The sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting faint rays across James' room, painting it in a quiet glow. The chaos of last night seemed like a distant memory. The floor, once strewn with broken objects and shattered pieces of his world, now looked pristine. Everything was back in its place: his bed was made perfectly, the books stacked neatly on his desk, and the floor spotless, as if no storm had ever swept through it. The room appeared, at least on the surface, to be untouched—like nothing had ever happened.
James lay in his bed, still in the same clothes from the night before, his face turned away from the light, his body curled beneath the covers. His alarm clock blinked insistently on the nightstand, but James remained unmoving. His breathing was shallow, slow, as if he hadn't heard the alarm at all.
Downstairs, Mrs. Conor was in the kitchen, her hands shaking slightly as she prepared breakfast. She had barely slept, her mind consumed with the echoes of last night. She had tried to push away the strange, unnerving thoughts that lingered in her mind, telling herself it had all been in her head. But something, something about the way James had lost control, the way his rage had torn through their home, left her uneasy.
She finished the preparations and walked upstairs, her footsteps slow, each one heavier than the last. As she reached James' door, she hesitated for a moment, the weight of last night still lingering in the air.
She gently pushed the door open, peering inside.
James was still asleep, his face serene, untouched by the turmoil of the night before. His hair was tousled, and his breathing steady. He looked... so peaceful. Too peaceful.
Mrs. Conor stood there for a moment, her heart twisting in her chest. She was still conflicted. Part of her wanted to shake him awake, demand answers, ask him what happened, but the other part—the part that still clung to the belief that everything could return to normal—wanted to believe that last night had just been a bad dream, a fleeting moment of darkness.
Maybe it was just in my head, she thought, trying to convince herself. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's fine. Maybe he just needs to sleep.
She stepped closer to his bed, her eyes tracing his calm features. But then, her gaze fell on something unexpected.
There, on his arm, was a dark, angry cut—large, fresh, and unmistakable.
Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers trembled. It looked deep, the kind of wound that could only come from something sharp, something deliberate.
"James…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She reached out, her hand hovering over the cut, but she didn't touch it. The sight of it, of him—her son—marked in such a way, sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Her mind raced, a sudden flash of last night's noises flooding her memory. The screams, the crashing sounds—the rage. Had he done this to himself? Was this his way of coping? Or was it something more?
But the room... it was spotless. No sign of the destruction that had occurred. Could it have been a figment of her imagination? Had the noise, the violence, been nothing more than a nightmare? Was she overthinking it?
She pulled her gaze away from his arm, her chest tightening with anxiety.
No, it's not just in your head, a voice whispered inside her. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. James remained still, unaware of her gaze, his face peaceful in sleep. She felt a pang of guilt for thinking the worst of him. He was just a child. He didn't deserve this kind of pain.
But the wound on his arm—that was real. And it was a clear sign that something was deeply, terrifyingly wrong.
Mrs. Conor shook her head, trying to clear the fog that had clouded her thoughts. She stepped back from the bed, her heart heavy, but her face composed. She could miss a day of work today, just to make sure he was okay, right? No, she thought firmly. Work had to come first. She couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.
She turned to leave the room, her hand on the doorframe. "James," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to work. If you feel sick, or if you need anything, you know where to find me."
She lingered for a moment, but when James didn't respond, she left the room and quietly shut the door behind her.
The hallway was quiet, almost unnaturally so. Mrs. Conor walked downstairs, the weight of the morning pressing down on her. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and guilt, but she couldn't stay. She had to go to work. She couldn't afford to fall apart, not in front of James.
She took a deep breath, her face hardening into a mask of resolve, and walked out the front door, not looking back.
But as she drove to work, her thoughts kept returning to that wound on James' arm, and to the quiet emptiness that lingered in their home.
Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it in her bones.
******
The soft rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, slowly coaxing James out of his restless slumber. His eyes fluttered open, squinting at the clock. 1:00 PM. His mother had already left for work. He felt the familiar pang of loneliness in his chest, but it wasn't something he was unaccustomed to. He stretched beneath the covers, feeling the tightness of the wound on his arm. His hand instinctively moved to his left forearm, where the deep cut from last night was still fresh. It had stung when he woke up, but it wasn't enough to bring him to his knees.
With a sharp breath, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, carefully testing the weight of his body on his arm. There was no major discomfort; he had dressed it quickly with a simple bandage earlier. His movements were precise and calculated, as always. He walked over to his dresser, opening the drawer and pulling out a fresh, perfectly folded shirt. His actions were mechanical, but in a way, it was soothing—the routine of it all, the predictability.
As he dressed himself, the focus returned to his thoughts. His mind wandered to Charles, the boy who had consumed his every waking thought for months. James knew everything about him—what time he woke up, how long he spent at breakfast, the exact route he took to school. He had been watching him for so long now, through the window, through the cracks of his own secret surveillance. The obsession was becoming darker, more dangerous. But it was also necessary. After all, James had made it clear that things had to be perfect. If they weren't, he would make them that way.
He finished dressing and walked to the door, pausing before he left the room. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye, but he didn't smile. There was nothing to smile about anymore. He wasn't like everyone else. They didn't understand. He was in control now, and he always would be.
Slowly, he made his way up to the attic, the creaky floorboards groaning beneath his feet. The attic door was just as he had left it, unlocked, ready for him. The space had been his sanctuary for years, a place where he could observe, where he could control his world in a way that made sense.
The attic was dim, lit only by the weak sunlight that filtered through a dusty window. In the corner, a stack of old boxes sat neatly arranged, and among them, a small, dusty desk sat under a low, slanted roof. It was here that he kept his secret collection: photos of Charles, notes on his routines, and other items he had gathered over time. It was almost like a shrine. Everything about Charles, from his favorite shirt to the exact time he brushed his teeth, was documented in meticulous detail.
James ran his fingers over the items on the desk, a cold smirk spreading across his face. He had it all figured out. It was only a matter of time before Charles would notice him, before Charles would understand that James was the only one who could give him everything he wanted.
His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway. His mother's car. She was home early today.
The smirk faded from James' face. He quickly stepped away from the desk, his eyes scanning the attic for any signs that he had been there too long, anything that might give him away. But everything was as it should be. He wiped his hands on his pants, making sure no traces of his actions remained, and silently moved to the attic stairs.
He paused at the top, listening for any sounds downstairs. The soft hum of the car engine outside faded as the door closed. His mother's footsteps echoed up the staircase. James smirked to himself. She would never know what he had been up to. She couldn't even see the real him, not anymore.
With a final glance at the attic, he descended the stairs, walking back into the house. He didn't have much time, but he knew exactly what needed to be done next. Charles would come into view soon, and James would be waiting.
Nothing would stop him. Not anymore.
The house was eerily quiet when James heard the faint sound of his mother's footsteps approach. He knew what was coming—she had seen the cut on his arm, and her intuition was never wrong. He could feel the tension rising, the weight of her suspicion pressing down on him. She had been quiet all morning, probably replaying what she heard last night in her head, trying to make sense of the chaos.
James, however, was prepared. He had already gone over the conversation in his mind, analyzing the potential outcomes, anticipating her every move. He was ready to manipulate her into believing the lie he needed her to hear.
The door creaked open slowly, and Mrs. Conor stepped into the room. Her face was drawn, eyes tired from lack of sleep, and her lips pressed together in a tight line of concern. She was no longer just his mother—she was his biggest obstacle, the one person who might threaten his control. He couldn't let her think anything was amiss.
"James," she began, her voice soft but steady. "We need to talk."
He didn't look up from the desk where he had been pretending to study, flipping through a book he had no interest in. The lie would come easily.
"What about, Mom?" he asked in his calmest voice, his tone almost innocent.
She stepped closer, her gaze drifting to the bandage on his arm. Her expression faltered as she noticed the faint redness seeping through.
"You... you didn't answer your phone last night, and I heard—" she hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. "I heard noises from your room. Sounds like... like you were upset. More than upset, actually. I don't know, James. I just... I don't know what to think anymore."
Her eyes scanned the room, as if looking for clues she could use to piece together the strange behavior. But she wouldn't find anything. James had been too careful.
"I was just watching a movie," he said, cutting her off before she could say more. His voice was smooth, steady—perfectly rehearsed. "It's nothing. I wasn't upset. I was... stressed from school, you know? Junior year isn't easy. I didn't mean to make so much noise."
She paused, studying him, her gaze lingering. James could feel her doubt, but he had to keep his composure. He wasn't going to let her in. Not now. Not ever.
"James, you were talking to yourself. You—" she started, but he interrupted her, his voice a little firmer this time.
"Mom, I was just thinking aloud. I think you're overreacting. It's been a stressful few days, that's all. You've been so stressed too. Work, everything..." He let the words trail off, knowing they would strike a chord. She was a single mother, always overburdened with expectations. She didn't want to believe her son was any different from the perfect, smart child she had molded him into.
Mrs. Conor stepped back, her face a mix of frustration and confusion. "I just want to understand, James. I don't want to be left in the dark anymore."
James saw her vulnerability. He saw her trying to hold onto something that was slipping through her fingers. But he would not let her have it.
"Nothing to understand," he said in a quiet, almost comforting tone. He stood up now, walking toward her as though to soothe her worries. "You've raised me to be strong, right? It's just a phase, I'll get over it. We all go through rough patches, don't we?"
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, without saying anything else, she nodded. The doubt still lingered in her eyes, but it wasn't enough to break through his defense.
"I'll go make dinner," she said, her voice sounding defeated.
James didn't reply. He simply gave her a tight, almost robotic smile and turned back to his desk.
She left the room, but James could hear her footsteps growing faint as she went downstairs. Her absence was a relief, but the feeling of manipulation settled in his chest like a dark, suffocating weight.
Alone in the room again, James let out a deep breath, as if releasing the tension that had built up over the past few minutes.
Everything was under control. The lie was perfect, just like he was.
James stood in front of his mirror, the light from his desk lamp casting a soft glow on his face. He studied himself intently, running his fingers through his dark hair, making sure each strand was in place. Today was the day. Tomorrow, he would finally kiss Charles. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, that excitement bubbling up, edging out the discomfort that had lingered for so long. Tomorrow, he would tell him how he felt.
He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Charles. The way he laughed, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about things that made him passionate. James was certain that Charles would understand, that once they were alone, he would feel the same way.
He picked out his outfit with precision. A perfectly pressed white shirt, a deep red tie, and the black slacks he had worn the first time he met Charles. It wasn't too flashy, just enough to be noticed. He wanted to look perfect, and he was meticulous about it. He laid it all out on his bed, stepping back to admire the arrangement. This was it. Tomorrow would change everything.
As he stared at the clothes, a small smile crept up his face, and he imagined himself walking up to Charles, standing close enough to feel his warmth, and kissing him. Just like he'd practiced in his mind. It would be perfect. It had to be.
Downstairs, Mrs. Conor was talking to her neighbor, Greta, who had come over to visit. James could hear their voices drifting up through the floorboards, muffled but distinct enough for him to catch bits of the conversation.
"...he's a good boy, Greta. I just... I don't know. I've been noticing some things. He's different lately. I mean, he's always been a little... intense, but now? I'm worried. He's been talking to himself more, and I found a cut on his arm. I just don't know how to deal with it anymore."
Mrs. Conor sounded strained, her words heavy with concern. Greta's voice was a little softer, trying to reassure her.
"Rachel, you've raised him well. He's smart, he's got his whole life ahead of him. Kids go through phases, it's no big deal. Remember when mine were his age? They were all over the place. A little rebellion here and there, a little angst. It'll pass."
"I know, I know... but this feels different. He doesn't talk to me the same way. And he's been so closed off... I just don't know what's going on in his head anymore."
James could hear the tremble in his mother's voice, and something about it made his stomach twist uncomfortably. She was always worried about him, but this time, it felt like she was afraid of him. It was too late for that.
"I'm sure it's nothing. You've got nothing to worry about," Greta insisted. "He's a bright kid, Rachel. He'll figure it out. Just give him some space. You've been so on top of everything lately; it's bound to catch up with you."
Mrs. Conor sighed, and James could almost picture her standing there, wringing her hands nervously. He wasn't the kind of son who could be easily understood. His mother hadn't been able to grasp that for years. But that was okay. He didn't need her to. All that mattered was tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Charles would finally know the truth.
James turned away from the mirror and walked over to his desk. He picked up the picture of Charles from his backpack again. The one he had kissed so many times before. He traced his fingers along the edge of the photo, his heart racing as he thought about what was to come.
His hands trembled slightly as he set the picture back in his backpack, taking one last glance at the carefully laid-out clothes.
He felt a surge of anticipation.
It was all going to happen. Finally.
Upstairs, Mrs. Conor finished her conversation with Greta, and James could hear her footsteps as she made her way back to the kitchen.
But his mind was elsewhere—on Charles, on the kiss that would finally make everything fall into place. It was only a matter of time now.
The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, thin stripes across James' room. He hadn't set an alarm; he didn't need to. His eyes opened as if his body knew that today was the day. The day he would kiss Charles. His heart skipped a beat, excitement and nerves mixing in the pit of his stomach. Today would be different.
He sat up in bed, his movements slow but deliberate, as though every action was part of a carefully planned routine. His room, as always, was immaculate. The bed was perfectly made, every book stacked neatly, every object in its precise place. He glanced at the clock—7:10 AM. Plenty of time.
He swung his legs off the bed, feeling the cool floor beneath his bare feet. His mind was already racing through the day ahead, the moment he would finally make Charles notice him. His fingers brushed over his carefully chosen outfit laid out on the chair: the white shirt, the deep red tie, the black slacks. He felt the familiar thrill of anticipation.
James moved toward the bathroom, staring at his reflection as he brushed his teeth, each stroke methodical, almost rhythmic. His hands were steady as he combed his hair, carefully making sure every strand was in place. No room for imperfection—not today. His eyes stared at his reflection, but there was something new in them today. A quiet confidence, a sense of power that he had never allowed himself to feel before.
Once he was satisfied, he returned to his room. He put on his clothes, adjusting each piece with the same meticulous care, making sure everything was just right. He slipped on his shoes, checking each lace, tightening them until they were perfect.
As he was about to grab his backpack, he stopped, looking once again at the picture of Charles tucked inside. His thumb ran over the edges of the photo, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips. Today, he thought. Today, everything changes.
Downstairs, he could hear his mother in the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and the hum of the coffee maker. James took a deep breath, his reflection in the hallway mirror catching his eye once more. He was ready.
**"James, breakfast is ready,"** his mom called out from downstairs.
He turned away from the mirror and walked downstairs, his mind already on Charles, on the kiss, on the truth he would finally reveal. Today was the day.
The classroom is buzzing with the usual chatter of students settling in. James sits in his usual spot, trying to keep his focus on the lesson, but his mind keeps drifting. He watches the clock as the seconds tick by, each one bringing him closer to the moment when Charles walks through that door.
And then, as if on cue, the door creaks open. Charles enters, his usual laid-back stride taking him across the room as if nothing in the world could bother him. He's everything James isn't—carefree, confident, the kind of person who commands attention without even trying.
James feels the familiar rush of emotions surge through him, an almost desperate longing clawing at his chest. Charles laughs with his friends, his smile lighting up the room, and for a moment, everything else fades away. All that exists is the image of Charles, the person James has quietly obsessed over, the person who holds the control over James' fragile world.
Their eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, everything slows. James' breath catches in his throat. He stands before he can stop himself, his body moving on autopilot as if the kiss, the one thing he's thought about for so long, is the only logical next step. His pulse quickens. His hand trembles as he approaches Charles' desk, standing over him for a moment, words dying on his lips.
Without thinking, he leans down and presses his lips to Charles', the kiss awkward, too forceful, a desperation behind it that James can't even recognize. For a split second, it feels like everything is in place. But when he pulls back, the look in Charles' eyes is nothing like what he hoped for.
Charles' face contorts with confusion and disgust, his expression hardening into something sharp, something cold.
"What the hell, James?" Charles sneers, his voice low but laced with venom. "What's wrong with you?"
James stands frozen, the sting of rejection already settling deep in his chest, but he refuses to let it show. He stays locked in place, waiting for the moment to pass. But it doesn't. Charles stands up, his face twisted in a mix of anger and revulsion, his body tense as if he's preparing for something worse.
"Are you... you're... what? Gay?" Charles spits the word out like it's a curse, his eyes narrowing. The judgment in his voice makes James feel small, exposed.
James opens his mouth, but the words don't come. It's like his throat has closed off, trapped in a vise of shame and confusion. The silence between them stretches, thick and suffocating.
Charles shakes his head, as if the very idea of what just happened disgusts him. "You're messed up, dude. You really think I'd want some freak like you?" His voice drips with mocking laughter, his friends looking on in the background, silently watching as the scene unfolds. "This is just... sick. Get over yourself."
James' chest tightens, a cold fury bubbling up from deep within. The rejection, the mockery—it all crashes into him at once, and for a moment, he's not sure what to do. He wants to scream, to lash out, to make Charles feel the same pain that's twisting inside him, but instead, he just stares. His mind races, but the only thing he can do is nod and retreat, his hands trembling at his sides.
"I'm sorry," James mutters, his voice quiet, almost robotic, as if it's not even his own. "I didn't mean to... I won't do it again."
Charles doesn't even look at him as he gathers his things, the contempt still hanging in the air like a thick fog. "Yeah, you better not," Charles says with a sneer. "Don't even think about it again."
James watches as Charles walks away, a cold emptiness filling him. The rejection stings more than he's willing to admit. But it's not just the kiss—it's the disgust, the judgment, the way Charles made him feel like he wasn't even human. A quiet, searing anger builds in James, but it's mixed with something else—something darker, something that tells him that he'll never let anyone have this kind of power over him again.
He turns and walks back to his seat, the sound of his footsteps too loud in the silence that follows. He sits down, trying to compose himself, but the bitter taste of humiliation lingers, and deep inside, he knows this won't be the last time he feels this way. But next time, he won't be so vulnerable.
**
The afternoon sun streamed weakly through the curtains, casting the room in a dull light. James sat at his desk, staring blankly at the wall, his heart still raw from what had just happened. The failed kiss—the rejection—the crushing weight of it all. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as he fought to steady his breathing, to stop the tears that threatened to break free.
His mind raced in a whirlwind of confusion and anger. Why had Charles turned him down? He had been so sure—so confident. He had prepared for this moment. But now, all that was left was the sharp sting of humiliation, the gut-wrenching sense of betrayal. How could Charles do this to him?
James let out a strangled sob, the tears finally falling freely down his face. His chest tightened, and he buried his face in his hands, unable to control the torrent of emotions that crashed over him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be the one rejected.
For so long, he had imagined this moment, this confession of his feelings. He had pictured Charles smiling, understanding. Maybe not immediately reciprocating, but at least not pushing him away with such coldness. The kiss was meant to bring them closer, not shatter everything in an instant.
He wiped his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping him. "What did I expect?" he muttered, his voice thick with anguish. "Why would anyone want me?"
His anger flared, sharp and hot. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back, and paced the room. Charles was an obstacle now, a person who had taken something from him. Something he didn't know how to explain, something he couldn't control. But he could control Charles. He could make him understand.
James' thoughts shifted quickly, that dark glint creeping into his mind again. He'd been patient before, letting his feelings simmer, but now? Now, he could take matters into his own hands.
He moved to his closet, pulling out a small, heavy object from the back—an iron rod. The same rod he'd seen his father use to fix the car years ago. It felt right in his hand, heavy, solid. The weight of it gave him a strange sense of power, of purpose.
Without thinking any longer, he slipped the rod into his backpack and hurried out of his room, his footsteps quiet but determined. The house was empty. His mom was at work. He had time.
As he left through the back door, the crisp autumn air hit his face, but it didn't make him pause. The neighborhood was eerily quiet as he made his way down the street toward Charles' house. His mind was set now. There was no turning back.
His fingers tightened around the handle of his backpack as he neared Charles' home. The familiar house that had become the focal point of his every thought. He had stalked it for years, watched Charles come and go, studied his every move. Charles would be home soon. It was time.
The house was dark, but the front door was slightly ajar, a small sliver of light escaping from inside. James approached, his pulse quickening as his mind played out the scenario. He would enter. He would confront Charles. And when it was over, there would be no more rejection. No more doubt. Only control.
He stepped quietly up the front steps, his heart pounding in his chest, as if it were beating louder than the sound of his footsteps. He took a deep breath, his face expressionless, and pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
Charles wouldn't be able to hurt him again.
The night air is thick with the weight of unsaid things, the moonlight casting long shadows across the empty street outside. James' heart beats in a rhythm only he can hear, the sound like a countdown echoing in his ears. The rejection still lingers in his veins, and every mocking word Charles had thrown at him earlier that day plays over and over, each repetition making the anger inside him swell. He can still feel the sting, the disgust, the way Charles had made him feel small, as if he was nothing but a freak—a mistake.
James had watched Charles, from a distance, all week. He knew Charles' routine by heart. The moment Charles had stepped out to hang with his friends earlier in the evening, James had slipped quietly into his room. He'd let himself in through the window, just as he had planned. He'd never been this close to Charles' world, never so immersed in the scent of his cologne, the faint trace of his laundry detergent on his sheets, the music on low in the background. It all felt so personal—so intimate.
But tonight, there was nothing that could stop James from finishing what he started.
He stood by the edge of Charles' bed, watching as Charles, oblivious to his presence, moved about the room, preparing to end his night. The dim light from a lamp cast long, crooked shadows across the walls, making the scene feel surreal—like it wasn't really happening. The peacefulness of it all only enraged James further.
Charles, unaware, hummed to himself as he closed his closet and turned to his bed, ready to sleep. The room smelled faintly of cologne and laundry detergent, everything soft and innocent. The innocence James had once tried to grasp for himself but was never given.
James' grip tightened around the iron rod he held, his fingers cold and steady as the rod became his focus, his weapon. His breathing slowed, the adrenaline building as he took slow, deliberate steps forward.
The rod felt heavy in his hands, but it was comforting—powerful. He could feel the control coursing through him. He had never felt more alive.
Charles reached for the sheets, about to crawl into bed, but James was faster. In one fluid motion, he struck. The rod connected with Charles' head with a sickening thud, and Charles crumpled to the ground instantly. The sound was grotesque, a sickening thwack that made James' pulse spike.
Charles groaned, a low, broken sound as he reached up to touch his bleeding head. He was still alive, still gasping for breath, still able to move. James took another step forward, his expression emotionless, void of the fear or hesitation that might have been expected of someone his age. There was no guilt, no shame. Only a calm, calculating need to finish what he'd started.
Charles' eyes fluttered open, his face twisted in confusion and pain. He tried to speak, his mouth moving in slow, labored movements. "Wh—what the... why?" His voice was weak, but the terror in his eyes was clear.
James knelt down beside him, his face inches from Charles', watching with cold, detached eyes as the blood pooled beneath them. He almost felt... nothing. Just the deep satisfaction of control, of power.
"Because you made me feel like nothing," James whispered, his voice eerily calm. "You made me feel worthless, and now, I'll make you feel it too."
With that, James raised the rod again, and with a swift, precise motion, he brought it down once more, this time ending Charles' life in one brutal strike.
Charles didn't move after that. He lay still, his body crumpled and lifeless, blood staining the carpet beneath him. James stared at him for a moment longer, taking in the silence, the stillness. The chaos inside him had finally found an outlet.
James stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just taken a life. His breathing was steady now, his pulse returning to its normal rhythm. He was calm. He was in control. And Charles? Charles was gone.
He turned and walked to the window, the faint sound of sirens in the distance a distant reminder of what he had just done. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The world was still spinning, and James was still the one holding the power.
With one last glance at Charles' lifeless body. James slipped into the night planning his next move