Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 31 | Something dangerous

JAMES SAT IN HIS room, the curtains drawn tightly, blocking out any sliver of light. The world outside no longer existed for him; it had become a ghost, irrelevant, as if the universe had crumbled beyond the confines of his four walls. His room was cold and stifling, the air thick with the weight of all the emotions that had been festering inside him for days now—anger, humiliation, heartache.

His mother had knocked earlier, asking him to come downstairs, to eat something. He hadn't answered. He hadn't moved. The mere thought of engaging with her, with anyone, felt like dragging himself through broken glass. She knocked again later, her voice softer, tinged with worry. But he'd grown used to her concern. It always came in waves—strong at first, then fading quickly. That was how she'd been with his father. She'd cared... but not enough to stop anything.

The voices had taken over now, drowning out any sense of rationality, any semblance of the James he used to be. He didn't fight them anymore. He welcomed them, let them swirl in his head, like a dark, seductive storm that offered clarity in its madness.

They'll never stop, James. Not until you do something about it.

The voice was quiet, but sharp, a needle pressing into his thoughts.

They deserve it. Every last one of them.

The paper in front of him was blank at first, a canvas waiting to be filled. His hand hovered above it, pen poised between his fingers, trembling slightly with the anticipation of what he was about to do. The tip of the pen finally touched the paper, and with slow, deliberate strokes, he began to write.

Ethan.

The first name on the list.

He could see Ethan's face clearly in his mind—the cocky smirk, the sneer of superiority, the way his eyes lit up whenever he was about to hurt someone. Ethan had been one of the worst, one of the ringleaders, always eager to throw the first punch, to hurl the cruelest insult. The memory of Ethan's fist colliding with his face during one of their many beatings flashed in his mind. The sting, the crack of bone against bone, the way his body had crumpled to the ground as Ethan had laughed.

Trent.

Next.

Trent had always been right beside Ethan, like some twisted shadow. He didn't say much, but his actions spoke louder than words. Trent's fists were just as vicious, his kicks just as brutal. He never hesitated, never held back, as if hurting James was some kind of sport. He remembered the way Trent had spat at him after one particularly savage beating, the way he had looked down at James like he was nothing more than dirt under his shoe.

Marcus. Joel. Tyler.

The names flowed out of him now, like poison dripping from a wound. Each name brought a face, a memory, a scar etched into his mind. He could see them all clearly—how they had laughed, how they had watched as he was torn apart, piece by piece, day after day. The humiliation they had subjected him to, the constant degradation, the way they had turned his existence into a living hell.

And then... William.

His hand paused, the pen hovering above the page, his breath catching in his throat. William's name hung there in his mind, like a specter, a shadow that refused to be erased. The boy who had kissed him just to mock him, who had broken his heart with the same lips James had so longed to taste. His feelings for William were a tangled, twisted mess of desire, love, and hatred. Even now, after everything, there was a part of him—some dark, cruel part of him—that still loved William. That still ached for him.

He stared at the page, his hand trembling. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to write William's name. To add him to the list, to take him down with the rest of them. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. Because a part of him, the part that had been in love with William for so long, still believed there was something redeemable in him. That somewhere beneath the cruelty, the mocking smile, the hatred—there was something more. Something that could love him back.

He couldn't kill William. Not yet.

No, he wouldn't kill him at all.

Because the cruelest punishment would be letting him live. Letting him watch as all of his friends, his pack of wolves, were picked off one by one. Letting him carry the guilt of knowing that James had done it, that his torment had driven James to murder. He wanted William to feel the weight of it, to know that he was the reason they were gone. To know that he could have stopped it.

But he wouldn't.

James pressed the pen to the paper again, his hand steady now, as he wrote the final words at the top of the page:

They will pay.

He stared at the list, the names carved into the paper like scars. His heart beat steadily in his chest, a slow, deliberate rhythm, matching the cold, methodical thoughts now swirling in his head. The anger, the rage—it was still there, but it had morphed into something sharper, more focused. It was no longer a chaotic storm raging inside him. It was a blade. Clean. Precise. Ready to cut through everything in its path.

The voices whispered their approval, dark and insidious, but comforting. They guided him now, telling him what to do, how to do it. They promised him relief, promised him that once the list was complete, he would finally be free.

You've already done it once, James. You know how to make it look like an accident.

The thought was like a spark, igniting something deep inside him. His father's death. The memory was distant, buried under layers of time and denial, but it came rushing back now, vivid and raw. His father, drunk and stumbling, the stench of whiskey clinging to him as he had raged, as he had hit and hit and hit. The way James had watched, had waited, until the moment was right. The way he had hit him, watched him fall, watched him break, and then made it look like a tragic accident.

He could do it again.

He would do it again.

James stood, the list clutched tightly in his hand, his fingers white-knuckled as he stared at it. This was it. His plan. His revenge. His salvation. He would make them pay for everything they had done to him. For the way they had broken him, for the way they had laughed as they tore him apart.

And when it was over, when the blood was spilled, he would leave William standing alone. Alone with the knowledge that it was his fault. That he had been the catalyst, the spark that had ignited this fire.

James folded the list carefully, tucking it into his pocket. His hands were steady now, his mind clearer than it had been in weeks. The voices had quieted, satisfied for now, waiting for the moment when they would be unleashed again.

He turned to the mirror on his wall, catching his own reflection. The bruises from the last beating had faded, but the scars inside were deeper, permanent. His eyes were hollow, dark shadows under them, his face pale and gaunt from the lack of sleep, from the isolation. But there was something else there now. Something colder. Something dangerous.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he stared at himself.