Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 44 | One step closer

JAMES STOOD IN FRONT of the bathroom mirror, staring blankly at his reflection. The dim light flickered slightly, casting shifting shadows over his face. His eyes were hollow, dark circles etched beneath them like bruises, and his skin was pale, almost ghostly. He could still feel the remnants of adrenaline buzzing in his veins, the memory of Trent's blood staining his hands, his clothes, his mind.

He had washed it all away—the evidence, the smell, the gore—but it clung to him like a second skin. The violent thrill had come and gone, replaced by something colder, more unsettling. A growing sense of emptiness gnawed at him, but it was dulled, like a static buzz in the background. The only thing that still lit a spark in him was William.

William Carlisle.

His thoughts drifted back to the blonde, the way their eyes had locked across the hallway earlier that day. There had been something there—something in William's gaze that had drawn him in, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was enough to keep him going. Enough to keep him focused. But the distance between them only fueled the dark obsession that had taken root in his mind.

The door creaked open behind him, and his mother's soft voice broke through the fog.

"Jamie?" Her voice was tentative, almost nervous, like she was afraid of what she might find. "Are you okay?"

James blinked, snapping out of his reverie. He glanced at her through the reflection in the mirror, his expression unreadable. "I'm fine."

His mother stepped further into the room, her brow furrowed with concern. "You don't seem fine," she said, her voice laced with worry. "You've been... distant lately. You barely talk to me anymore. Is something going on?"

James turned around slowly, his gaze meeting hers. He could see the exhaustion etched into her features, the lines around her eyes deeper than he remembered. She looked tired, worn down, like the weight of years had suddenly caught up with her. For a brief moment, guilt flickered inside him, but it was quickly swallowed by the void.

"I'm just tired," he said, his voice flat. "School's been a lot."

His mother crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Tired doesn't explain the way you've been acting. You come home late, you lock yourself in your room, and when you do talk to me, it's like you're not even here."

James stiffened, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever.

"I told you, I'm fine," he repeated, his tone sharper this time. "Just drop it."

She didn't drop it. She moved closer, her voice softening but still persistent. "Jamie... I'm your mother. I can tell when something's wrong. Please, just talk to me. Whatever it is, we can figure it out."

James felt a surge of irritation rising in his chest, a burning anger that threatened to break through the thin veneer of calm he had been holding onto. He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand.

"Nothing's wrong," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing. "I'm fine."

His mother flinched slightly at the harshness in his voice, but she didn't back down. "I don't believe you," she said, her voice trembling just a little. "You're not the same anymore. I can see it. You've changed."

James' chest tightened, his pulse quickening. His mind flashed back to that night—his father's drunken rage, the way his fists had swung wildly, the crack of bone against flesh. He had changed, yes. He had been forced to change. He had no choice. He had learned to fight back, to survive, and now... now he had taken control. Completely.

But his mother didn't know that. She couldn't know. She didn't need to know.

"People change, Mom," he said, his voice cold and detached. "That's life."

She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for something—anything—that might give her a clue as to what was really going on. But James gave her nothing. His expression was a blank slate, a wall she couldn't breach.

"Jamie, please—"

"I said drop it!" he snapped, his voice rising with anger. The sudden outburst startled her, and she took a step back, her eyes wide with shock.

There was a heavy silence that hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken words. James could see the hurt in her eyes, the way her face had crumpled ever so slightly, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the faintest twinge of regret. But it was gone just as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold, numbing detachment that had become his constant companion.

His mother blinked, swallowing hard. "I'm just... worried about you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're my son, Jamie. I love you. I don't want to lose you."

James stared at her, his face unreadable. "You won't."

But even as he said the words, he knew they were hollow. He had already lost himself. Whatever she was holding onto was a version of him that no longer existed.

After a long, tense moment, his mother sighed and turned away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Goodnight, Jamie," she murmured, her voice heavy with sadness.

James watched her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, his mind churning with thoughts he couldn't quite grasp. His mother's words echoed in his head, but they felt distant, like they were coming from somewhere far away.

He didn't have time for this. He didn't have time for guilt or regret. He had a plan, a purpose, and he couldn't let anything distract him from that. Not even his mother.

Especially not his mother.

He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with empty eyes. He was a shell, hollowed out by the choices he had made, by the blood that now stained his soul. But there was one thing that still held him together, one thing that kept him grounded.

William.

The thought of him sent a shiver down James' spine, a twisted mix of desire and obsession curling inside him. William was the only thing that mattered now. The only thing that gave him any sense of purpose. The others—the ones he had killed and the ones who were still on his list—they were just obstacles. Pawns in a game he was playing to win.

But William... William was different. He was the prize. The endgame.

James clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He could feel the pull of his obsession growing stronger with each passing day, consuming him, driving him further into the darkness. And he welcomed it. He embraced it. Because in that darkness, there was power. There was control.

And control was all he had left.

His relationship with his mother had become strained beyond repair, but he didn't care. He didn't need her anymore. He didn't need anyone.

All he needed was William.

With that thought firmly planted in his mind, James turned away from the mirror and walked toward his bedroom. The world outside was spinning in chaos—police investigations, panicked students, teachers whispering in hushed tones—but none of it mattered. Not to him.

He had a plan. He had a purpose.

And soon, they would all see just how far he was willing to go.

As James lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, his mind drifted to William once again. He could see his face, his eyes—those mismatched eyes that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. He could feel the pull, the magnetic force that drew him closer, even as the world around them crumbled.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, I'll be one step closer.

And with that, James closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him once more.