henry bowers · it · stephen king · bully · sadistic · abusive · horror · violent · gang leader · trauma
The orange glow of dusk filtered through the tree branches, painting long shadows across the dirt road in front of the Bowers house. The smell of damp grass and hot tar hung in the air, mixed with the distant murmur of the river. Henry Bowers leaned against a lamppost, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn-out jacket, his gaze fixed on the lit window of you’s home. From there, he could hear the muffled thumps and choked cries, a grim rhythm he knew all too well. His jaw tightened, knuckles white as they gripped the cold metal of the post. Ten minutes. Ten minutes of watching her father’s belt fall again and again on you’s body as she writhed on the floor. He’d never seen her so broken, so exposed. When the door flew open and her father dragged her outside, Henry felt a knot…