Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 40 | Only the beginning

Act II

THE PARTY HUMMED WITH the bass of some pop song, the sound too loud and too careless. Bodies moved in rhythmic waves, teenagers slipping in and out of the dim lights that flickered above the patio, drinks sloshing in plastic cups, and laughter blending into the beat. But there was something else in the air tonight, something that clung to the edges of the room like a shadow—tension. It stretched through the crowd, invisible but palpable, the kind that grew like a knot in the chest when things were about to go terribly wrong.

James could see it all so clearly. He stood at the periphery, watching from the darkness just beyond the party lights, his back pressed against the cool brick wall of the house. No one noticed him—why would they? He was a ghost now, slipping in and out of their world unnoticed. His presence wasn't meant to be felt tonight, not yet. His time would come, but for now, he was content to observe, to let them marinate in the false sense of security they carried so carelessly.

His eyes moved over the familiar faces, lingering for a long moment on William and his group of friends. The jocks, the tormentors, the boys who had made his life a living hell. Even from this distance, James could feel the shift in their dynamic. There was a jaggedness to them now, a fragility that hadn't been there before. Ethan's absence was like a crack in their armor, and the unease in their expressions betrayed them. William stood at the center, as he always did, but tonight he was different. His usual carefree grin was gone, replaced by something harder, darker.

James watched him closely, noting the way William's hand tightened around the neck of his beer bottle, his gaze distant, his jaw clenched. The blonde had dark circles under his eyes, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions. And yet, he was still trying—trying to maintain that image of indifference, trying to act like everything was fine. Like they could all just blow off some steam at this party and forget that one of their own was dead.

But James could see through it. He could see the fear in William's eyes, the fear that maybe, just maybe, Ethan's death wasn't an accident after all.

He watched them, detached and calculating, his heart beating with a strange, steady rhythm. He could feel the tension building inside him, a coiled spring that tightened with every passing second. Tonight, Trent would die. He'd already made the decision, and there was no turning back now. Trent was next, and this time, it would be personal.

James kept to the shadows, his eyes never leaving the group. Trent was already drunk, his loud, obnoxious laughter cutting through the air like a jagged knife. He was trying too hard tonight, the swagger in his step exaggerated, as if he needed to prove that nothing had changed. But James knew better. He could see the cracks in the facade, the insecurity that lingered beneath Trent's bravado. He was scared, just like the rest of them. They all were, even if they refused to admit it.

James' fingers brushed against the camera in his pocket, the familiar weight of the Polaroid comforting in his hand. He had brought it with him tonight for a reason. This kill would be different—more deliberate, more intimate. He wanted to remember it, to have something tangible to hold onto when it was all over. A trophy of sorts, something to remind him of the control he was gaining over his own life.

He waited, patient as a predator stalking its prey. The night dragged on, the music growing louder, the crowd more intoxicated. But James wasn't in any rush. He had all the time in the world. Trent would be his, and no one would stop him.

Finally, the moment came.

Trent, in his drunken stupor, wandered away from the crowd, staggering toward the back of the house where the pool glistened under the pale moonlight. James slipped into the darkness, following him silently, his heart hammering in his chest but his mind clear. The plan had formed so perfectly in his head, every detail mapped out with precision. And now, it was time to execute.

Trent leaned against the pool's edge, laughing to himself, the sound slurred and hollow. He was completely oblivious to the fact that death was creeping up behind him, that his life was about to end in the most brutal of ways. James stepped closer, his footsteps soft, almost inaudible against the gravel. His breath was steady, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

Trent never saw him coming.

In one swift motion, James grabbed Trent by the back of the neck and shoved his face into the water. The shock of it must have sobered him up instantly because Trent's body jerked, his arms flailing as he tried to break free. But James held him down, his grip iron-tight, his knuckles white with the force of it.

Trent's screams were muffled by the water, his body thrashing violently, his nails scraping against the cement as he tried desperately to claw his way free. James felt the panic radiating from him, the pure, animalistic terror as he realized what was happening. And in that moment, James felt nothing but satisfaction.

This was control. This was power.

For a brief second, Trent managed to pull his head above the water, gasping for air, his eyes wide with fear. "Please," he choked out, his voice hoarse, "don't—"

James didn't listen. He shoved Trent's head back under, harder this time, feeling the surge of adrenaline flood his veins. This wasn't like Ethan—Ethan had been quick, almost merciful in comparison. But Trent deserved this. He deserved every second of this agony.

The struggle went on longer than James had anticipated, but he didn't let up, his hands steady and relentless. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Trent's body began to still. The fight drained from him, his movements slowing, his arms going limp at his sides. James held him there for a moment longer, just to be sure.

Then it was over.

James let go, stepping back as Trent's lifeless body floated facedown in the pool, the water rippling softly around him. The night was eerily silent now, the distant hum of the party nothing more than a faint echo in the background.

James stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline. But inside, he felt calm. He felt... alive.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Polaroid camera, the smooth plastic cool against his skin. His fingers moved automatically, positioning the lens over the gruesome scene before him. The soft click of the shutter was almost comforting, the whir of the film sliding out of the camera like a gentle exhale. He waited for the image to develop, watching as the colors slowly bled onto the square of paper.

When it was done, he stared at the picture, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The Polaroid captured everything perfectly—Trent's body floating in the water, his limbs slack, his face just barely visible beneath the surface. It was beautiful in its own twisted way.

James tucked the picture into his jacket pocket, his heart still racing with the thrill of it all. He had done it again. He had killed Trent, and no one would ever know.

He walked away from the pool, blending back into the shadows as easily as he had come. No one would miss Trent until morning, and by then, James would be long gone.

As he slipped out of the party, the night air cool against his skin, James couldn't help but smile. He was in control now. And this was only the beginning.