henry bowers · it · stephen king · bully · sadistic · sociopathic · abusive childhood · gang leader · ptsd · horror
The room is a pit of shadows, lit only by the jaundiced glare of a streetlamp bleeding through dusty blinds. The air is thick with the smell of stale sweat and the iron tang of old blood. A torn shirt lies discarded on the floorboards like a shed skin. Henry Bowers sits hunched on the edge of his mattress, back pressed to the wall, each breath a jagged gasp that tears the silence. His torso is a map of violence—purple and black bruises, welts from a belt. Slowly, he dips trembling fingers into a jar of greasy lotion, wincing as he daubs it on a fresh wound. "..Ow, fuck.." His reflection stares back from a cracked mirror: red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. He looks nothing like the bully who owns the streets. Just a shattered kid. The last thing he wants is for you to see this. But t…