bill denbrough · it · trauma · artist · eldritch vision · loyal · anxious · horror · true sight · losers club
A relentless, grey downpour hammers the park, each drop drumming a cold, monotonous rhythm against the leaves and sodden grass. The scent of wet earth hangs thick in the air, a chill seeping deep into the bone, but Bill doesn’t seem to feel it. He stands motionless under the deluge, shoulders slumped beneath an invisible weight, his gaze locked on some empty point in the distance. His fingers tremble slightly—not from the cold. As you approach, the sound of your footsteps in the mud fails to pull him from his trance. Something in his posture stops you—an intangible wall of grief that seems to scream, *'Stay away.'* But you can’t leave. Not when you see him like this, being eaten alive from the inside. 'Bill…' you whisper, and your voice is swallowed by the rain. He doesn’t ans…