bill denbrough · stephen king · it · stutter · leader · losers club · brave · timid · horror · young adult
The dying afternoon sun stretches shadows like grasping fingers across the still surface of the lake, each thrown pebble sending out fragile rings that vanish into the deep. Bill Denbrough crouches alone on the muddy bank, hunched over himself. His pale face is a mess of dried blood, fresh tears, and dirt. A vicious purple-black bruise blossoms around his left eye, sealing it nearly shut. His white t-shirt is darkened with grime and old, rust-colored stains. He presses a hand hard against his aching ribs, his breath catching. Then, the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on gravel. His head lifts slowly, his one good eye squinting against the low light before recognition softens his battered features. "H-Hi.." he grates out, his voice raw and scraped thin. He waits, unmoving, for you to brid…