Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 39 | No turning back

JAMES HAD NEVER FELT so powerful. The rush of control surged through him with every breath, every thought, every step. Ethan's death had been a success—not a single person had even considered him a suspect. There were no suspicious glances, no whispers in the halls hinting at his involvement. The school was still reeling from the shock, but for James, it was a triumph. His first taste of revenge, and it was intoxicating. He could still feel the rush of adrenaline from that night, the satisfaction of knowing that he had finally done something—finally taken control of his fate.

He had killed Ethan, and it felt like the world had shifted beneath his feet. He was no longer a victim. He was no longer weak.

Now, it was time for his next move.

Trent.

The thought of Trent filled him with a dark, simmering rage. The memory of those sneering faces, the cruel laughter, the jeers that followed him everywhere he went—they had all been part of the same twisted game, but Trent had always been one of the worst. Ethan had been a target of convenience, the easiest one to isolate and eliminate first. But Trent? Trent was different. Trent was personal.

James had watched Trent for weeks, studying his every move. He learned his routines, knew the routes he took home, knew the places he liked to hang out. The jock moved through life as if he owned the world, oblivious to the fact that someone was always watching him. James relished the irony—Trent, so full of bravado, so sure of himself, would never know how close death was until it was too late.

But this time, James had to be more careful. He couldn't rely on the same method again. A knife was effective, yes, but too predictable, too messy. People would start to notice a pattern, and he couldn't afford that. No, this time he would have to be smarter, more creative. Trent's death would need to look like an accident, just like Ethan's. And there was only one place that made perfect sense: a party.

James overheard them talking about it—Trent, William, and the rest of their gang. They were planning to blow off steam at someone's house on the edge of town. Some rich kid's parents were out of town, and they were throwing one of those classic high school parties where the booze flowed freely and the music was loud enough to shake the walls. A perfect backdrop for what James had in mind.

A crowded house, dozens of drunk teenagers, music loud enough to drown out any sound of struggle. It was perfect. And the best part? Trent would never see it coming.

James spent days planning the details. He wouldn't just kill Trent. He would do it in a way that was undetectable, untraceable. He thought about poison at first, maybe slipping something into Trent's drink. But no, that would take too long. Too many things could go wrong. And besides, he wanted something more immediate—something that gave him control, but wouldn't lead back to him.

Then it came to him: drowning. Trent loved showing off, especially when it came to parties. James had seen him jump into pools, lakes, rivers, anything that would give him an excuse to flex his muscles in front of everyone. And there was a pool at this party house—an in-ground, Olympic-sized one. James could already picture it: Trent, wasted out of his mind, showing off for his friends. No one would notice if he had a little too much to drink and slipped beneath the surface.

No one would notice, except James.

The night of the party came faster than James had expected. He stared at himself in the mirror, the reflection looking back at him unfamiliar. His hair, usually messy and unkempt, was slicked back. His clothes, though plain, were clean and well-fitted. He almost looked like someone else, someone who belonged in a place like this. But the coldness in his eyes remained the same. His hands shook slightly as he pulled on his jacket, but it wasn't fear. No, it was anticipation. The same thrill that had coursed through him when Ethan begged for his life, the same dark satisfaction of knowing that he held someone else's fate in his hands.

He walked downstairs, moving silently through the house so as not to wake his mother. She had fallen asleep in front of the TV, as usual, a half-empty glass of wine still clutched in her hand. James hesitated for a moment, watching her from the shadows of the staircase. For a fleeting second, he wondered if she would care. Would she notice if he didn't come home tonight? Would she cry if she knew what he had done—what he was planning to do?

But the thought passed just as quickly as it came. He didn't care. She was irrelevant now, just another piece of the background. His mind was focused, sharp, the way it had been the night he killed Ethan. He wasn't just some scared, bullied kid anymore. He was in control.

The night air was crisp as James stepped outside, locking the door behind him. His car waited at the curb, the engine already humming quietly. He slid into the driver's seat, feeling the smooth leather beneath his fingers. The drive to the party felt longer than it actually was, his mind racing through all the possibilities, all the ways this night could unfold. But there was no room for mistakes. Not this time. Trent would die tonight, and it would be perfect.

As he pulled up to the house, the pounding bass of music thumped through the car windows. The party was already in full swing. Cars lined the street, and the glow of string lights cast long shadows across the lawn. James took a deep breath, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly for a moment before he forced himself to relax.

This was it.

He stepped out of the car, adjusting his jacket as he made his way toward the house. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for familiar faces. There were so many people here—laughing, drinking, completely unaware of the storm brewing just beneath the surface. He spotted a few classmates he recognized, but no one paid him any mind. They were all too absorbed in their own fun.

Good. That's how he wanted it.

The pool was in the backyard, just as he expected. A shimmering, dark-blue rectangle under the glow of patio lights. James circled around the house, keeping to the edges of the crowd as he moved toward the back. The music was deafening out here, even louder than inside, and the smell of alcohol and sweat filled the air. His pulse quickened as he neared the pool. He could already picture it—Trent's body sinking, his lungs filling with water, the panic in his eyes as he realized what was happening.

James spotted Trent near the edge of the pool, a drink in hand, laughing with a group of friends. His body moved with the exaggerated swagger of someone who had already had too much to drink. Perfect.

James melted into the crowd, staying just close enough to keep an eye on Trent, but far enough to avoid suspicion. He didn't need to rush. He had time. The night was still young, and no one was paying attention to him. He watched as Trent stumbled toward the pool, his friends egging him on, daring him to jump in. James smiled to himself. This would be easier than he thought.

He slipped a pair of gloves into his pocket, his heart pounding in his chest. Soon, it would be time.

As the night wore on and the crowd grew more intoxicated, James knew his moment was coming. Trent would be next, and James would make sure it was the perfect accident.

He walked back to his car, his mind alive with dark possibilities, as the sound of the party faded into the distance. His plan was already in motion, and there was no turning back.