Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 24 | Not yet

JAMES LIMPED DOWN THE empty hallways, his breath shallow, every step a dagger of pain stabbing through his ribs. His body was screaming at him to stop, to sit down, to give in. But he couldn't. He couldn't let them see him like this. Not broken. Not defeated. Not yet.

The cold linoleum floor seemed to stretch on forever, the echo of his uneven footsteps bouncing off the walls. His vision was blurry, partly from the swelling in his face, partly from the tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood that was still trickling from his split lip, the metallic taste lingering on his tongue.

He turned a corner and saw the door to the nurse's office at the end of the hall. Relief surged through him, though it was brief. His mind flashed back to the scene at his locker—the jeers, the kicks, Sandra's cold, hateful eyes as she mouthed that word, that damn word. His heart clenched painfully at the memory. It was like reliving the beating all over again.

He stumbled into the nurse's office, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in a way that made his head spin. The nurse wasn't there, probably on her lunch break, which was just as well. James didn't want to answer questions. He didn't want anyone looking at him, didn't want their pity or their concern. What good had concern ever done him?

He limped over to one of the small, narrow beds in the corner, the white sheets too clean, too sterile. It reminded him of the hospital—of that night when he was younger, when his father's drunken fists had sent him to the emergency room. The memory came flooding back, unbidden, making his stomach twist in knots. He pushed it away, trying to focus on the present. The pain in his body was enough to tether him to the here and now.

He grabbed an ice pack from the small freezer beside the nurse's desk, the cold seeping into his trembling fingers. He flopped down onto the bed, groaning as his body protested the movement, and pressed the ice to the side of his face. The numbness was a small mercy, but it did little to silence the pounding ache in his head. His fingers tightened around the ice pack, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But even as he lay there, his body bruised and broken, his mind refused to stop. The voices were back. Not the ones from the hallway, not the jeers or the laughter. No, these were different. Darker. More insidious. They whispered at the edges of his consciousness, slipping into the cracks left by pain and exhaustion.

They'll never stop. You know that, right?

James clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut, but the voice only grew louder.

They'll keep beating you. Every day. They'll keep calling you names. You'll always be the freak, the faggot, the punching bag.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the cold pressing into his swollen cheek, the steady rhythm of his breathing. But it didn't work. The voice was relentless.

You think they're going to stop? That William's going to come around? He doesn't care about you. He never did. He's worse than the others. He hates you. They all do.

A shiver ran down James' spine, but it wasn't from the cold. His heart raced, thumping wildly in his chest as the darkness inside him grew, spreading like poison through his veins.

You'll never be safe. Not until you do something about it.

His hand tightened around the ice pack, his knuckles turning white as the voice echoed louder and louder in his mind, feeding on his rage, on his helplessness. Images flashed before his eyes—dark, twisted visions of the jocks lying broken at his feet, their faces bloodied and bruised just like his was now. He saw William too, his smug smile wiped away, replaced with fear, with regret. With pain.

James blinked, his breathing ragged, the visions fading as quickly as they had come. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the voice still lingered, a low hiss in the back of his mind.

You can't just sit here and let them destroy you. You have to fight back.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the ice harder against his cheek until it stung, trying to drown out the whispers. His body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the torrent of emotions swirling inside him—fear, anger, hurt, and something darker, something primal. It clawed at his insides, urging him to listen, to act, to do something.

But James shook his head, his lips trembling as he whispered, "No. I can't."

He wouldn't let himself become that. He wouldn't let himself sink to their level, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much they pushed him. He wasn't like them. He couldn't be.

But the voice didn't care. It laughed, cruel and mocking, echoing through his skull like the taunts he had heard in the hallway.

You think being a good little boy will save you? That hiding behind your camera makes you different? It makes you weak. You're nothing. They'll chew you up and spit you out, and no one will care.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. He wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now. He couldn't give in.

He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, trying to silence the voice that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint, focusing on anything but the storm brewing inside him.

He thought about William. About the way his lips had curled into that cruel, smug smile after he'd seen what they'd done to his car. The way he'd said those words to him, so casually, like James was nothing but dirt under his shoes. "Faggots don't have a place here." The memory of it made his chest ache, made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. And yet, even now, even after everything, James couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop wanting him.

The voice in his head hissed again, but James forced himself to push it away, focusing instead on the boy he couldn't have. The boy who had hurt him more than anyone else, yet still haunted his every waking thought.

He hated him. He loved him.

I'll never be free of him.

That thought sent a cold shudder through him, colder than the ice against his face. He knew the truth now. William had carved it into his skin with every cruel word, with every hateful look. And yet, James couldn't bring himself to let go. Not yet.

He exhaled a shaky breath, finally pulling the ice away from his face. The swelling had gone down a little, but the bruises were still there, ugly and dark, a stark reminder of what had happened. Of what kept happening. He stared at his reflection in the small mirror on the wall, at the hollow, broken version of himself staring back.

For a brief moment, the voice inside him went quiet. But its presence lingered, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting.

James knew it would come back. It always did.

But for now, he would ignore it. For now, he would survive.

He wasn't ready to become the monster they were turning him into.

Not yet.