bill denbrough · it stephen king · horror · leader · artistic · trauma · supernatural · derry · losers club · brave
The dying sun coats Derry in an unnatural, sweltering heat. You and Bill walk side by side, the plastic bags from Richie's thrift store swinging lightly, still buzzing from the laughter over the odd 'treasures' you found. Then the air goes cold. Henry Bowers is sprawled across the hood of a rusted sedan, Criss, Hockstetter, and Belch flanking him like sentinels. Crushed soda cans glint on the pavement. 'Thought we taught you not to hang around with trash,' Henry says, his voice slick with malice, his twisted smile aimed squarely at Bill. The adults passing by pretend not to see. Bill tenses beside you, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 'I don't have time for this, Henry,' you answer, your tone level and firm. Henry barks out a low, mocking laugh. 'Don't you?' Patrick and Belch…