Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 36 | The first

JAMES COULD HEAR HIS own heartbeat, loud and steady, like the ticking of a bomb waiting to go off. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of floorboards beneath his feet and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He was close—too close now to turn back. Every fiber of his being screamed with a twisted sense of anticipation, the darkness that had coiled itself around his mind tightening its grip, urging him forward.

Ethan was oblivious. Still fumbling with his shoes, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch, completely unaware of the storm creeping up behind him. James' fingers tightened around the handle of the knife he had concealed in his bag, its cold, sleek surface sending a chill up his spine. He had chosen this carefully—something sharp, clean, effective. But not messy, no. He couldn't afford to be messy. Not yet.

Ethan turned toward the kitchen, humming some tune under his breath, his footsteps heavy and careless as he headed for the fridge. James followed, his movements silent, calculated. Like a predator stalking its prey, he moved with purpose, his breathing shallow, every nerve in his body buzzing with a violent hunger.

When Ethan finally turned around, his face still carrying the relaxed, bored expression of someone who had no idea what was about to happen, James was already behind him.

There was no warning.

The first stab came swift, the blade slicing through Ethan's side with a sickening sound, the sharp steel cutting through flesh and muscle as easily as a knife through butter. Ethan's eyes widened in shock, his body freezing for a split second before he let out a strangled gasp, clutching at his side as blood poured between his fingers. He stumbled backward, his face contorting in pain and confusion.

"Wh—what the fuc—" Ethan gasped, but James didn't let him finish.

The next blow came just as quick, this time to his stomach. The force of it drove the air from Ethan's lungs, his body folding in on itself as he crashed into the kitchen counter, knocking over a stack of dishes that shattered on the floor. James stood over him, his eyes dark, unfeeling, watching as Ethan's blood began to pool on the tiled floor, his hands trembling as he tried to hold himself together.

Ethan's breathing became ragged, his voice weak and desperate as he looked up at James, his face pale with shock. "Please—" he choked out, the word barely more than a whisper. "Please... don't..."

James paused for a moment, the sound of Ethan's begging hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread. For a split second, he almost felt something—a flicker of hesitation, of doubt. But it was quickly swallowed by the cold, hard rage that had been festering inside him for so long. This was what he had come here to do. This was what Ethan deserved.

"I begged," James said, his voice low, cold. "I begged too. Did you care?"

Ethan's mouth opened, but no words came out. His face was pale, his eyes wide and glassy with fear, the reality of what was happening finally sinking in. His lips moved, forming silent words, pleas for mercy, but James wasn't listening anymore.

The knife plunged down again, this time into Ethan's chest, the blade sinking deep into his flesh with a nauseating squelch. Ethan's body convulsed, his legs kicking weakly as blood gushed from the wound, his eyes rolling back in his head. He let out a choking sob, his hands clutching at James, trying in vain to push him away.

James felt Ethan's blood on his hands, warm and slick, but it didn't register. He was lost in the act, in the brutality of it. Every stab, every twist of the knife, felt like releasing years of pent-up anger, every insult, every beating, every humiliating moment flashing before his eyes. Ethan's face, twisted in agony, became a blur of all of them—every jock, every tormentor, every person who had ever made him feel worthless.

The knife hit bone, and James gritted his teeth, twisting the blade with a sickening crunch before pulling it out. Ethan gurgled, blood spilling from his mouth as his body convulsed violently on the floor, his hands twitching in a futile attempt to fight back. But it was over.

Ethan's body slumped, his chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths, his eyes wide with shock and pain. He wasn't dead—not yet. But he was close. Very close.

James knelt down beside him, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps as he stared down at the dying boy beneath him. Ethan's eyes fluttered, his lips parting in a final, desperate attempt to speak, but only blood came out, a thick, dark stream that stained his chin and the floor beneath him.

James watched, almost fascinated, as the life drained from Ethan's eyes, his body going limp, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps before finally—finally—falling still.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still with him. The only sound was the soft dripping of blood onto the floor, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. James stared down at the lifeless body at his feet, his chest heaving, his mind numb.

He didn't feel triumphant. He didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel... anything.

He stood there, his hands covered in blood, the knife slick and dripping in his grasp, and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was what revenge was supposed to feel like. If this hollow, empty feeling was what he had been searching for all along.

But there was no time for reflection.

He had to make it look like an accident.

James moved quickly, methodically, the voices in his head guiding him as he wiped the knife clean, placing it back in his bag. He stepped over Ethan's body, careful not to leave footprints in the blood as he grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, dragging it over to the spot where Ethan had collapsed.

He took a deep breath, steadying his trembling hands as he lifted Ethan's lifeless body, propping him up in the chair. His limbs were heavy, limp, like a ragdoll, but James worked quickly, positioning him in such a way that it looked as if he had slumped over, his head hanging to one side, his hand resting on the table beside a now-empty bottle of whiskey James had taken from the cabinet.

It had to look right. It had to look believable.

He stepped back, surveying his work with cold detachment. Ethan looked like he had passed out, drunk and clumsy, knocking over the glass that now lay shattered on the floor. The blood was there, yes, but it could be explained away. A drunken fall, a broken bottle, a tragic accident.

James wiped his hands on a dish towel, carefully avoiding the worst of the bloodstains as he moved around the room, erasing any trace of himself from the scene. He wiped the knife handle, the counter, the doorframe, anything he might have touched in the chaos of it all. It had to be clean. It had to be perfect.

When he was satisfied, he stood there for a moment, staring down at Ethan's lifeless body, his heart thudding in his chest. He felt... nothing. No guilt, no regret. Only a cold, quiet sense of completion.

This was just the beginning.

With one last glance at the scene, James turned and walked out of the house, closing the door softly behind him. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, the darkness wrapping around him like a familiar friend.

He slid into the driver's seat of his car, his hands still shaking slightly as he started the engine. The voices were quiet now, satisfied, content. He had done it.

As he pulled away from the curb, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror, James felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. The adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin, but it was different now. Controlled. Directed.

This was just the first.