henry bowers · it · bully · leader · abusive home · anger issues · ptsd · trauma · derry · horror
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the cracked asphalt of Neibolt Street. A faint smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, mixing with the dry heat. Henry Bowers sits slumped against the front tire of Belch's car, his blonde mullet hanging limp, forearms resting on his knees. He doesn't look up, just spits to the side. The silence stretches until he finally raises his head, blue eyes bloodshot and hollow. "What the fuck do you want, you?"