Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 06 | The boy who had said nothing

THE WORD WAS LIKE a slap, jarring him back into the present. James froze, his pulse quickening as he instinctively lowered the camera. His eyes darted toward the source of the voice, and his stomach dropped when he saw a group of boys standing a few feet away, their expressions twisted with disgust and something else—something more dangerous.

They had seen him.

One of the boys, taller than the others and broad-shouldered, sneered at James, his eyes flicking to the camera in his hand. "You think we didn't notice you lurking with that thing?"

James' heart pounded in his chest as he backed up a step, clutching the Polaroid tightly. He had taken the picture because he was fascinated by beauty—he hadn't meant to be noticed, to stand out. But now, under the weight of their glares, he felt like an insect pinned to a board, exposed and vulnerable.

The boy stepped forward, his lips curling into a mocking grin. "What the hell are you taking pictures of, huh?"

James opened his mouth to respond, to say anything, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stare at the group, their laughter echoing in his ears as his stomach twisted with dread.

The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, pressing down on James as he stood frozen in place, gripping his Polaroid camera like a lifeline. The boys' laughter echoed off the walls, each note sharp and mocking, like a predator circling its prey. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of it loud in his ears, drowning out the noise around him. The adrenaline rushed through him, making it hard to think, hard to breathe.

"Answer me, freak," the tallest of the group demanded, taking a step closer, his voice laced with a cruel edge. His name was Marcus—James had seen him around, always surrounded by a pack of other boys, always at the center of some scene. His broad shoulders and towering height made him look older than the rest, his jaw clenched in the kind of arrogance that only someone who had never known what it was like to be on the other side of fear could wear.

James swallowed, his throat dry. His mind raced for something to say, anything to defuse the situation, but his words were trapped somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue. He could feel the other boys' eyes on him, their smirks growing wider, their postures shifting in that slow, deliberate way that made it clear they were looking for trouble.

"I—" His voice cracked, and he cursed himself silently for it. Weak. He sounded weak. And they could smell it, like wolves scenting blood in the water.

"You what?" another boy, Trent, jeered. He was smaller than Marcus but just as vicious, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. He grabbed the edge of James' camera strap and tugged on it, his smile wide and mean. "Taking pictures of girls from behind bushes or something? What kind of sick crap is that?"

James pulled back instinctively, the Polaroid slipping slightly from his grip. He held it tighter, like it could protect him somehow. His heart raced faster, and his palms were slick with sweat. This wasn't about the camera anymore. It wasn't even about the photos. They were looking for a reason to hurt him, and he had given them one, however unintentional.

"I wasn't—" James tried again, his voice thin and strained, "I was just—"

"Just what?" Marcus cut him off, stepping so close now that James could smell the cheap cologne mixed with sweat clinging to the fabric of his letterman jacket. "Taking pictures of Sandra? You some kinda stalker?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and menacing. James' chest tightened. He wanted to explain, to tell them that it wasn't like that, that he was just capturing beauty, art—something pure. But the words felt ridiculous in his head, naïve and flimsy. He knew how it looked, how they saw him—a skinny, quiet kid with a camera, hiding behind it like it could make him invisible.