Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 11 | Streaks of red

JAMES MOVED THROUGH THE hallways with a rare sense of relief, his shoulders finally relaxing after a long day of darting in and out of classrooms, constantly on edge, scanning every face for signs of trouble. His fingers brushed the familiar shape of his Polaroid, the camera a reassuring weight hanging from his neck, his last thread of control in a world that felt like it was constantly spiraling. For once, he had made it through the day without any confrontation, no whispered threats, no snide remarks thrown his way. He almost allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst was behind him.

A low whistle slipped from his lips as he walked, a tune he couldn't quite place, something his mother used to hum when things were quieter. He felt lighter, the tension that had been clawing at him for weeks loosening its grip. The hallway was mostly empty now, with students scattering in all directions, eager to escape the confines of the school.

He headed toward the restroom, figuring he could take a quick break before his next class. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile, washed-out glow over the room.

James slipped into one of the stalls, the whistle still faint on his lips. He let himself breathe, allowed the small space to offer him a moment of privacy, of quiet. But as he finished and stepped out of the stall, the whistle caught in his throat, freezing in his chest.

Markus, Trent, and Ethan stood just inside the door, their bodies blocking his only exit. The two other boys with them, Joel and Tyler, leaned against the sinks, arms crossed, their eyes locking onto James with an intensity that made his stomach drop.

For a moment, all James could do was stare. His heart hammered in his chest, a cold sweat prickling the back of his neck. The restroom, which had felt so empty and harmless just moments ago, now felt like a cage, and he was the animal trapped inside.

Markus, tall and broad-shouldered, was the first to speak, his voice dripping with the same smug superiority James had heard so many times before. "Well, look who it is. Mr. Creepshow himself."

James took a step back, his breath catching. He was cornered. "I—I don't want any trouble," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Too late for that," Trent sneered, stepping forward, cracking his knuckles like he was getting ready for a fight. "You've been asking for trouble ever since you started snapping pictures of people like some kind of freak."

Joel snorted from the side. "Yeah, especially Sandra. That was just pathetic, man."

"What's your deal, huh?" Ethan chimed in, his voice cold, eyes narrowing as he sized James up. "What, you think we wouldn't notice you stalking her, taking pictures like some kind of perv?"

"I wasn't stalking—" James started, his voice shaking, but Markus cut him off, stepping closer, forcing James to stumble back into the wall.

"You're not fooling anyone, James." Markus' voice was low, menacing. "We know your type. Quiet little weirdo, creeping around with your camera, thinking nobody sees you. But we see you. And so does she. Sandra doesn't want anything to do with a freak like you."

The word freak hit James like a slap to the face. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, the fear, the helplessness, but more than that—there was anger, bubbling just beneath the surface, a rage that he didn't know how to control.

James tried to sidestep them, inching toward the door, but Tyler moved in front of him, shoving him back roughly. James' back hit the cold tile wall, and before he could even react, Markus grabbed him by the collar, slamming him harder into the wall. Pain shot through his body, his head snapping back against the tile.

"Not so fast, little photographer," Markus snarled, his face inches from James'. "You've been creeping around long enough. Time to face the consequences."

James gritted his teeth, his heart pounding in his ears. The other boys moved in closer, surrounding him, their shadows stretching long on the grimy tiles. He tried to push Markus off, but he was too strong. Trent was the first to land a punch, his fist connecting with James' gut, driving the air from his lungs. James doubled over, gasping for breath, but Markus didn't let go.

Another punch, this time to his ribs, then a sharp jab to his jaw that sent his vision spinning. He tasted blood, coppery and bitter, flooding his mouth as his lip split open. He tried to curl in on himself, to protect his face, but the punches kept coming, each one more brutal than the last.

It wasn't just the physical pain. It was the humiliation of being pinned there, helpless, his back against the wall, surrounded by these boys who thrived on his fear. He wasn't just scared—he was furious. But there was nothing he could do about it. He was outnumbered, and every time he tried to push back, another fist found him, beating him down again.

"Boys!" a voice suddenly called from the hallway, sharp and authoritative.

The boys froze, their heads snapping toward the door. James blinked through the haze of pain, his vision still spinning, and saw a teacher's shadow looming just beyond the doorway.

"Crap," Markus muttered, quickly letting go of James' collar and stepping back. "Coach'll kill us if we get caught."

"Just messing around, Coach!" Trent called out, his voice suddenly light, like they hadn't just been beating James senseless moments ago.

Markus shot James one last look, his eyes dark and cold. Then, as quickly as they'd surrounded him, the boys scattered, slipping out of the bathroom with casual ease, their laughter echoing in the hallway as they melted back into the crowd of students. It was like nothing had happened.

James slid down the wall, collapsing onto the cold tile floor. His body ached, every muscle screaming in protest. He tasted the blood from his busted lip, and the skin around his eye throbbed with the promise of a nasty bruise. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as he tried to pull himself together, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. But crying felt wrong. He couldn't cry. Crying wouldn't fix anything.

Anger. That was all he could feel now. Hot, burning anger that clouded his thoughts, making his pain feel distant, like something that didn't even belong to him anymore. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to make them feel what he was feeling. But he knew he couldn't. He was too small, too weak, too insignificant to fight back.

He pulled himself to his feet slowly, his legs shaking. He moved to the sink, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror—his split lip, the swelling already starting to form around his eye. He looked like hell. But his camera—it was still around his neck, untouched. They hadn't broken it. He had taken the damage, not his camera. For some reason, that small victory felt like the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart.

James turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, the sting of it snapping him back to reality. He washed away the blood, dabbing at his lip with trembling fingers. He couldn't let his mom see him like this. She would ask questions, worry too much. He couldn't let anyone know.

He stared at his reflection, watching as the water dripped down his face, mixing with the blood, painting his skin in streaks of red.

Just walked into a door, he told himself, practicing the lie in his head. Tell them you weren't paying attention and walked right into the door.

It wasn't like anyone would care enough to question it anyway.