Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 22 | A broken gasp

JAMES AWOKE TO THE sound of rain tapping against his window, its rhythmic drumming like a distant heartbeat, steady and cold. The gray morning light filtered into his room, casting shadows on the pictures of William that still clung to the walls. He had meant to take them down, to let go of the obsession that had consumed him, but each time he reached for one, his hand would freeze. It was easier to keep them there, to let them haunt him like ghosts of something he couldn't quite name. Something between love and hate, between longing and despair.

He dragged himself out of bed, feeling the stiffness in his muscles, the dull ache in his ribs where bruises still lingered like purple smudges under his skin. A week had passed since that brutal day—the day everything fell apart, the day his secret had slipped through his fingers like shards of glass. He'd spent the days since hiding, skipping school, pretending to his mother that everything was fine. But today, something inside him stirred, a whisper that it was time to face the world again.

The mirror reflected a version of him that looked older, worn down by the weight of things too heavy for a boy his age to carry. His bruises were fading, but they were still there, ghostly reminders of the beatings he had endured. He touched his lip, where the split had almost healed, then ran his fingers along the edge of his jaw, tracing the faint shadow of yellowing skin. At least it didn't hurt as much now.

His morning routine was mechanical—shower, brush teeth, pull on the same old sweater that hung off his frame like a second skin. His hands moved through the motions, but his mind was elsewhere, already dreading what the day would bring. He could still feel their fists, their boots, the jeers and homophobic slurs that cut deeper than any blow. And William—he could still see that cruel smirk, that slight upturn of his lips as James had stood humiliated in front of his vandalized car. The memory sent a cold shiver down his spine, but he shoved it down. He had no choice. He had to go back.

Downstairs, the smell of eggs and bacon greeted him, a familiar comfort that felt like a lie. His mother sat at the table, her back to him, sipping coffee from her favorite chipped mug. She didn't turn around when she heard his footsteps, but her voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"Morning, Jamie. You feeling better?"

James slid into his chair, the scrape of the wood against the tile floor breaking the silence. He glanced at the plate she had made for him—scrambled eggs, two strips of bacon, and a single piece of toast, buttered just the way he liked. He stared at it for a moment before answering.

"Yeah, Mom. I'm fine."

She turned to look at him then, her eyes lingering on his face, the bruises still evident despite his best efforts to hide them. She had asked him about them when he first came home, her voice wavering with worry, but every time, he had lied. Told her it was a fight, an accident. Something stupid. She had pressed him, her questions probing deeper, but in the end, she had let it go. She always did.

Because that's who she was. A pushover. That's how his father's abuse had gotten that far, because she had allowed it.

She didn't ask him again today. She just nodded and took another sip of her coffee, staring out the window at the rain. "Well, if you're going back today, be careful. I don't want to see you come home with more of those bruises, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be careful," he muttered, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He couldn't look at her for too long. The concern in her eyes made him feel too raw, too exposed. He swallowed down the food, the knot in his throat making it hard to breathe.

His car was parked outside, freshly painted and fixed. His mother hadn't questioned him when he told her it was in the shop, claiming he wanted a new paint job to cover the scratches. He had lied, of course. The truth was too ugly to share. She didn't need to know that the word "fag" had been carved into the side of it, that the tires had been slashed by people who would never see him as anything more than an outsider, a target.

The drive to school was silent, the windshield wipers swiping back and forth in a futile attempt to clear the rain. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, his hands were trembling on the steering wheel, nerves coiled tight inside him. He hadn't felt this anxious in a long time, and it was like his body was trying to warn him of what was coming.

He skipped his usual routine, avoiding his locker and the main hallways where the jocks lurked like predators waiting for their prey. Instead, he took the long way around, weaving through side corridors and empty classrooms, keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched. He made it through the morning without a hitch, slipping into his classes unnoticed, watching the clock tick slowly toward the afternoon.

In one of his classes, he saw William, sitting a few rows ahead, his back straight, his dirty blonde hair catching the light in a way that made James' chest tighten. He watched him for a while, hoping for something—anything—that would break through the cold indifference that had settled between them. But William didn't look back. He didn't even seem to notice James existed.

The pang of disappointment was sharp, but James tried to swallow it down. What had he expected? Kindness? An apology? No, William was nothing like the boy James had built up in his head. The William in his photographs was someone else, someone who didn't really exist. That realization made the knot in his chest tighten even more.

When the bell rang, James gathered his things slowly, letting the other students file out ahead of him. He had managed to go the whole day without a run-in with the jocks, and he wanted to keep it that way. But when he left the classroom and took a wrong turn, his heart sank. He found himself heading toward the main hallway, the one that led to his locker.

As he approached, he heard it first—laughter, low and cruel, echoing off the walls. Whispers, hushed but sharp, followed by more laughter. He quickened his pace, his pulse speeding up with each step, dread curling in his stomach like a viper. The hallway was crowded, students gathered in a loose circle, their eyes fixed on something in the middle.

James' heart raced as he pushed through the crowd, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The laughter grew louder, the whispers more vicious, and he could feel their eyes on him, feel the weight of their mockery even before he saw what had happened.

The crowd parted for him, almost as if they had been waiting for him. He stepped forward, and when he saw it, the breath was ripped from his lungs.

His locker. His name scratched out. In its place, written in bold, jagged letters across the metal, were the words: "FAG."

The laughter around him seemed to fade into a dull roar, the world narrowing to the three letters etched into the metal like a brand. He stared at it, frozen, his heart pounding in his ears, his vision blurring at the edges. For a moment, everything else disappeared—the students, the laughter, the whispers—everything except the word staring back at him, mocking him, tearing him apart.

His knees nearly gave out beneath him, but somehow, he stayed standing. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt. But the pain didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

All he could do was stare, his breath caught in his throat, a single, broken gasp escaping his lips.