Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 45 | The image burned into his mind

THE NIGHT WAS EERILY quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides, suffocating, as though the world itself was holding its breath. James stood in the shadows, a mere wraith among the trees, watching with an intensity that burned behind his cold, expressionless face. His heart pounded with a calm rhythm, steady, unlike the racing beat of his previous kills. This time, it wasn't a frantic rush; it was calculated, deliberate.

Joel had been an easy target. Too easy, really. He was quieter than the others, not as brash as Marcus, or as cruel as Trent had been. That's why James chose him—he wouldn't be missed the same way, at least not by the same crowd. Joel was background noise, the friend who stood just a little too far behind to catch anyone's attention, except for William's, of course. William cared about them all in his own twisted, shallow way.

Joel was walking home from a late-night shift at the gas station. He had no car, no one to pick him up. A loner, much like James in that respect. His figure was barely visible in the dim streetlights, his posture hunched under the weight of a heavy backpack. It was Joel's routine—a long shift, a tired walk home along the same path, every single night. Predictable. Too predictable.

James waited for the perfect moment, his breath coming in slow, controlled inhales as he traced Joel's every step. He'd studied him for days, learning his patterns, his weaknesses. Tonight, it was all about precision.

The plan was different this time. He couldn't use the knife again—too sloppy, too easily traced back to the last murder, or water, because that was too obvious. James needed to make this one seem... smarter, more creative. But it would also be far, far more painful. He had to be. There was a slow burn of cruelty building in him now, an insatiable need to make this death more agonizing, a deeper form of suffering.

Joel turned a corner onto a stretch of road lined with abandoned factories. It was isolated, forgotten by time—just like Joel himself. The perfect place. James followed closely now, his footsteps silent, invisible.

In one swift movement, he lunged from behind, clamping a hand over Joel's mouth and dragging him into the alleyway. Joel struggled, his muffled screams cutting through the air, but James was stronger, fueled by months of pent-up rage and obsession. He slammed Joel against the concrete wall, the sound of bone meeting stone reverberating in the night.

"Shh," James whispered coldly, his voice barely a breath, "Don't fight."

Joel's eyes widened in terror, his pupils dilated as the pain began to set in. He tried to scream again, but James tightened his grip, squeezing until Joel's face flushed red from the lack of oxygen.

James had come prepared tonight. He pulled out a coil of thick wire from his pocket, gleaming faintly in the darkness, and with swift, practiced movements, he wrapped it tightly around Joel's wrists, pinning them together behind his back. Joel's breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, his body trembling violently against the wall.

"Please..." Joel choked out, his voice barely audible. "Please... don't..."

But James was already far beyond reason. He didn't hear the pleas; he didn't care. He was in control now.

Instead of the knife, James reached into his bag and pulled out a small, portable blowtorch. He had planned this meticulously, even rehearsed it in his mind. He didn't want Joel's death to be quick; he wanted it to be slow, agonizing.

The small flame flickered to life, casting an eerie glow across the alley. Joel's eyes widened in horror as he saw the torch in James' hand, his body jerking violently against the restraints.

"No!" Joel screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "Please, gosh, no!"

But James' face remained impassive, his gaze cold and distant. He brought the flame closer to Joel's arm, letting the heat lick at his skin before pressing the full force of the torch against it. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, thick and acrid, as Joel's screams tore through the night like a wild animal in agony.

James watched, detached, as the skin blistered and blackened under the flame, his hand steady, his mind eerily calm. The sound of Joel's screams faded into the background, drowned out by the blood pounding in James' ears. He was in control. He was power.

He kept the torture going for what felt like an eternity, burning through flesh, muscle, sinew—each burst of pain sending Joel deeper into a state of delirium. By the time James finished, Joel was barely conscious, his body twitching in spasms of agony.

But the real killing blow hadn't come yet.

James crouched down beside Joel, his voice barely a whisper, "I could have made this quick. But you... you deserved to suffer."

With that, James stood up, pulling out a thin, sharpened length of wire from his pocket. He wrapped it around Joel's throat, slowly tightening it, feeling the wire dig into flesh, cutting into skin and muscle with agonizing precision. Joel's body convulsed, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as the wire sliced deeper.

James pulled tighter, watching Joel's face turn a sickly shade of purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets, blood vessels bursting in his cheeks. Joel's hands twitched helplessly behind his back, trying in vain to free himself from the wire, but James was merciless.

Finally, with one last violent jerk of the wire, it cut through Joel's throat completely, severing the arteries and leaving him gurgling in his own blood.

James stood back, breathing heavily, his heart pounding with exhilaration. He had done it. Again.

Before leaving, James took out his camera, the familiar weight of the Polaroid cold in his hands. He snapped a picture of Joel's mutilated body, the blood pooling around him in a grotesque halo. The camera whirred softly, and a moment later, the photograph slid out.

James tucked the Polaroid into his pocket, a keepsake—proof of his growing control over his fate, over life and death. He had become the master of his own destiny, and no one, not even William, could take that away from him.

Hours later, a man named Tom Jenkins, who had taken a shortcut home after a long shift at the local diner, stumbled upon the body. He had been walking down the alleyway, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion, when he saw something lying crumpled against the wall.

At first, he thought it was just a pile of trash, some drunk passed out in the corner. But as he got closer, the sickly smell hit him—blood and burnt flesh. He froze in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat.

"Oh, crap," Tom muttered, his voice shaking as he realized what he was looking at. "Oh, my, no."

He fumbled for his phone, his hands trembling as he dialed 911.

"There's... there's a body," he stammered, his voice barely holding together. "I—I think someone's been murdered..."

By the time the police arrived, the scene was swarming with officers and forensic teams. Tom sat on the curb, his hands still shaking, his face pale as the officer questioned him.

"You were the one who found the body?" the cop asked, his voice steady.

"Yeah," Tom replied, his voice hoarse. "I—I was just walking home, and... Jesus, I don't even know what I saw."

The officer gave him a sympathetic nod. "Did you know the victim?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Never seen him before."

The cop scribbled something in his notepad, then looked back at Tom. "Well, we'll need a full statement from you down at the station. For now, just sit tight."

Tom glanced around, his eyes catching on the white sheet now covering the body. He shuddered, the image burned into his mind.