Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 23 | A voice whispered

THE MOMENT JAMES STEPPED toward his locker, the hallway seemed to close in around him. The words scratched into the metal—"FAG"—felt like they had been branded into his skin, each letter a knife slicing deeper into his already fractured soul. The murmurs of laughter, the whispered insults, all blurred into a low, distant hum as his focus locked onto that word, mocking him, a permanent scar etched into the fabric of his life.

Before he could move, before he could even think, a group of jocks encircled him. They moved as one, a pack of wolves smelling blood, led by the usual suspects—William's friends. Their faces twisted with malicious glee, their laughter sharp and cruel, echoing through the hall. One of them, a hulking figure, Marcus, stepped forward, towering over James with a sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Look at this freak," Marcus growled, his voice dripping with venom. "Thought we were done with you, huh? Well, we're not."

The others joined in, circling closer, their bodies forming an impenetrable wall. James felt his throat tighten, his breath coming out in short, shaky gasps. He tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. The crowd of students had gathered behind him, their eyes gleaming with the excitement of watching a public execution.

Marcus shoved James hard, sending him crashing against his vandalized locker. The metal bit into his spine, a sharp pain that shot up his back. The force of it knocked the air from his lungs, and he gasped, clutching at his sides, but there was no time to recover. Another one of the jocks, Trent, grabbed the collar of James' jacket, jerking him forward like he was a ragdoll.

"What's wrong, huh? You don't like us anymore?" Trent spat, his words like poison. "Or maybe you only like watching us now. Is that it, you sick little pervert? You like sneaking around, taking pictures of guys while you're getting off to them?"

James opened his mouth to protest, to say something, anything, but the words were stuck, trapped behind the suffocating lump of fear lodged in his throat. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, each beat like the ticking of a countdown toward something terrible. He wanted to fight back, but his body refused to move.

Marcus swung his fist hard into James' stomach, and the pain exploded in his gut like a firework, doubling him over. He heaved, his body folding in on itself as he struggled to stay upright, his arms wrapped around his middle as if that could protect him from the blows. But it didn't stop them. Nothing stopped them.

"Look at this freak," someone else said, kicking James in the shin, sending him sprawling to the ground. "Thinks he can get away with stalking people, like we're just some kind of show for him to watch. Disgusting."

They were shouting now, throwing homophobic slurs like stones, each word cutting deeper than the last. "Faggot." "Queer." "Pervert." The words swirled around him, mixing with the pain, until they became indistinguishable from the fists and feet pounding into his body.

And then, in the midst of it all, he caught her eyes.

Sandra.

She was standing on the edge of the crowd, watching it unfold like a bystander at a car crash—frozen, detached, but present. James' eyes locked onto hers, silently pleading for help, for some glimmer of kindness, some shred of the girl who had been understanding, who had smiled at him and invited him to that party.

But the Sandra standing in front of him wasn't the same girl. Her eyes were cold, narrowed with disgust, her lips pulled into a tight line. The softness that had once been there, the warmth that had made him believe, was gone.

She leaned closer, her mouth forming a single, damning word.

"Faggot."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't a shout like the others. But it hit James harder than any of their blows. The look of revulsion in her eyes cut him to his core, and the silent, venomous accusation shattered what little hope he had left. His heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest and crushed under the weight of her gaze.

He wanted to scream, wanted to ask her why, wanted to make her understand that he wasn't what they said he was, that it wasn't like that. But the words refused to come, stuck behind the growing knot in his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could do was lie there, curled up on the floor, as they continued to beat him.

Another kick slammed into his ribs, sending a bolt of pain through his entire body. He coughed, spitting blood onto the floor, his vision swimming with black spots. He couldn't take much more of this. He could feel his body shutting down, feel the edges of consciousness starting to fray. His mind drifted in and out, the world around him fading in and out of focus, like a flickering film reel.

"Can't believe I predicted it with the gay jokes," someone hissed, delivering another punch to his side. "Knowing it's true? Makes me sick."

The blows kept coming, harder and faster, like they were trying to break every bone in his body, like they wanted to erase him from existence entirely. His face was swollen, his eyes barely open, his lip split wide. His body felt like it was on fire, every nerve screaming in agony.

And still, they didn't stop.

The world tilted, his body slumping against the cold linoleum as he drifted further into the pain. He could barely hear them now, their voices muffled, like they were underwater. The hallway, the faces, the jeers—they were all melting away, becoming nothing but a distant, hateful blur.

Just when he thought it would never end, the sound of the bell rang through the school, sharp and piercing, like the crack of a whip.

Salvation.

The jocks pulled away, their voices still dripping with cruel laughter, but their attention already shifting. The beating was over, for now. They had left him, lying there on the floor, broken and bleeding, but alive. Barely.

As the crowd began to disperse, as the voices faded into the background, James lay still, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. His entire body throbbed with pain, every inch of him screaming for relief, for some kind of mercy that never came.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his vision blurred with tears and blood. The taste of metal filled his mouth, and he choked back a sob, too exhausted to cry. His heart pounded, aching with more than just the physical torment. It was the betrayal that hurt the most. The realization that no one—no one—was going to save him.

And somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a voice whispered:

"This isn't over."