Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 13 | Waiting to be unleashed

JAMES PULLED INTO THE driveway with his heart pounding in his chest, a dull ache radiating from the fresh bruises blooming on his side, his eye still throbbing from the earlier beating. He parked the car, glancing up at the small, modest home that he and his mother had started to call theirs. The front yard was empty, the curtains in the living room drawn. His mother wasn't home yet. Relief washed over him in waves.

He needed time—time to hide the evidence of what had happened, to make himself look normal again before she could see him like this. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry. She had enough on her plate with the new job, with settling into this strange, unwelcoming town.

James grabbed his backpack, careful not to jostle his sore side too much, and stepped out of the car. The cool afternoon air prickled his skin, the weight of the bruises tugging at him with every step he took toward the house. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers trembling slightly, and unlocked the front door.

Inside, the house was still and quiet. It smelled like home, faint traces of his mother's perfume lingering in the air, mixing with the scent of the dinner she had cooked the night before. The silence was comforting in a way, but it also made the thoughts in his head louder, more persistent.

James moved quickly, heading straight to the bathroom, flicking the light on and locking the door behind him. He dropped his backpack onto the tile floor and turned to face the mirror. The fluorescent light above the sink buzzed softly, casting an unforgiving glow over his reflection.

His face was a mess.

His left eye was swollen, the skin around it already turning an ugly shade of purple and blue. His lip was split, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. A dark bruise was beginning to form on his cheekbone, and the ache in his ribs made it hard to stand up straight. He winced, gently touching the bruises, the pain sharp under his fingertips.

They hadn't gone too far, not like they could've. The teacher's voice in the hallway had been their saving grace, but James knew it wasn't over. It was just the beginning. The confrontation in the restroom today wouldn't be the last, and the thought of what might come next sent a shiver down his spine.

But his mother couldn't know. She couldn't see him like this.

He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face, watching as the dried blood washed away in thin rivulets. He scrubbed gently at the edges of the split in his lip, trying to make it look less angry, less raw. His mother would notice if he didn't clean it up, but he could pass the bruises off as an accident. He'd been clumsy his whole life, and she would believe him. She always did.

When he was as presentable as he could be, James stepped back from the mirror, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He grabbed a towel, patting his face dry, and glanced at the clock. His mother would be home any minute now.

He heard the front door creak open downstairs, the sound of his mother's footsteps echoing softly through the house.

"James?" her voice called up the stairs.

His stomach clenched. "Yeah, I'm here."

He exited the bathroom, grabbing his backpack from the floor as if it would make him look like he'd just been doing homework or something. Heading down the stairs, he practiced keeping his face as neutral as possible, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his side and the sharp sting of his lip with every step.

His mother was standing in the kitchen when he entered, unloading groceries onto the counter. She turned, smiling softly when she saw him, but her eyes quickly landed on his face, and the smile faltered.

"What happened?" she asked, concern lacing her voice as she stepped toward him.

James' heart skipped a beat. "Oh, uh... it's nothing," he said quickly, waving her off. "I was just being clumsy. You know me."

Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head, her gaze locking onto the bruise darkening on his cheekbone. "James..."

"I tripped," he lied, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow in his own ears. "I wasn't paying attention and walked into a door."

His mother crossed her arms, skeptical, but there was that flicker of hesitation in her eyes, that familiar look that said she didn't want to push him too hard. He hated lying to her, hated the way he was becoming so good at it. But it was necessary. If she knew what was really happening at school, she'd worry herself sick, maybe even pull him out, and then where would he be? Still stuck in this hellhole of a town, with no escape, and no way to see William.

"Are you sure that's all?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing.

James nodded, his throat tightening as he plastered on a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just being a klutz."

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but she still looked unconvinced. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "You've got to be more careful, Jamie."

"I know," he mumbled, his stomach twisting with guilt.

She didn't press him any further, but there was a lingering sadness in her eyes, a quiet worry that settled like a weight between them. He hated that. Hated making her feel like that, but it was better than the truth.

"Dinner'll be ready in a bit," she said, turning back to the groceries. "Why don't you go get some rest?"

"Okay," James said, retreating to his room as quickly as he could without looking suspicious.

Upstairs, he closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long, shaky breath. His face hurt. His ribs hurt. But the worst pain was the one gnawing at his mind, the constant hum of anger and fear and helplessness.

He turned toward his bed, but his eyes were drawn to the wall opposite him—the wall where his most prized possessions hung.

Photographs.

Rows and rows of Polaroid photos taped to the pale, peeling wallpaper. All of them were of William. Some were taken during practice, others during games, a few even in the hallways between classes. James had captured him from every angle, in every light, in every moment of vulnerability he could find. It was a shrine, a private gallery of the boy who consumed his every thought.

James stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edges of one of the photos, the one where William's gaze had met his during practice. He had captured the exact moment, the split second where William's cold mask had slipped, just enough for James to see something real beneath it.

He traced the curve of William's face in the photo, his heart racing. There was something about him, something dark and unreachable, that drew James in like nothing else ever had. He didn't know if it was attraction or obsession or something more twisted, but it didn't matter. All he knew was that he needed more. More photos, more moments, more of William.

James sank onto his bed, staring at the photographs until the lines between the real William and the ones frozen on his wall blurred. His mother never came into his room unannounced. She respected his privacy, something he was grateful for. She had no idea what lived on his walls, no idea what her son was becoming.

As night settled over Elmwood Heights, James lay in bed, surrounded by the images of the boy who had unknowingly taken over his life. His bruises ached, his body tired, but his mind was alive with thoughts of William, his heterochromia eyes haunting him even in the darkness.

And somewhere, deep inside, something dangerous and unspoken simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.