Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 27 | A boy consumed by a love he could never have

THE FOLLOWING WEEKS FELT like drowning in slow motion.

Each morning, James found himself at war with the sinking dread in his stomach, a gnawing knot that only tightened the closer he got to school. It wasn't just the constant threat of violence, though that was bad enough; it was the waiting. The dread that hung like a noose above his head, ready to snap at any moment.

But worst of all were his feelings for William, which, despite everything, had only grown stronger, more consuming. It was an illness, really, the way his mind twisted every glance, every fleeting moment. Even the memory of that tense encounter in the grocery store had lodged itself in his brain, feeding his obsessive longing like poison. Each time his thoughts drifted back to William—his cold indifference, the effortless way he moved, the way he seemed so far out of reach but so devastatingly close—James felt both exhilarated and sick to his stomach.

The violence didn't help. If anything, it only deepened the strange, masochistic attraction he felt.

At first, it was manageable—just the usual shoves in the hallway, their fists slamming into his shoulders, their sneering laughs as they hissed the word "fag" under their breath. But that had been before. Before the pictures, before the party, before they found out who James really was. Now, things were different. Worse.

Marcus, Trent, Ethan, Tyler, and Joel were relentless. The first time they had cornered him again after the photos surfaced, James thought it couldn't get worse than that day. He was wrong. Their rage had only grown, festering in the dark places of their minds, fed by their homophobic hatred and the need to assert their dominance over someone they deemed lesser.

It usually started with Marcus, the ringleader of the group. He'd grab James by the collar, slamming him into the nearest locker or dragging him into some empty corner of the school where no one could see. "Look at him, boys," Marcus would sneer, his voice dripping with venom. "Our little photographer, huh? Where's your Camera at? You still takin' pictures, Jamie? You want some of me next?"

The others would laugh, joining in like it was some sort of sick sport. Ethan and Trent were always the first to throw punches, their knuckles hard and unrelenting as they connected with James' ribs, his gut, his face. Tyler was the cruel one, though. He liked to play with his words, drawing out the pain, making it last longer. "You know what we do to faggots like you?" he'd whisper, his breath hot against James' ear before slamming his fist into his side.

And then there was Joel, whom of which he sensed a kinder spirit in. Although, he wasn't much of a talker but had a way of kicking James in the back of the knees that left him crumpled on the ground every time, gasping for air.

The routine never varied much, but each time felt like it could be the last. The hits became harder, the insults crueler, until James felt like a ragdoll tossed around for their amusement. He could barely keep his head above the flood of hatred that surrounded him, and yet, through it all, his mind kept going back to William. William. William. William.

William, who never participated directly, but who was always there. Watching. Silent.

Sometimes, James would see him in the distance, standing with his arms crossed, that same impassive expression on his face. It hurt worse than the punches—the way William never seemed to care. But then, there were those rare moments, brief as they were, where William's eyes would catch his own, and James would swear he saw something flicker behind the mask. Some hidden thing, dark and unspoken.

It wasn't hope that James felt when he saw those glances. No, hope would have been foolish. It was something else, something more dangerous—a reckless desire that grew stronger the more William distanced himself.

James couldn't stop thinking about him. Every night, as he lay bruised and aching in his bed, he found himself replaying every encounter, every fleeting interaction. He remembered the brush of William's body in the grocery store, the smell of him, the heat of his breath as he reached past him. It was maddening, the way his mind fixated on these tiny, inconsequential moments, blowing them out of proportion until they became the only things that mattered.

He hated himself for it. Hated that, even as he wiped blood from his split lip in the bathroom, all he could think about was how William had looked that day, his casual beauty. The way his green and silver eyes had flashed in the store lighting. The way his hands had moved with precision, as though he controlled the world around him.

It was sick, this obsession. James knew that. But he couldn't stop. His love—or whatever twisted version of love this was—had fused with his pain, with the violence, until they were indistinguishable. It was as if every punch, every kick, only solidified his feelings, turning them into something grotesque and unshakable.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal beating—his ribs aching from where Trent had kicked him repeatedly—James found himself in the school bathroom, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His face was a mess of purple bruises, his lip swollen and split open, his shirt torn at the collar. But it wasn't the physical damage that bothered him most. It was the emptiness in his own eyes, the hollow look that stared back at him, as though he was already fading away, piece by piece.

He pressed a hand to his ribs, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through him, but the physical hurt was nothing compared to what churned inside. That void. That gnawing hunger for something more. For something that he knew he would never have. Not with William. Not with anyone.

And yet, the fantasies persisted.

When he closed his eyes, he imagined a world where things were different. A world where he could walk beside William, not as some freak to be humiliated, but as someone real. Someone seen. In his fantasies, they were together in the open, free from the poisonous stares of their peers. He pictured William's hand in his, firm and warm, guiding him through the crowded hallways like he belonged at his side. He imagined William's lips on his, soft and tender, a kiss that tasted of redemption and promises. In those moments, everything felt possible, even as his chest burned with the knowledge that it could never be.

Reality, though, had its way of intruding.

He knew that, no matter how much he longed for it, William was out of reach. The real William was the one who stood on the sidelines, watching with cool detachment as his friends tore James apart. The real William was the boy who had vandalized his car, who had sneered at him and made him feel smaller than dirt. And yet, James couldn't tear himself away from the fantasy. He clung to it like a drowning man grasping for air.

The days bled together, each one more painful than the last, but the thought of William remained a constant, gnawing at him like an incurable disease. James found himself doing anything to catch a glimpse of him—walking by his locker, lingering near his classes, pretending he didn't care when their eyes met across the cafeteria.

But there was never any kindness in those eyes. Only indifference.

And still, James couldn't stop himself. Even as Marcus shoved him into another locker, as Ethan laughed in his face, as Tyler spit venomous words in his ear—James' thoughts always drifted back to William. His captor. His obsession.

It didn't matter how much they hurt him. His feelings for William only grew, festering in the dark corners of his heart, until all that was left was a boy consumed by a love he could never have.