes, she swears she can feel her pulse getting weaker, the effects of noradrenaline slowly fading. "Dog shelter."

          "It's whatever. What matters is that you'll pull through. You're not a quitter, Rhea."

          Every breath is pure torture, like swords going through her lungs, and Rhiannon slowly turns her head until her cheek hits something too soft to be a wall or the floor, but still hard enough to not be a pillow. Rowan's hand, the one that had been holding her by the healthy hip, to ensure she wouldn't fully slip to the ground, trails up to cup her arm.

         The arm he keeps around her neck, his hand firmly holding her shoulder, leaves her head dangling, her hair forming dark waves over the concrete. He never eases the grip, not once, but the hand she keeps over the wound begins to slip, awkwardly stuck between her body and his.

          "It's over," she croaks out, struggling to speak with the blood pooling in her mouth. "We did it."

          "Go team," he agrees, throwing her a weak smile, and she can count the golden speckles in his dark eyes. She wants to smile, but even blinking feels like too much of an effort, and she winces, letting out a small whimper that startles both Rowan and Isla. Her eyes flutter closed as her fingers grip her side. "Hey, hey. Look at me. Rhiannon, look at me. It's okay. It's going to be okay. Look at me."

          She doesn't even realize she's crying until something warm rolls down her cheek, and she almost mistakes it for a possible second wound.

          Isla speaks again, but her voice sounds as if one of them was underwater, gurgling in Rhiannon's ears and rendering her unable to properly understand the words. The sirens strike through the heavy silence and it's a tiny sliver of hope—one that means it's not over just yet, one that means she still has a chance, but her hand can't hold itself in place for much longer.

          She's drained, too exhausted to even blink, but still feels the air shift beneath her, and, soon, her back is fully resting against a firm surface and shadows dance behind her lids. Someone says something about her pulse and losing her, while she can't find the strength to fight back against everything that says she can't. It sounds horribly like her father, who, deep down, always knew it was a bad idea to trust her as much as he and her mother did—just like she knew it was a bad idea to trust Connor, except she still did it.

          She ruins everything she touches. Even herself.

          Her hand slips off the edge of the stretcher. A machine beeps.

— ♡ —

          EVERYTHING AFTER THAT HAPPENS IN QUICK FLASHES.

          Between slipping in and out of consciousness and hearing the almost constant beeping of hospital machines, Rhiannon barely has time to properly process what is going on. She lets everyone else handle everything, a perfect copy of her entire life, as she can't and shouldn't be trusted with anything.

          During the flashes of consciousness, Rhiannon always finds herself in a different place when she opens her eyes—when she manages to do so, that is. First, there's the ambulance, shaking from side to side as it speeds across the streets towards the hospital, and Rhiannon wonders if she's really worth all this; these people are only doing their job, but is it worth it? When they're taking care of her?

          During the second flash, Rhiannon lies between the white walls of a long hallway. Everything is so bright and white it looks fresh out of a catalog, but the incessant beeping turns the environment into a living nightmare. She can't fully open her eyes, having barely succeeded on opening them halfway, but she finds some faces staring down at her, hands firmly holding something on both her sides.

          The pulsating pain in her abdomen is hard to ignore. Her hand instinctively moves, timidly brushing against the wound, but it's not long before she pins her wrist back to the mattress, like a child who's been caught stealing from the cookies jar.

          Night has already fallen outside the next time she wakes up. Her room is immersed in darkness, with the exception of a small bedside lamp that warms up the cold shades of white and light mint, and the strong, burning smell of antiseptic creeps its way up her nostrils. With a whimper, Rhiannon tries to roll her head to the side, with her neck protesting from having been in the same position for too long, and she finds someone sleeping on a pillowed chair.

          Madeleine Ford almost looks like a different person when she's asleep, with the crease between her eyebrows softening, as she's no longer focusing on everything that can go wrong. When she sleeps, she allows herself to simply be.

          Nevertheless, she's still alert to any suspicious sounds, so, when Rhiannon tries (and fails) to weakly prop herself up on an elbow and press the button by her bed, Madeleine jumps awake, jolting up from her seat and dashing towards the bed.

          "No, honey, don't do that," she asks, pressing the button herself. "There." Rhiannon settles back onto the bed, wishing she could relax, but Madeleine's mere presence in the room leaves her wary. Her heart pounds fast against her rib cage, her brain flooding with all the memories from hours before—it feels like only hours have passed, even if she has no way of knowing the date. "How are you feeling?"

          "Hurt," Rhiannon croaks out, and Madeleine brushes her hair away from her forehead. "What—"

          "Shh, honey, don't try to speak. You'll only be wearing yourself out." 

          Rhiannon doesn't want her here, but is too weak to tell her that, so she slowly returns to her previous position. Her abdomen seems to be a lot less sore—which is, most likely, a consequence of the morphine—but the flames make their way towards her chest. "Where . . ."

          "Your father isn't here." Madeleine purses her lips together, while Rhiannon definitely wasn't talking about her father. If anything, she'd want to know if Stephanie is in the waiting room, but, right now, the people she wants to see aren't her family by blood. "Not yet, at least. He was in San Francisco for a conference, but should come back first thing in the morning. I told him it was an emergency, considering his own daughter could have died, but I couldn't change his mind about staying there." She huffs. "Go figure. I don't know why I'm still surprised by his actions, but I suppose that's one of the many reasons why."

          "Reasons?"

          "Rhiannon, I'm leaving your father."

          That comes to Rhiannon as a total shock. Even though Madeleine and Christopher certainly had their share of disagreements throughout the years, they stuck together for most of it, supporting each other through thick and thin. In fact, Rhiannon truly doubts there are two people more made for one another than her parents.

          "There are many things you father has done I don't agree with," Madeleine continues, "and I felt like I couldn't be with him any longer after all of it, his treatment of you included."

          "Mom," Rhiannon whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

          "I know, honey. What happened between me and your father isn't your fault, but I owe you an apology. It should never have gone as far as it did, and you didn't deserve a tenth of the way we treated you." Madeleine leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, and Rhiannon stiffens as the weight on her chest tightens the pressure. "I hope you'll be able to forgive me one day, but we'll have time to catch up. I should let you rest." She straightens, pressing her palms against her pencil skirt. "You'll have to give a statement to the police eventually, but Aaron is outside and will be right by your side whenever you feel able to talk. I'm just glad this mess is over."

          Her heels click softly against the linoleum floors as she walks away and leaves the door open on her way out, while Rhiannon can't help but wonder if she dreamed it all, especially her mother pressing the button to call the nurse. Her breath gets itched in her throat, stuck halfway through, and she struggles to keep her heart and brain properly functioning.

          The next person to enter the room nearly falls over the bed, and Rhiannon doesn't bother trying to sit up. Isla is small and delicate enough to not hurt her as she hugs her, but Rhiannon can't even painlessly lift an arm to return the hug, so her hands remain set over her stomach.

          Standing a few steps behind Isla, Rowan throws Rhiannon a small, nervous smile, and, even though he quickly hides his hands inside his jeans' pockets, she still saw his fingers shake. She wants to thank him for staying, for coming back and for rushing to Crowcrest as soon as he got the call, but no sounds come out of her mouth.

          "You've been out for over a day," Isla reveals, sitting by the edge of the bed, "but I think most things have already been taken care of. The police have my recording, the copies of Taylor's bug's recordings, the diary . . . they're looking into it, but Laura is in custody." She glances at Rowan, who swings back and forth in his heels, still not uttering a word. "She confessed. Taylor, Frances, the texts you guys started getting after he died . . . that was all her, with some help from the outside. I think she had something on Dimitri's father, regarding his fraud accusations, and it helped to get him to help her find Taylor in Maine, but I don't think everything she did was premeditated. I don't think she ever thought things would go as far as they did."

          "She texted herself too, then?" Rhiannon questions, and Isla nods. "That's like . . . Gossip Girl, but on a more morbid level."

          "Tell me about it. I don't know how she kept it up." Isla's shoulders slouch. "How are you feeling, though? I'm really sorry for . . . I mean, I don't think she shot on purpose. I don't even know which of us made the gun go off—"

          "It's okay." Rhiannon's chapped lips stretch into the smallest of smiles. "I'll be fine."

          "You're so pale." Isla takes her hands, being careful not to touch the small catheter inserted through a vein on Rhiannon's left one. "Is there anything we can do?"

          "Find me a nurse." Rhiannon winces. "I swear my mother pressed the button, but that was ages ago. She's leaving my father and wants to reconnect."

          "About time she did. Are you giving her a chance?"

          "I don't know. Maybe." Isla scowls, and Rowan cautiously steps forward. "I know you don't agree, but it's something I . . . I have to decide for myself." Rhiannon tries to give Isla's hand a firm squeeze. "But thank you. Thank you for being there and doing what you did by my side."

          "You know I wouldn't rather do it with anyone else. But, um, we should let you rest and get you that damn nurse . . . and wake up Jude. You know, he hasn't left the waiting room; he hasn't eaten anything yet, saying he wants to be there when you wake up, but Matteo finally got him to take a nap. You got yourself one of the good ones."

          "I know. You too."

          "We'll have to stop feeding his ego at some point." She tilts her head back to look at Rowan, and he pokes the tip of her nose. "You know where to find us if you need anything. Please come back in one piece."

          Isla is the first to leave, but Rowan has grown roots where he is and doesn't move. When he finally gathers some courage to talk, Rhiannon interrupts him as soon as he opens his mouth before she loses the chance to tell him what she needs to.

          So, she reaches out for his hand, and he returns it. "Thank you."

          "Good job not dying," he replies, "even though I knew you'd pull through."

          She chuckles. "Thanks for having faith in me."

          "No matter what."

— ♡ —

          IT WOULD BE INCREDIBLY NAÏVE TO THINK THINGS WOULD GO BACK TO NORMAL. Two of the biggest mysteries of Crowcrest have been solved, but it has only originated a lot more whispering, as if the students had nothing else to be worrying about at the moment; truth be told, Rhiannon doubts there will ever be a moment of peace in this place.

          When she's released from the hospital, stitches removed and a promise to keep seeing her therapist, she's awfully aware of the stares glued to the back of her head. Some people look at the diamond ring around her index finger, as if they had never seen it before, and others try to see through her sweater to catch a glimpse of the healing wound.

          She tries to not let that bother her too much. After all, there are bigger things she needs to think about, such as finals and therapy, and she decides to put everything else behind her, as there's really no use in worrying about what she can't control.

          One of the first things she does when she gets back is checking on Hailey, who she thinks is one of the people taking the aftermath of the recent events the hardest. The four of them—Hailey, Gabriella, Zelda and Sutton—sit at their usual table in the café, with steaming coffees set in front of them, but no one touches their drink or speaks. They sit very still, staring down at their cups, and barely react when the bell chimes.

          Gabriella throws Rhiannon a weak smile, while Sutton points to an empty chair between her and Zelda, which Rhiannon occupies.

          "We would have ordered a drink for you if we knew you were coming back," Sutton confesses, and Rhiannon shakes her head. With all that's been going on, a drink is one of her smallest concerns. "How are you feeling? Word got out super quickly; I never thought Laura—you know," she adds, when Hailey throws her a truly murderous look. "I don't think anyone saw that coming."

          "I'm okay," Rhiannon retorts, hands folded over her lap. "I think it came as a shock to everyone, really."

          "We should have known," Gabriella mutters, with an arm set on the back of Hailey's chair. "We're—we were her friends since freshman year. I can't believe we all used to joke about her and Frances, when in reality . . ." She bites down on her bottom lip. "Poor Taylor. Don't you ever think we could have done something? Maybe, if we knew what she had seen, we could have stopped her from leaving. Things never had to end this way."

          "She was scared," Hailey pipes in, and Rhiannon is hit with a stab of guilt right in the chest when she remembers that time they actually suspected Hailey from having had something to do with what happened to Taylor. It feels like it happened an eternity ago. "You felt it firsthand, with the threatening texts. Don't tell me you never felt like you wanted to run away from this mess."

          "That's different. I had a choice."

         "So did Laura. She made hers. She made her bed, and now she's lying on it." She finally takes a sip of her drink. "She can rot in prison, for all I care."

         "How are you?" Rhiannon asks, and Hailey lifts a brow. "If you need to let it all out . . ."

          "I've been doing just that in therapy." Hailey sets down the cup. "Working on my anger, I mean. I'm just so furious, you know? At Laura, for doing what she did with Frances even though she knew the consequences, for doing what she did to Taylor, for shoving the guy off the stairs, for sending all those texts and pretending she was on our side . . . and what for? What did she think she'd get from all of this, especially with an alibi as weak as that? She said she was with her parents the whole day when Taylor died. Please." She huffs. "Even if all that evidence had never been found, the police would know."

         "It's over now," Zelda insists. "We can finally move on."

          "I don't know about you, but I can't just snap my fingers and let it all go." Zelda sinks into her seat. "The experiment didn't end when Frances died. It's still going and will never stop. They wanted to study phenomena that happen in real life, outside of experimental conditions, and it just helped us open up your eyes and take a good look at ourselves."

          "We can all be villains," Rhiannon concludes, and Hailey nods in support, "but we can also be heroes, too. It's the circumstances we're in that determine what we'll be able to do."

THE END

Thank you for purchasing and reading PROJECT OXYGEN! If you can take the time to provide some feedback on the story using this form, it would be much appreciated.

— ♡ —

YOU GUYS. THIS IS IT. IT'S OVER.

thank you so, so, so much for joining me in this journey. you have no idea how much this book means to me, but it means more than the world. i love it with all i have, even though this is a first draft and will have to be worked on at some point, but i'm pretty proud of all i've accomplished so far with it.

there's still a final note to go, with proper acknowledgments (and a q&a if you have any questions, so feel free to drop them and let me know if you want them to be answered there), so don't worry!

as for my birthday yesterday (june 23): IT WAS AMAZING!!! i went to a music festival and managed to grab a spot on the front row!!!! i saw haim, bastille and muse, and it was the best night of my life, no doubt. thank you so much for all the kind messages!

(yes, bastille played laura palmer. i found it incredibly fitting.)

see you on the other side.

x cate