Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 02 | Strange mixture of brutality and beauty

THE LIGHT THAT FILTERED through the thin curtains in James' bedroom was different this morning. Softer, less oppressive than the eerie shadows of the previous night. The house had settled overnight, its creaks and groans fading into the background of his subconscious. For the first time since they arrived in Elmwood Heights, James felt something that resembled hope. It wasn't much, just a flicker, but it was enough to ease the knot in his chest, the unease that had sat there since they first pulled into town.

He swung his legs out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath his feet. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the quiet of the house wash over him. The usual heaviness that came with mornings—the dread of another day, of facing people who didn't understand him—was absent. Today was different. A fresh start. He stood, stretching until he felt the tension unwind from his muscles, then crossed to the window. The town looked peaceful from up here. The streets were still empty, bathed in early morning light. For a second, he could almost believe that this place would be kind to him.

He ran a hand through his messy curls, tugging at a particularly stubborn knot before giving up and heading toward the bathroom. His new morning routine was still foreign, the old house creaking around him as he washed up, brushed his teeth, and tried to tame his unruly hair. But as he stared at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror, something in him stirred—a strange sort of optimism, fragile but real.

James took his time getting dressed, picking out one of his usual sweaters—a dark gray one that hung a little loose on his frame—and a pair of worn jeans. It was simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that made him feel like himself, even if he knew it would probably draw attention. He didn't care. His Polaroid, as always, was waiting for him on his dresser. He looped the strap over his neck, the weight of it familiar, grounding. The camera was like an extension of him, a way to capture the world as he saw it—beautiful, chaotic, imperfect.

As he made his way downstairs, the smell of coffee greeted him. His mother was in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared breakfast. She looked better this morning, the worry lines around her eyes softened, her posture less tense.

"Morning," he greeted, sliding into the chair at the small kitchen table.

"Morning, Jamie." She smiled, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. "You sleep okay?"

"Yeah," he lied. He hadn't exactly slept well—tossing and turning as the house creaked and groaned in the dark—but he wasn't about to tell her that. She had enough on her mind without him adding to it.

She sat down across from him, sipping her coffee. "I'm heading into town today. My new job starts next week, but I want to get a feel for the place, maybe meet a few people."

"Taking the bus?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but you can take the car to school. It's only a few blocks, but I figured you might want the option."

He chewed his toast thoughtfully. Driving to school wasn't a bad idea, especially since he didn't know what to expect from the other kids. Being able to leave on his own terms, without having to wait around for a ride, sounded good.

"Thanks," he said, offering her a small smile.

"You'll do great today," she added, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Just be yourself, okay? It's a new start."

He nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure what "being himself" meant anymore. Who was he in a place like Elmwood Heights, where the air felt thick with judgment, where the neighbors didn't smile back? But he appreciated her words. She needed to believe this move would fix everything, that this town would be the answer to their problems. So, for her sake, he'd pretend to believe it, too.

After breakfast, James grabbed his backpack and keys, feeling the weight of the Polaroid camera settle against his chest as he stepped outside. The car's engine sputtered to life with a familiar grumble, and soon he was rolling through the quiet streets of Elmwood Heights, the early morning light making everything look almost idyllic. Almost.

The drive to school was uneventful, the streets mostly empty except for a few kids walking in groups, chatting animatedly. He kept his eyes forward, his heart beginning to race as the school came into view—a sprawling, old building with ivy creeping up its stone walls. It looked more like a fortress than a high school, with tall iron gates and large windows that seemed to watch him with the same intensity he'd felt from the town last night.

As he parked the car and climbed out, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he couldn't help but feel the stares. Students in groups, scattered across the lawn, paused in their conversations to look at him. Their eyes lingered on the Polaroid around his neck. He could hear the whispers, the quiet snickers. It wasn't surprising. He knew he looked out of place, and the camera probably didn't help. But it didn't matter. It never had. He'd always been the odd one out, the kid who saw the world differently and tried to capture it through his lens.

With his head held high, he stepped through the gates, letting the camera dangle in front of him. The first bell hadn't rung yet, so he had a little time to explore. The school grounds were vast, with towering oak trees casting long shadows over the walkways, and the building itself loomed like something out of a Gothic novel.

He lifted the Polaroid and snapped a picture of the ivy crawling up the school's stone wall, the dark green tendrils twisting in a way that was almost beautiful. As the photo developed in his hand, the quiet around him thickened. He could feel their eyes on him again—more stares, more whispers. A few jocks walked past, glancing his way, their eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and disdain. He ignored them.

James wandered through the courtyard, taking pictures of anything that caught his eye—the way the morning light filtered through the trees, the old fountain at the center of the quad, the cracked sidewalk where weeds fought to break through. Each click of the shutter was like a breath, grounding him in this strange, new place. He was beginning to feel more at ease, more in control. Maybe this town wouldn't be so bad after all.

And then he saw him.

William Carlisle.

James had heard about kids like him—the golden boys, the ones who ruled the school with a mix of charm and fear. But seeing him in person was something else entirely. William stood at the far end of the courtyard, surrounded by a group of guys, his presence commanding the space like a king among peasants. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dirty blonde hair that fell into his eyes in a way that looked almost deliberate. But it wasn't his build or even his face that caught James' attention. It was his eyes—one green, the other an almost metallic silver. Heterochromia. The kind of feature that could make someone look unsettling or otherworldly. On William, it was both.

James watched as William grabbed another student—a smaller guy, one of the quiet types—and slammed him against the wall. There was no hesitation, no remorse in the way he moved, the violence so natural it was almost graceful. The other kids around him laughed, egging him on, but William didn't need the encouragement. He was already lost in it, his face a mask of cold detachment.

James' heart raced. His fingers itched for the camera. He knew he shouldn't, knew it was dangerous to get involved or even be caught watching. But he couldn't help himself. There was something about William—something raw, magnetic. Beautiful in the way a hurricane was beautiful, all power and destruction wrapped in a deceptively calm exterior.

He lifted the Polaroid, his hands steady despite the pounding in his chest, and snapped a picture. The soft click of the shutter felt too loud in the tense quiet, but no one seemed to notice. The photo whirred to life in his hand, and James quickly tucked it into his pocket before anyone could see. He wanted to capture this moment, this strange mixture of brutality and beauty.