Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 33 | The darkness inside him only grew

JAMES WOKE UP TO a stillness in the air that felt almost suffocating. The sun barely pierced through the curtains, casting long, thin shadows across his bedroom floor. His heart was pounding, but not with fear anymore. Today, there was only a focused intensity, a sense of cold, calm determination that coursed through him. The decision had been made. The plan would unfold.

He sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the fraying carpet beneath his feet. There was no more hesitation, no more self-doubt. The time for passivity was over. What he had endured—William's betrayal, the jeers, the taunts, the brutality—had all led him here, to this moment. He had tried to walk away before, to let it go, but the memories of his father and the violence he'd inflicted had unlocked something dark inside him, something irreparable. He couldn't escape who he was now, nor did he want to.

He dressed simply—dark jeans, a faded shirt, a jacket that hung loosely on his too-thin frame—and made his way out the door. His mother, ever oblivious to the storm swirling inside him, barely noticed as he left. He told her he was going to the library to study, and she didn't question it.

The town's library was small, an aging brick building with arched windows and a peeling sign out front. The smell of old books and dust hit him as soon as he walked inside, thick and musty, as if the air itself had been preserved for decades. For a moment, James stood in the entrance, scanning the dimly lit room. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with yellowing pages and brittle spines. A few people were scattered around, most of them older, hunched over books or newspapers, oblivious to his presence.

He approached the nearest shelf, trying to appear casual, though his pulse raced beneath the surface. He knew what he was looking for, but he had to be careful—no one could suspect what he was planning. He wandered the aisles at first, pretending to browse, as if he were just any other kid looking for a distraction on a lazy afternoon. But his eyes were scanning, searching for the section he needed.

True crime.

He found it tucked away near the back, an isolated corner where the shelves sagged under the weight of years of unsolved mysteries and forgotten tragedies. His fingers trailed along the spines, each title a potential roadmap to what he sought. He pulled out a few books—Murder in the Shadows, Cold Case Chronicles, Accidental Deaths and Perfect Crimes—and carried them to a secluded table by the window. No one paid him any mind, though he caught a few glances as he passed. He imagined they were the kind of people who saw him and thought trouble. But none of them had any idea.

The first book, Murder in the Shadows, was a collection of old cases—murders that had gone unsolved for decades. He flipped through the pages, skimming the details, absorbing the strategies, the mistakes made by killers who had been too reckless or too arrogant. Each case was a lesson, a blueprint of what not to do.

The second book, Cold Case Chronicles, focused on disappearances. People who had vanished without a trace, their bodies never found. It fascinated him, the way someone could be erased from existence, gone without a whisper. He read about a woman in the 1920s who had disappeared from a small town much like Elmwood Heights. She had been seen walking home from work one evening, but after that, nothing. Her husband had been a suspect, of course—he always was in these kinds of stories—but the police had found no evidence. It had taken ten years before someone found her remains buried in the woods, the body too decomposed for anyone to determine what had really happened. The killer had gotten away with it.

He made mental notes. Location was key. Timing mattered. Disposal was crucial.

Accidental Deaths and Perfect Crimes was the most useful. It was filled with stories of murders staged to look like accidents, deaths that had fooled even seasoned investigators. The one that caught his attention was a case from 1935—an elderly man who had been pushed down the stairs by his wife. She had claimed he had fallen after slipping on a loose carpet. The coroner had ruled it an accident, the bruises and broken bones attributed to the fall. No one had suspected foul play until the wife had drunkenly confessed years later. The simplicity of it intrigued James. The small, subtle things were often the most effective.

The idea began to form. Each death could look like something else. He wouldn't need to rely on brute force; there were quieter, more insidious ways to end a life. A car "accident." A fall from a height. Poison.

His mind swirled with the possibilities. He could imagine each of the jocks—Ethan, Trent, Marcus, Tyler, Joel—falling prey to one of these methods. Ethan, the loudest of them, always reckless and cocky, would never see it coming. A car crash could be easy enough to stage. Or maybe a fight that got out of hand. Trent, always so physical, could slip and fall somewhere isolated. Marcus—well, Marcus would need something special. Something that would make him suffer.

He was so deep in his thoughts, flipping through the pages, that he didn't notice the librarian eyeing him from across the room. She was older, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she watched him devour the pages of those books. He felt her gaze eventually, but by the time he looked up, she had turned away, focusing on another patron. His pulse quickened. He would have to be more careful. Too much time spent in this section would draw attention.

James closed the books slowly, placing them back on the shelf. He had what he needed, enough knowledge to get started. The details would come to him later—he was good at that, figuring things out when the time came. For now, the seed had been planted.

As he walked back toward the front of the library, he caught another odd glance from one of the patrons, a middle-aged man with thick glasses and a permanent scowl. The man's gaze lingered for a moment too long, and James felt a chill crawl up his spine. He forced himself to keep walking, keeping his face blank, as though he were just another boy with nothing to hide.

When he stepped outside, the sun was already beginning to set, casting the world in a dull orange glow. The evening air was cool, crisp, and for the first time in days, James felt something like relief. He had a plan now. No more guessing. No more fear.

As he made his way across the parking lot toward his car, his thoughts spun with the weight of the decision. He imagined each of their faces as they suffered, as the life drained from their bodies. He imagined the satisfaction that would come with each death. And then, there was William—always William. He wouldn't kill him, no. But he would make him watch. He would make him feel the guilt of it all. The weight of what he had set in motion.

He opened the door to his car, sliding inside. The leather seats were cold beneath him, but the cold no longer bothered him. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. The voices in his head, once a dull murmur, had grown louder, clearer.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it all begins.

He turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. As he drove away from the library, the lights of the town faded in his rearview mirror, but the darkness inside him only grew.