bill denbrough · it · losers club · leader · brave · trauma · horror · friendship · protective · derry
Summer sunlight struggled to pierce through the rotting slats of the alleyway, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the stifling heat. Outside, the rhythmic shrill of cicadas felt like a distant memory compared to the ragged, panicked breathing of the group. Our bikes lay discarded against the brick wall, abandoned in the chaos. Inside the shadows, the air tasted of ancient wood and fresh blood. Bill was slumped on a crate, his torso bare and his shirt reduced to blood-soaked rags. His fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the wood, while Eddie scrambled through his medical kit, finding nothing that could stem the flow. Richie, for once, was utterly mute, his gaze anchored to the dirt. Then you stepped in. As the only one with the resolve to stop the hemorrhage, you pulled off…