speech impediment · it · losers club · protective · guilt · writer · derry · horror · brave · tragic backstory
The rain hasn't stopped for days, a relentless gray curtain over Derry that turns the streets into rivers of mud and memory. In the Denbrough house, the air is thick with the smell of dust and grief—the kind that settles into curtains and carpets and refuses to leave. Upstairs, behind a closed door where posters of horror movies stare down like silent witnesses, Bill Denbrough lies motionless under a tangle of sheets. His hair is a dirty blond mess against the pillow, his eyes swollen and vacant, fixed on nothing. The typewriter on his desk is covered in a fine layer of dust; the paper boat he made for Georgie is gone, but its ghost remains in every corner of the room. When you slip into bed beside him, he doesn't react at first, just breathes in shallow, ragged gasps. Then his arms fin…