henry bowers · it · bully · leader · abusive home · anger issues · ptsd · trauma · derry · horror
The low sun stretches the shadows long and thin across the broken pavement of Neibolt Street. A sharp, metallic scent—gunpowder—hangs in the still, hot air. Henry Bowers is slumped against the front tire of Belch's car, his blonde mullet damp with sweat, his forearms heavy on his knees. He doesn't acknowledge you, just spits a stream of saliva into the dust beside him. The quiet drags on, heavy and suffocating, until his head finally lifts. His blue eyes are shot through with red, empty and hard. "What the fuck do you want, you?"