Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 04 | It had to be

JAMES' FINGERS TREMBLED AS he pushed the front door open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway of their new house. The smell of fresh paint and dust still lingered in the air, reminding him of the boxes they had yet to unpack, the rooms still bare and unwelcoming. But here, at least, the house was quiet. Safe. The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made his shoulders sag with the weight of the day.

It had taken every ounce of strength to keep himself composed during the drive home, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as the events of the day replayed in his mind like a broken film reel. The mocking laughter, the taunts, the relentless teasing—he couldn't shake it, couldn't forget the way their words had burrowed into his skin, sharp as needles. And then there was William Carlisle, standing at a distance, aloof and untouchable, like some kind of beautiful but dangerous creature James could never hope to understand.

But none of that mattered now. Not here. Not in this house.

He inhaled slowly, trying to steady his breathing. His mother was in the kitchen; he could hear the faint clatter of dishes, the low hum of a radio playing some soft tune. She didn't know. She couldn't know. He wouldn't burden her with it. She had enough to deal with already.

"James?" his mother called from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

Her voice was gentle, warm, and it made something inside him tighten. He forced a smile, one that felt foreign on his lips, and walked toward the sound of her voice.

"Yeah, Mom," he replied, his tone carefully casual, as if nothing had happened. As if everything was fine. He had become good at pretending over the years—pretending that the bruises didn't hurt, that the whispers behind his back didn't reach his ears, that he was perfectly fine when inside he felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Today was no different. He had to protect her from the truth.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and found her standing at the counter, humming softly as she chopped vegetables. The small kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, casting a soft, golden light across the room. For a brief moment, the scene felt almost normal. Almost peaceful.

"How was school?" she asked without turning around, her voice tinged with hope, as if she were praying this new town had been the answer they'd both needed. The promise of a fresh start. A new beginning.

James swallowed, his throat tight, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It was... good," he lied, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside him. "You know, just the usual first day stuff. Meeting teachers, figuring out where everything is."

His mother paused for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at him with a small smile. "See? I told you it would be okay. It always takes a little time to get used to a new place, but you'll settle in before you know it."

James nodded, even though the words felt like a hollow echo in his chest. He could feel the lie stretching between them like a taut string, thin and fragile, ready to snap under the weight of the truth. But he couldn't tell her. He wouldn't burden her with the reality of what had happened, of how everything had unraveled so quickly. She deserved to believe in this new beginning, even if he couldn't.

"Yeah," he said, forcing the smile to stay in place. "I think you're right. It'll just take some time."

His mother's smile widened, the worry lines around her eyes softening. "I'm so glad to hear that, Jamie. I've been thinking about you all day, hoping you'd have a good time."

There it was again—"Jamie," the name that was both a comfort and a reminder of simpler times, times when the world didn't feel so sharp and cruel. It tugged at him, pulling at old memories he'd buried, memories of when things were easier, when his father's shadow didn't loom over every conversation, and the bruises weren't quite so fresh.

"I'm fine, Mom," he said softly, stepping farther into the kitchen, letting the warmth of the room wash over him. He leaned against the counter, watching as she moved about with a kind of quiet grace, as if the world outside hadn't changed. As if they were still safe.

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned to face him fully, her brow furrowing slightly as she studied him. "Are you sure, sweetheart? You look a little pale. Did something happen?"

James' pulse quickened, and for a brief moment, he thought about telling her. About unloading the truth, about how the kids at school had already singled him out, how they'd taken his camera and tossed it around like it was some kind of joke, how he felt like he was drowning in a sea of strangers who didn't want him there. But the words stuck in his throat, lodged there by the weight of his fear—fear of disappointing her, fear of making her worry, fear of admitting that this new beginning might already be crumbling.

"No," he lied again, more smoothly this time. "I think I'm just tired. You know, first-day nerves and all that."

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, searching his face as if she could see through the mask he wore, but eventually, she nodded. "That makes sense. It's been a long few days for both of us."

James exhaled quietly, relieved that she hadn't pushed further. He didn't think he could handle any more questions. Not tonight.

"Well," she said, her tone brightening again, "why don't you go wash up? Dinner will be ready soon."

James nodded and turned to leave, but as he made his way down the hallway toward his room, the weight of the day settled over him once more, pressing down on his chest like a lead blanket. His footsteps were heavy, his legs sluggish as if each step required more effort than the last.

When he reached his room, he closed the door behind him softly, leaning against it for a moment as he let the silence envelop him. The room was still half-unpacked, boxes stacked in the corners, the walls bare and unfamiliar. His camera sat on the bed, a silent witness to everything that had happened today, its once comforting presence now a reminder of how easily things could be taken from him.

He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the Polaroid, running his fingers over its worn surface. It had been his constant companion for years, his way of capturing the world around him, of finding beauty in places where none existed. But today... today, it had been a weapon turned against him. A target for their cruelty.

James pressed his thumb against the shutter, the familiar click bringing a strange sense of comfort, even in the quiet of his room. He lifted the camera to his eye, staring through the viewfinder at the blank wall in front of him. The world always looked different through the lens—smaller, more manageable. It was easier to focus on one thing, to block out everything else.

He snapped a picture, the whir of the film spitting out breaking the silence. He watched as the image slowly developed in his hands, the black smudges giving way to the white outline of his empty room.

It wasn't much. But it was his.

And here, at least, he could pretend. Pretend that today hadn't happened. Pretend that tomorrow would be better. Pretend that he wasn't already falling apart inside.

As the Polaroid's image solidified in his hands, James closed his eyes and let the weight of the day fall away, if only for a moment. He could hear his mother humming in the kitchen, the smell of dinner wafting down the hallway, and for a brief second, he allowed himself to believe in the lie he had told her.

Everything was going to be okay.

It had to be.