Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 21 | Just a boy. Broken. Alone.

THE DAY DRAGGED ON, endless and suffocating, much like the gray clouds hanging low in the sky outside James' window. Another day spent hiding from the world, from William, from the fallout of everything that had happened. His body still ached, bruises blooming purple and yellow beneath his clothes, but the real pain was deeper, tucked beneath the surface where no one could see it. It gnawed at him, relentless, a constant reminder of everything he was—everything he wasn't.

He sat slumped at the edge of his bed, his fingers idly tracing the old Polaroid camera beside him. It was heavier than it looked, a solid reminder of the past, of moments frozen in time. He'd spent so much of his life behind the lens, using the camera as a shield, a way to distance himself from reality. If he could just capture a moment—preserve it, keep it safe—then maybe he could make sense of the chaos swirling around him. Maybe he could control something.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. But no matter how hard he tried to shut out the world, his mind kept drifting back to the beginning, to the moment that had first sparked his love for photography.

It had been years ago, in the house he grew up in—a house that was never quite a home, not with his father there. James' childhood was a blur of fear and tension, of walking on eggshells around a man who only seemed to come alive when he was angry. The walls of that house had always felt too close, trapping him in a place where the air was thick with dread. His mother had tried to shield him from it, but there was only so much she could do.

The memory came flooding back like a tidal wave, drowning him in the past before he could stop it.

He was twelve, maybe thirteen. It was a Saturday. The weather had been good that day, bright and sunny, a rare reprieve from the usual gloom that hung over the town. James remembered being excited, eager to escape the house and head down to the park with his friends. He had barely made it down the stairs when his father had stopped him, towering over him like a storm cloud ready to break.

"Where do you think you're going?" his father had asked, voice low and dangerous, the way it always was when he was spoiling for a fight.

James had tried to answer, his words stumbling over themselves in a rush to explain, to placate. But it hadn't mattered. Nothing ever did when his father was in one of those moods. It wasn't about what James had done—or hadn't done—it was about power. Control.

The first blow had come out of nowhere, a slap across the face that sent James reeling. His father's anger was like fire, unpredictable and all-consuming. One minute it was a slap, the next it was fists, raining down on him like a storm. James had curled into himself, trying to protect his head, his ribs, but his father didn't care. He never did.

By the time it was over, James had been left in a heap on the living room floor, gasping for breath, his body throbbing with pain. His father had stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving James in a suffocating silence.

It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. But something was different about that day. Something had shifted in James as he lay there, broken and bleeding on the floor. He felt numb, detached, like he was floating above his own body, watching the scene play out from a distance. It was as if time itself had stopped, the world frozen in place, and for a brief moment, James found a strange kind of peace in that stillness.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling out of control. But eventually, he had dragged himself to his feet, limping his way down the hall toward the garage, where his father kept all his tools and junk. James wasn't sure what he was looking for, only that he needed something to distract himself, something to take his mind off the pain that clung to him like a second skin.

That's when he found it.

An old camera, buried beneath a pile of dusty boxes. It was heavy, outdated, the kind of camera no one used anymore. But something about it had called to him, pulling him in like a magnet. He had picked it up, feeling the cold weight of it in his hands, and something inside him clicked.

Without thinking, he had brought the camera up to his eye, staring through the viewfinder at the cluttered mess of the garage. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything else faded away—the pain, the fear, the anger. All that mattered was what he saw through that tiny square of glass. The world became smaller, more manageable, something he could control with the press of a button.

Click.

He snapped the picture, the mechanical sound echoing in the stillness. And in that moment, James understood something he hadn't before.

Photography wasn't just about capturing a moment. It was about freezing time, about holding onto something that would otherwise slip away. It was about control.

He had taken the camera with him that day, sneaking it out of the garage and hiding it in his room. It became his escape, his way of dealing with a world that never seemed to make sense. Whenever things got bad, whenever his father's temper flared, James would retreat into the safety of his camera, capturing the world around him in perfect, frozen stillness.

It became an obsession, a way to make sense of the chaos. And in a twisted way, it gave him power. Power over time, over memory, over the things that had hurt him. As long as he had his camera, he could keep the bad things at bay. He could freeze the world, just for a little while.

The memory faded, but the weight of it lingered, pressing down on James like a leaden blanket. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at the camera in his hands, feeling the cold metal beneath his fingers. His chest tightened, the old familiar ache creeping up on him again, the one that had been with him ever since that first time.

It wasn't just about photography. It never had been. It was about control. It was about freezing the moments he couldn't handle, about capturing the things that hurt him before they had a chance to destroy him.

That's why he couldn't take down the pictures of William. That's why he kept them, why he kept taking more. It wasn't just about the crush, about the twisted, painful desire he felt for a boy who would never love him back. It was about freezing those moments, holding onto them, because if he didn't...what did he have left?

James clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the camera as his eyes flicked to the wall, to the images of William that covered it. He knew he should take them down. He knew it was unhealthy, that it was feeding into something dark and dangerous inside him. But he couldn't.

Because if he took them down, if he let go of those moments...then what was left of him?

Just a boy. Broken. Alone.