Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 34 | The reckoning

MONDAY CAME WITH AN unsettling stillness, as if the world had paused to take a breath before plunging into something darker. The sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie, pale light across Elmwood Heights. The school loomed ahead, and James stood at its entrance, staring at the familiar brick walls and the clusters of students milling about the courtyard. His stomach twisted, but not from fear—something else churned within him, something colder. Today felt different, heavier.

The moment he stepped onto the school grounds, whispers fluttered through the crowd like a bitter wind. He felt the eyes on him—disbelief, confusion, and something else beneath the surface. The students had expected him to disappear after the humiliation, to fade into obscurity like all the other kids who couldn't take it. But James didn't run. He had returned, and not in the way they expected.

His face was a mask—emotionless, blank. Lifeless. The once bright and awkward boy had been replaced with someone unrecognizable, his eyes dark and hollow like two bottomless pits. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. No one dared approach him, not yet. They were too busy staring.

A few people muttered, half in shock, half in mockery. "Can't believe he actually showed his face again," one voice said from the side. Another followed, "Thought he'd be gone for good." James ignored them, his expression unchanging as he made his way toward the school building.

Inside, the familiar scent of old textbooks and polished floors filled the air. The fluorescent lights flickered above him, buzzing faintly. The usual bustling energy of Monday morning was subdued, though. He could sense it—something was off. The usual crowd of jocks that hounded him wasn't clustered in their usual spot, their laughter absent, their jeers muted. Something was missing.

James didn't need to ask to know what it was.

William isn't here.

It was almost impossible to imagine William, with his perfect dirty-blond hair and sharp eyes, not dominating the halls of the school. His presence had always been inescapable, like the sun casting its shadow over everything. But now, his absence felt strange, unnatural. James felt a flicker of something—concern? No, he couldn't afford that anymore. William was just another piece in this twisted game now.

As James approached his locker, the hushed murmurs grew louder. Heads turned, and eyes followed his every step. And then, he saw it.

His locker—covered in polaroid photos. Dozens of them, plastered haphazardly all over the metal door, some hanging crookedly, others taped on with jagged edges. They were from that night. The party. The images captured everything—his tear-streaked face, his clothes wrinkled and stained, his wide, panicked eyes as he ran from the room. One shot showed him mid-run, his body blurred in motion, fleeing from the scene like some pathetic prey. His humiliation immortalized in glossy paper for everyone to see.

Laughter broke out behind him—sharp and cruel, the sound of wolves circling their wounded prey. "Look at him!" a voice jeered. "He's still standing. Can't believe it!"

James' jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes forward, focusing on the polaroids. His breathing slowed, though the rage boiling inside him threatened to consume him whole. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but he refused to let it show. Not now. Not yet.

One polaroid caught his attention—a close-up of his face, his mouth open in a silent sob, eyes red and glistening. It was a perfect capture of his lowest moment, the moment when he had broken. He could hear them giggling behind him, their whispers venomous and sharp as they reveled in his pain.

But they didn't know. They had no idea what was coming.

He reached up and began pulling the photos off, one by one. The sound of the tape peeling away from the metal was the only thing he allowed himself to focus on. His fingers moved methodically, no hesitation, no shaking. As he removed each picture, he could hear the voices behind him growing louder, the laughter echoing in his ears like a twisted melody.

"Hey, faggot," a familiar voice called out from the back of the crowd, Ethan's voice. James didn't turn. "Did you miss these?" Another round of laughter followed, mean and mocking. James kept peeling the pictures, careful and deliberate.

His pulse quickened, but his face remained a blank canvas. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him crack. Not again.

Finally, he peeled the last photo off and crumpled them all in his fist, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the pile of pictures. His eyes stared straight ahead, dark and unreadable, while his mind churned beneath the surface. He could feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation in the air as they waited for a reaction, a slip, something to fuel their cruelty further.

But James didn't falter.

He tossed the crumpled pile of photos into the trash can beside his locker with a calmness that felt almost surreal. And then he turned, locking eyes with the group that had gathered behind him. His expression was cold, detached, as if the photos and the laughter meant nothing to him. Inside, though, the rage burned hotter with every second, a wildfire consuming everything in its path. But he held it in.

Soon, he reminded himself. Soon, they'll get what's coming to them.

Ethan and a few others exchanged glances, clearly unsettled by the lack of response. They expected him to cry, to lash out, to run away like he always had. But instead, James just stood there, silent, his gaze boring into them like a sharpened blade. The confidence in their sneers faltered, and for the first time, James could sense a flicker of doubt in their eyes.

"Not so fun when he doesn't break, huh?" James muttered, just loud enough for them to hear.

Ethan shifted uncomfortably, his smug grin faltering for a split second. "You're a freak, you know that?" he spat, but his voice lacked the same edge it usually carried.

James tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Yeah," he said quietly, his voice steady, calm. "But you haven't seen anything yet."

That seemed to rattle them. The tension in the air thickened, and for a moment, no one spoke. They didn't know what to make of this new version of James—this cold, unflinching version of the boy they thought they'd broken. It was as if they were looking at a stranger, someone they couldn't predict anymore.

Before anyone could respond, the bell rang, cutting through the silence. The crowd slowly dispersed, a few of them throwing James lingering, uneasy glances as they walked away. Ethan was the last to leave, still staring at James with narrowed eyes, trying to figure him out. But he, too, eventually turned and walked off, his bravado deflated.

James stood alone in the hallway for a few moments, letting the sounds of the school day wash over him. He could feel the pressure in his chest easing, the urge to snap and scream slowly receding. But the anger—no, the hatred—remained, simmering just beneath the surface.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He had to remain calm. There was no room for impulsiveness anymore. His plan was already in motion, and he couldn't afford any mistakes.

As he turned and walked toward his first class, his mind was already racing ahead, calculating, plotting. The jocks had no idea what was coming. And soon, very soon, they would pay for everything they'd done.

James smiled to himself as he walked down the hallway, blending into the crowd once again. But inside, his mind was a storm, and he could feel the countdown ticking away in his head.

Later, the reckoning would begin.