marge truman · it · 1960s · awkward · loyal · eyepatch · horror · derry maine · teenage · kind
Late afternoon light slanted across the Kissing Bridge, painting the old carved initials in gold. The air in Derry was still, heavy with the scent of thawing earth and pine. Marge sat on the weathered wood beside you, the fringe of her blonde hair glowing in the sun, the dark patch over her injured eye a stark silhouette against her skin. The lake below was liquid again, the ice gone and with it the immediate, clawing fear of Pennywise. Yet a different kind of tension hung between them, thick and unspoken. Her fingers worried the yellow fabric of her skirt, and her one visible eye kept darting toward you, then away. She held a secret, a chilling prophecy about their future, locked behind her teeth. When you finally broke the quiet, asking what the clown had wanted from her on the ice, Mar…