Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 19 | A scar that would never fade

THE MURMURS OF THE crowd swelled like a wave, their eyes darting between each other, avoiding James as he slowly made his way through them. He didn't need to hear what they were saying—he already knew, somehow, in the pit of his stomach, that it wasn't good. The air was thick with humidity, the earlier downpour having left everything soaked, but that wasn't what made the air feel so heavy. It was the palpable tension, the cruelty that hung like a dark cloud around his car.

And then he saw it.

The word "FAG" had been gouged into the side of his car, the letters jagged and deep, carving through the paint like a scar. His tires—once pristine—were now deflated, the rubber sagging against the wet pavement. Someone had gone out of their way to destroy his car, to humiliate him even more than the beating in the hallway ever could. James stared, his breath caught in his throat, chest tightening with a combination of shock and disbelief. His stomach churned violently, and he swayed slightly on his feet, fighting back the rising nausea.

The crowd around him seemed to blur as he stumbled forward, his hand reaching out to touch the ruined side of his car as if to confirm it was real. The cold, wet metal of the door was slick beneath his fingers, the ugly slur glaring back at him under the faint light of the overcast sky. He traced the letters, feeling the rough, intentional cuts in the paintwork, each one deeper than the last. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he thought he might throw up right there.

His vision tunneled as he tried to process what had just happened, and for a fleeting second, he wanted to scream, to lash out at the crowd for standing there, gawking at his misery. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms until the skin broke, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his flesh. Rage, white-hot and consuming, bubbled up inside him, threatening to spill over.

But then he saw it—the slight upturn of a pair of familiar lips.

William.

He was standing just behind the crowd, leaning casually against one of the cars parked nearby, watching the whole thing unfold. His blonde hair was damp, strands clinging to his forehead in a way that made him look almost effortlessly perfect. His mismatched eyes—one green, the other silver—glimmered in the gray light, as if amused by the spectacle. And then there it was, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, just enough for James to catch it. Just enough to confirm that William knew exactly what had happened.

James' heart sank. The anger he'd felt moments ago evaporated in an instant, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at his chest. It was him. William. The boy he'd been obsessed with, the boy he had idolized from afar—he had done this. He was the one who'd taken it a step further, who'd crossed the line to make sure James got the message loud and clear.

"Faggots don't have a place here."

William's voice was cold, devoid of any warmth or humanity. The words cut through James like a knife, sharper than the key that had carved into his car. He didn't shout it. He didn't need to. The quiet, measured way William said it made it all the more cruel, all the more personal. The crowd snickered, some of the jocks exchanging smug glances, pleased with the outcome of their handiwork.

James' breath hitched, his eyes wide with hurt, as if the words themselves had knocked the wind out of him. He stared at William, hoping—praying—that maybe there was something more behind that expression, that maybe this was all a mistake. But there was nothing. Just that same cold, detached smirk. That same predatory gleam in his eyes.

The ache in James' chest deepened, twisting painfully like a knife lodged between his ribs. He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out, each second more excruciating than the last. But there was something else too, something darker, something that made his breath catch in his throat.

As much as it hurt, as much as the betrayal stung, he couldn't deny the pulse of something electric running through him. There was something about seeing William like this—so vicious, so unfeeling—that stirred something within him. It was as if William's cruelty only added to the allure, made him more unattainable, more powerful. The way he stood there, so confident, so untouchable, made James' heart race for all the wrong reasons.

It was wrong. It was so deeply, sickeningly wrong. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't help but find it...hot. William's dominance, the way he seemed to control everything around him, even James' own humiliation—it was intoxicating in the worst possible way. James hated himself for it. Hated that, even now, even after this, he still wanted him. He still wanted William to notice him, to acknowledge him, even if it was through hatred and disdain.

William straightened up, pushing himself off the car with a casual flick of his hand. He didn't even bother to glance at the crowd, didn't bother to acknowledge the damage they'd done. Instead, he turned his back on the scene, walking away with the same effortless grace he always had, leaving James standing there, shattered.

For a long moment, James didn't move. He couldn't. His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead. His mind swirled with a thousand conflicting emotions—rage, humiliation, desire, betrayal—all tangled together in a mess he couldn't begin to unravel. The rain continued to pour down, soaking him through to the bone, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was William, that smug look on his face, those words that echoed in his mind.

"Faggots don't have a place here."

Eventually, the crowd began to disperse, bored now that the show was over. A few of the jocks gave him one last shove as they passed, but none of it registered. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in that moment, trapped in the sick realization of what had just happened.

He glanced back at his car, at the word that had been branded into it, a reminder of who he was and how the world saw him. It was a scar that would never fade, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. His vision blurred, not from tears—he couldn't even muster the strength to cry—but from the overwhelming weight of it all.

With shaky hands, he opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat. The tires were flat, but he didn't care. He couldn't stay here, couldn't stand the thought of anyone else seeing him like this. The engine sputtered to life, the car groaning under the weight of the damaged tires, but James didn't care. He pulled out of the parking spot, the wet asphalt grinding under the rims as he drove away, every inch of his body aching with the bruises from earlier, both physical and emotional.

The drive home was a blur. He couldn't think, couldn't process anything beyond the numbness that had settled deep into his bones. All he knew was that he needed to get away, to be alone, to shut the world out before it crushed him completely.

But even as he drove, even as the rain pelted the windshield and the world outside blurred into nothingness, one thought stayed with him.

William. The way he had looked at him. That slight smirk. Those words.

And despite everything, despite the pain and the humiliation, James couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the closest he'd ever get to being noticed by him.