Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 09 | The shadows of the past

JAMES PULLED INTO THE driveway, cutting the engine with a slow exhale. The day still clung to his skin like a film of sweat, thick and suffocating, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, it lingered. He stared blankly at the small, weathered house in front of him—their new home in Elmwood Heights. Its faded blue paint and creaky front porch had seemed almost charming when they first arrived, but now it felt like a cage. The weight of the day pressed on his chest, threatening to crack him open, but he pushed it all down. His mother didn't need to know. She didn't need to see him like this.

With a final sigh, James grabbed his Polaroid and slung his bag over his shoulder, stepping out of the car and into the cool evening air. The sky was a deep bruised purple, the last slivers of daylight fading as he made his way toward the house. The faint scent of lavender drifted from the flower beds his mother had already started tending, a stark contrast to the heaviness he carried inside.

The door creaked open, and the warm light of the living room spilled out to greet him.

"Jamie?" His mother's voice floated from the kitchen, soft and familiar. "Is that you?"

He swallowed the knot in his throat and forced a smile as he stepped inside. "Yeah, it's me, Mom."

She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lighting up as soon as she saw him. The weariness in her eyes seemed to lift for a moment, and James hated how easily she could still look at him like everything was fine. He didn't want to be the one to shatter that illusion.

"How was school?" she asked, her voice as hopeful as ever.

James shrugged, trying to keep his tone casual. "It was... fine. Same old, same old." He forced a chuckle, trying to brush off the truth, and it felt like scraping glass over raw nerves. "Nothing too exciting."

She studied him for a second longer, her brow furrowing slightly. James could see the concern flicker behind her eyes, but she let it go with a soft smile. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Dinner's almost ready."

He nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "I'll be down in a bit," he said, slipping past her toward the stairs. "Just gonna change real quick."

As he ascended the narrow staircase, the creak of each step under his weight seemed louder than usual, like the house itself was protesting his presence. He pushed open the door to his room and was greeted by the familiar clutter of boxes and scattered belongings, half-unpacked from the move. His sanctuary, but still temporary, still unsettled. The only constant in his life was the Polaroid camera he now set carefully on his desk, next to the growing collection of pictures he'd taken—each one a small window into the world as he saw it, distorted and fragmented.

James sat on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He could still feel the eyes of those boys at school on him, the taunts lingering in the back of his mind like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch. But more than that, William's face flickered through his thoughts—those cold, unreadable eyes, the way he had stood there, silent, watching. The way his presence alone had stirred something deep inside James, something dangerous and electric.

Shaking his head, he stood up and headed to the small bathroom connected to his room. The reflection that stared back at him in the mirror was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. He turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold before splashing his face, trying to wash away the remnants of the day. As the water trickled down his cheeks, he couldn't help but notice how different he looked—how hollow his eyes had become, how sharp the angles of his face seemed now. Like he was becoming someone else entirely, someone unrecognizable.

He grabbed his toothbrush, brushing his teeth in slow, methodical strokes, the monotony of the action almost soothing. But as he stood there, the sound of the bristles scraping against his teeth, the coolness of the mint toothpaste, something shifted.

The memory hit him without warning—a flash of his childhood home, the dim lighting, the smell of stale beer and sweat. He could see the old bathroom, the cracked tiles, the rust-stained sink. And then he saw his father. His father's towering frame, the way he loomed over him, his face red with anger, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

"You're useless," his father's voice echoed in his mind, the words dripping with venom. "A disappointment. A damn freak."

James' grip on the toothbrush tightened, his breath hitching as the memory dug deeper, pulling him under. He was seven years old again, standing in that filthy bathroom, staring at his own reflection as his father berated him, the man's breath hot on the back of his neck. James had stood there, too scared to cry, too scared to even move, as his father's words cut into him like shards of glass.

"You're weak. No son of mine."

The toothbrush clattered into the sink as James snapped back to the present, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white as he tried to steady himself. The bathroom around him blurred, the sterile whiteness of it melding with the dark corners of his past.

He had thought he could escape it. Thought that moving to Elmwood Heights, starting over, would erase the ghosts of his childhood. But they were still there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to drag him back into the darkness.

James straightened, his reflection staring back at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He wasn't that scared little boy anymore. But sometimes, when the memories hit him like this, it felt like he still was. He splashed more cold water on his face, willing the memory to fade, to drown it out with the present.

After a few moments, his breathing evened out, and the grip of the past loosened its hold. James wiped his face with a towel, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror as he turned off the light and headed back to his room. His legs felt heavy, each step an effort, like he was trudging through thick mud.

When he finally sat back down on his bed, the weight of everything—school, the boys, William, his father—settled over him like a suffocating blanket. He lay back, staring up at the ceiling, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions. The edges of his world felt frayed, like it could all unravel at any moment.

But he couldn't let it. Not here, not now.

Dinner with his mother had been fine, the usual small talk about her new job, her excitement about the possibilities in this town. He had smiled when he needed to, nodded in all the right places, pretended that everything was fine. For her sake. She didn't need to know about the boys at school. Or the way William Carlisle had begun to consume his thoughts. Or the fact that no matter how far he ran, his father's voice still echoed in his mind, still reminded him of everything he was trying so desperately to forget.

James turned onto his side, curling into himself, his eyes fixed on the pile of Polaroids on his desk. He wished he could capture moments like those in the pictures—frame them, control them, make them into something beautiful and safe. But some memories were too ugly, too raw, too powerful to be contained. And no camera in the world could change that.

Eventually, the weight of exhaustion pulled him under, and James drifted into a restless sleep, the shadows of his past still clinging to the edges of his dreams.