Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 37 | There was no going back

JAMES EASED THE FRONT door shut with painstaking care, his breath held tight in his chest as the latch clicked into place. The house was eerily still, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp in the living room. His mother must have left it on for him, probably assuming he'd stayed out late for some school event—something normal. Something innocent. The irony of it made his stomach churn.

The silence was almost oppressive. Every creak of the floorboard beneath his feet sounded louder than it had any right to be, like the house itself was protesting his return. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin prickling with the feeling that, at any moment, the calm would shatter, and his mother would step out of the shadows, eyes wide with horror at the sight of him.

Blood was caked on his hands, crusted under his nails. It had dried in splotches across his clothes, staining his shirt and jeans in a way that looked almost innocent—like spilled paint, if you didn't know what it really was. But the smell was unmistakable. Metallic, sharp, heavy. It clung to him like a second skin, and it made him sick to his stomach, the reality of what he'd done pressing down on him with brutal force.

He swallowed hard and moved quickly, slipping through the hallway like a ghost, his movements careful and deliberate. His mother's bedroom door was closed, a thin sliver of light from the hallway creeping in under the frame. Good. She was asleep. He couldn't afford to wake her, not like this. Not with blood on his hands.

His fingers trembled as he pushed open the bathroom door, closing it just as gently behind him before flicking the light on. The harsh white glow flickered to life, illuminating his reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the boy staring back at him.

His face was pale, almost ghostly, his eyes wide and hollow, like someone had drained all the life out of him and left behind a shell. His hair was matted, strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. But the worst part was the blood. It was smeared across his cheek, a dark smear that stood out against the pallor of his skin, splattered like crimson paint. The sight of it made something twist in his gut, and he turned away from the mirror with a shudder, focusing on the task at hand.

The clothes had to go first.

He peeled off his jacket, grimacing as the fabric clung to his skin. The blood had soaked through, sticky and dark, leaving patches of red along the sleeves and collar. His shirt was worse. The front of it was soaked, the once-white fabric now a mottled mess of crimson and brown, the blood having dried in uneven patches across his chest. It was grotesque, but it was the price of what he'd done.

James dropped the shirt into the sink, turning the faucet on full blast, the water hissing as it hit the porcelain. It took a second before the water ran clear—before the red stains swirling down the drain turned back to pale. He scrubbed at the shirt, using a bar of soap and scrubbing hard, harder than he needed to, until his knuckles turned white. He had to get it clean. No evidence. No mistakes.

The water was warm, almost scalding, but it didn't matter. He had to get rid of it—every trace, every drop of blood. He rinsed the shirt over and over, scrubbing with a single-minded intensity until the blood finally began to fade from the fabric. The water in the sink was dark, swirling in an almost hypnotic way, and for a second, James couldn't look away. The blood in the water reminded him of Ethan's eyes—wide and panicked, begging for mercy.

"Focus," he whispered to himself, shaking the memory out of his head.

Next were his jeans, the thick denim stubborn as he tried to rinse away the stains. He worked in a silent frenzy, the sound of the running water and the soft scrubbing of fabric the only things filling the small, tiled room. His mind was racing, running through a checklist of everything that needed to be done, every step he had to take to cover his tracks. He had rehearsed it in his head a thousand times before. Now, it was all about execution.

Once the clothes were soaking in the sink, he turned his attention to himself. The blood on his hands was sticky, drying in the creases of his palms, under his nails. His fingers were shaking, the adrenaline still coursing through him, making everything feel heightened and surreal.

He scrubbed at his skin with soap, the scent of lavender and chemicals filling the air. He scrubbed until his hands were raw, the skin red and irritated, but he couldn't stop. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ethan's face—twisted in agony, his voice hoarse and broken as he had begged for his life. The memory of it sent a chill down James' spine, but there was no room for guilt. Not now.

He wiped at the blood on his face, the dark smudge on his cheek fading under the pressure of the washcloth. His reflection in the mirror started to look a little more like himself, though his eyes still held that emptiness, that hollow look that made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.

When he was finally done, he looked down at the sink. The water was murky, tainted with the remnants of blood and soap, the evidence of what he'd done swirling down the drain. It was almost symbolic, watching it all wash away—like he could somehow erase it, make it disappear. But he knew better.

There would be no forgetting this.

The clothes, now rinsed and wrung out, would need to be hidden. He carefully bundled them up, wringing the excess water out before shoving them deep into the laundry hamper beneath a pile of old towels. He'd deal with them later, maybe even burn them. But for now, they were out of sight, hidden away where no one would find them.

He paused by the bathroom door, his hand resting on the doorknob, listening for any sign of his mother. The house was still quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway. He opened the door just a crack, peeking out into the hallway. No movement. No voices.

She was still asleep.

James slipped out of the bathroom and made his way back to his room, the floor creaking under his feet with every careful step. He couldn't afford to be careless now. Not after everything he'd done. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching with the weight of his actions, the toll it had taken on him both physically and mentally.

When he finally made it to his bedroom, he closed the door softly behind him, locking it with a click. The darkness of the room swallowed him whole, the familiar scent of his sheets and the soft glow of the moon through the window doing little to calm the storm brewing inside him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his hands still shaking, though now from exhaustion more than anything else. The room was quiet, almost suffocatingly so, the only sound the shallow rise and fall of his own breath. His mind was racing, replaying the events of the night over and over again like a broken record, but he forced himself to push it down, to bury it deep inside where it couldn't reach him.

He had done it. He had killed Ethan. And now, there was no going back.

As he lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he thought of what came next. There were still more names on his list. More people who deserved to pay for what they had done to him. And now that the first one was out of the way, the rest would be easier. It had to be.

But tonight, for just a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes.