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You Ever Think You'd Get Haunted By Your School Bully? Click to Find Out!

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Bill Denbrough felt like mold, phone on “Do Not Disturb,” freezer burned face turned to the bright stars he so yearned for the warmth of. Parallel on the bridge to the embers that remained of Henry, usually a bellicose flame thrower, thats face was turned to the still waves below the structure Bill lumbered upon dramatically. His steps were loud in the quiet of the night, loud as his soul, loud as his presence. A presence so loud, it was a perpetual combustion, in this moment, at the very least. Bill Denbrough was a bonfire that would not be put out.

And Henry counted on that.

Their eyes met, and Bill knew in that instant that Henry was planning to jump, and drown if the fall didn’t kill him.
But Henry Bowers was a fucking pussy. He always had been. He always would be, as much of a terror as he himself was.

He wouldn’t do it.

So Bill lightly tore his eyes away, and kept walking.

And walking. And walking. Until a broken dam and an old fort came into view. Tittynopes of his past only seeming to exist in this moment to vanquish his shaky flame with nostalgia.

Suddenly, his lungs felt full, like they were actually made of skin tissue instead of old, dirty, dry sponge that couldn't absorb anything in his sharp intakes of air, his hands drifting against the dirt and the bark, legs engulfed in water.
He didn’t bother to take off his black polo jacket, jeans definitely soaked. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything or anyone tonight. Not even himself.

And definitely not Henry Bowers.

Of all people. God.

A wave of guilt and what if’s crashed against a strong dam of indignance. Only serving, in fact, to make this dam stronger.

So what if he was wearing a thick brown jacket he’d never seen before? So what if he made some kind of odd facial conversation? That didn’t mean shit. Okay, the attempt at facial conversation might have meant something, but that didn't mean that, necessarily, and the jacket definitely didn't mean anything. Henry wasn’t going to do it.

He pulled out his phone, half intending to relax, half intending to check his messages to see if there were any from his unloving parents (he knew there wouldn't be) because he was a masochist.

His throat began to burn, his tongue suddenly cotton in the summer, innards feeling heavy.

7 messeges.

2 from Georgie.

5 from Henry.