Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 32 | Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it begins

JAMES LAY MOTIONLESS ON his bed, the room steeped in suffocating darkness. The only sound was the slow, steady rhythm of his own breath, but in his mind, it was chaos—a storm of memories rising from the depths, pulling him under. He could feel the familiar sting of fists, the laughter, the taunts from his old school, swirling like shadows, pulling him back to the day everything had snapped.

He had thought Elmwood Heights would be different. He had hoped, for once, that he could escape the relentless torment that had followed him all his life. But it was no different here. It never was. People like him—people who didn't fit into the neat little boxes society made for them—were always hunted. Hated.

It started to bubble up inside him, that old familiar rage, the one that had been ignited long before the incident at William's party, long before he had even stepped foot in Elmwood. It had started there, in the halls of his previous school, where every day had been a waking nightmare.

He closed his eyes, and the memory came back, vivid and sharp.

The sting of concrete against his back. The echo of cruel laughter bouncing off the walls of the schoolyard. They were surrounding him again, just like they always did—boys bigger than him, boys with fists made of iron and hearts made of stone. He had tried to fight back once, tried to stand tall, but they had broken him down. They always did.

"Faggot," one of them had spat as his fist connected with James' ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. "You're disgusting."

Another kick, this time to his stomach. He had curled in on himself, hands covering his face, hoping to protect what little dignity he had left. But there was no protection. Not from them. Not from the world. The pain had been searing, but it was the words that hurt more.

"You should be grateful we're even touching you, freak."

The hits had rained down, one after another, until the edges of his vision blurred, and all he could do was lie there, waiting for it to end. He had no one. No one to stand up for him. His mother wasn't there to protect him, and his father... well, his father only made things worse.

When he had finally dragged himself home that day, bruised and battered, blood seeping from a cut on his lip, the last thing he had expected was another beating waiting for him inside. But that's exactly what he got.

James remembered the way the door had creaked as he pushed it open, his body aching with every movement. The house had been eerily quiet, but the smell of whiskey was thick in the air. His stomach churned at the scent, a familiar dread settling deep in his bones. His father was home. Drunk, no doubt, as always.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father's voice had slurred from the living room.

James had tried to slip past, hoping to make it to his room before his father noticed the bruises, the blood. But it was too late.

"You're late," his father had growled, staggering toward him. His eyes had been bloodshot, wild with a mix of anger and alcohol. "What the hell happened to your face?"

James didn't answer. There was no point. He had learned long ago that anything he said would only make things worse. He stood there, frozen, as his father's gaze raked over him, taking in the bruises, the split lip. His father's expression twisted with disgust.

"Pathetic," he had sneered, stepping closer. "You let them beat you up, didn't you? You didn't even fight back. God, you're such a weakling. Can't believe I have to call you my son."

The words had stung, cutting deeper than the fists of the bullies ever could. James had felt something inside him snap, like a rubber band stretched too thin. He had clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard they left crescent-shaped marks.

"I-I tried," James had whispered, his voice barely audible. But it was a mistake. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Tried?" His father's voice had risen, his face twisting with rage. "Tried? You're useless! Always have been. I should've beaten the fight into you a long time ago. You'd rather lie there and take it, like a—"

The back of his father's hand had come down hard across James' face, sending him stumbling into the wall. Pain exploded across his cheek, but something else exploded inside him—something dark, something furious.

"Stand up!" his father had shouted, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him to his feet. James had barely had time to react before the next punch landed, this time to his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air, but his father didn't stop.

"You're not even worth the space you take up in this house," his father had growled, his fists coming down like hammers. "You think you can go out there and be weak? You think you can let them walk all over you?"

Another punch. Another crack of bone against bone.

James had tasted blood, the metallic tang flooding his mouth. He had staggered, his vision swimming, but in that moment, something in him changed. He wasn't going to lie there and take it anymore. Not from his father. Not from anyone.

The next time his father raised his fist, James had moved. He had ducked, his body moving on instinct, and his father's fist had connected with the wall instead. There was a sickening crunch as his knuckles shattered against the plaster, and his father had howled in pain.

James hadn't stopped to think. He hadn't stopped to consider the consequences. All he had known was that he wasn't going to take it anymore.

His hands had found the nearest object—a glass bottle, half-empty with whiskey—and before he knew what he was doing, he had swung it. The bottle had shattered against the side of his father's head, sending shards of glass and liquor flying through the air.

His father had collapsed, blood pouring from the wound on his head, his body twitching on the ground.

James had stood there, staring at the scene in front of him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The rage had drained out of him all at once, leaving him empty. Hollow.

His father hadn't moved.

It had taken him a moment to realize what he had done. To understand that the man lying on the floor, bleeding out, wasn't going to get up again.

He was dead.

The memory of it washed over James now, as vivid as the day it had happened. He could still smell the whiskey, still hear the sickening thud of the bottle against his father's skull. And the look on his mother's face when she had come home—when she had found them both there, James standing over his father's body, covered in blood.

She hadn't asked questions. She had sobbed. She had cried out, but she hadn't asked why. That was the kind of woman she was—too afraid to ask the questions that would tear everything apart. She had accepted the story, the lie James had crafted so carefully. That his father had tripped, fallen, hit his head. A drunken accident. The perfect cover.

James had gotten away with it once. He could get away with it again.

His hands trembled now as he sat at his desk, the memories fueling the fire that burned inside him. The rage was a living thing, coiling and uncoiling in his chest, hungry for release. He had let it build for too long. He had allowed them to push him, humiliate him, break him down piece by piece. But no more.

Tomorrow, it would begin. Tomorrow, he would make them all pay.

His mind raced, his thoughts sharpening into a plan. He would need to be careful, methodical. He couldn't make a mistake. He couldn't afford to slip up. If he was going to do this, he had to do it right.

He would go to the library. Research. Look up past murders, deaths, accidents. Learn from the mistakes of others. He would make sure everything was perfect—every detail, every move, calculated with precision.

And when the time came, when the moment was right, he would strike. One by one, they would fall.

And William... William would watch it all happen. He would be left with the guilt, the weight of knowing that he could have stopped it. That it was his fault.

James smiled darkly to himself as he closed his eyes, the voices whispering their approval.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it begins.