Chapter Text
Henry Bowers was sixteen years old and already hated everything there was to hate in the world.
Derry, for starters. Fucked up little town. Always had been. Always would be. The kind of place where you could scream bloody murder on Main Street and the most you’d get was some old bat peeking through her blinds, maybe a dog barking. The kind of place where the sun felt wrong—too hot or too cold or too fuckin’ judgmental. The kind of place where the whole goddamn world just looked at you like they already knew how you’d end up. And you knew it too.
Place like Derry wasn’t made for people like Henry. Or maybe it was, and that was the problem.
Adults in this town didn’t give a single shit. They walked around with their heads shoved so far up their asses they couldn’t see what was happening even when it was right in front of ‘em. Bullies beatin’ the hell outta smaller kids? Eh, boys’ll be boys. Dads beatin’ the hell outta their sons? Well, that’s just discipline. Kids disappearing? Happens every summer. No one talks about it. Not really. Not when it counts.
Police didn’t do jack shit. His dad didn’t do jack shit. Not even when the missing kids had their names and faces plastered on telephone poles like fucking decorations. No one found anything. No one stopped anything. The whole town acted like it was cursed but refused to call it that. They just blinked real slow and went back to mowin’ their lawns or buyin’ milk or suckin’ up to the sheriff. Like none of it mattered. Like it wasn’t all rotting from the inside out.
Henry lived in a shitbox ranch house on a shit street with a shit yard full of dead grass and rusted tools. Looked like every other house in the spread-out rural neighborhood, just maybe a little more miserable. He never knew why they lived there. His old man was a sheriff. Should’ve meant something, right? Should’ve got them a better house, better furniture, something not broken down and moldy at the corners. But nah. All that badge got Butch Bowers was more reasons to get drunk. More excuses to scream.
His father was a war hero, so the whole town kissed his ass. “Good ol’ Butch,” they’d say, like he wasn’t a mean old fuck who could knock the wind outta you just by standin’ too close. “Raised a tough boy,” they’d say, like Henry was supposed to be proud of it. Like the bruises were medals. Truth was, Henry didn’t really know if his dad liked him. Hell, he didn’t know if he even wanted him around. Some days it felt like he was just there to be hit. To be fixed. To be broken down and rebuilt meaner. Stronger. More like him.
Henry never talked back. Never flinched. He always called him sir, even when his stomach turned, just sayin’ it. Even when the belt came out and he could taste metal in his mouth. Fear wasn’t real if you didn’t show it. That was the rule.
His friends—if you could call ’em that—weren’t much better. The Bowers Gang. More like the Island of Fuck-Ups.
Vic Criss thought he was smart. And to be fair, he kinda was, for someone hangin’ out with a bunch of dumbasses. He was the one who figured out the best places to hide, the best ways to steal shit without getting caught, the best lies to tell if any grown-up came sniffin’ around. He was a total softy though. Fuckin’ try hard acted like he wasn’t an emotional little shit. Whatever, he still got the job done. But lately? Vic had been acting weird. All slow and quiet and watching. Giving Henry these looks like he felt something. Like he knew something. Like he wanted to talk about it. Which pissed Henry off more than anything else. Vic needed to cut that shit out before Henry knocked his teeth in.
Belch Huggins was dumber than a box of rocks, and Henry usually liked that about him. Belch was easy. You told him to hit someone, he did it. You told him to shut up, he did that too. Big and fat and dumb as hell, but loyal in the way a dog’s loyal. Only now, Belch was getting weird too. All pouty and soft-eyed, hangin’ back like he didn’t know what to say. Like something was missing.
And then there was the last one. The shittiest of them all. Fuckin'-
Henry wasn’t gonna think about him.
He wasn’t.
Didn’t need to. Didn’t matter.
Because the truth was, Henry was shitty too. He owned that. Wasn’t like he was confused about it. Wasn’t like he was some soft-ass loser tryna pretend he was better than he was. He knew who he was. Knew he liked hurting people. Knew he liked the way it felt when someone looked at him and flinched. When a kid cried. When a punch landed just right and you could see the fear in their eyes. That wasn’t shame. That was power.
Henry Bowers was feared. Teachers didn’t bother with him anymore. They just let him sleep in class or walk out early or skip altogether. Adults crossed the street when they saw him comin’. Kids ran the other way. He could feel it—how they were scared of him. The whole damn town was. Even the ones who thought they weren’t. They still looked at him like he was already halfway to prison, and Henry liked that just fine.
So why the fuck was he so… fucked up over this?
Why did his hands shake sometimes when he was alone?
Why did everything feel like it was crawling under his skin?
Why did food taste like nothing and the air feel too thick and loud and bright?
Why did he feel like puking when he looked at that corner of the woods near the Barrens, even though he told everyone he hadn’t seen anything?
Why did he keep seeing flashes—flashes of green eyes and shaggy dark hair and something he wasn’t gonna name?
He was fine.
Patrick didn’t matter.
Didn’t.
And if Henry kept tellin’ himself that, maybe one day it’d actually be true.
Maybe if he said it enough, it’d burn outta him like a fever.
But it didn’t. Not even when the sun was tryin’ to boil his fuckin’ skull off.
It was hotter than the devil’s asshole that day—mid-July and no clouds in sight, just sticky blue sky hangin’ overhead like a wet rag. The kind of heat that made your shirt cling to your back like a second skin, and your socks feel like they were boilin’ off your fuckin’ feet. Sweat dripped down the back of Henry’s neck, slidin’ slow down his spine, and the only thing he hated more than the heat was what the hell they were doin’.
Puttin’ up fuckin’ missing posters.
For Patrick Hockstetter.
It was week three of this shit, and they were still doin’ it. Slappin’ that dumb glossy photo of Patrick’s ugly-ass school photo onto every telephone pole, corner store board, and gas pump they could find. Belch kept holdin’ the staple gun like it was a goddamn funeral, all solemn and silent and lookin’ like he was gonna burst into tears or some shit. Vic had that same mopey fuckin’ face on, all long and drawn and full of pity. Which made Henry want to tear his face off and staple that to the telephone pole instead.
“Y’all are actin’ like we’re buryin’ the fuckin’ Pope,” Henry muttered, voice low and mean as he kicked the toe of his boot against the sidewalk edge. “Jesus Christ.”
Vic looked over his shoulder, lips pressed together, but he didn’t say nothin’. Just gave Henry that look again. The one that made Henry want to punch a wall and bite someone’s nose off.
They were walkin’ through the east end now, past the drugstore with the always-broken freezer and the fire station where Mr. Keene smoked outside like clockwork every fuckin’ day at noon. Posters already up on most corners from the first week, so now they were just hittin’ dumbass places no one ever looked. Back alleys, busted fences, the side of the goddamn laundromat. Like anyone was gonna find Patrick by the fuckin’ dryers.
“Belch,” Henry snapped, “quit huggin’ the damn poster like it’s a love letter. Staple the shit.”
Belch flinched. Literally flinched. Which was fucked. Belch never flinched.
“Yeah—uh. Right, Hen.” Belch shuffled up to the wooden pole like he was scared it might bite, carefully pressed the edge of the poster against it, and slowly fired off three staples, one corner at a time.
Henry didn’t watch. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
He kept his eyes down, kickin’ at gravel, nails bit into his palms hard enough that one tore a little. Didn’t matter. Pain was good. Sharp. Real.
He wasn’t gonna look at it. Wasn’t gonna look at him. The photo. That photo.
But he could see it anyway, burned into the inside of his skull like a brand: Patrick’s dumbass face smirkin’ all smug-like, head tilted just a little, like he knew a secret and he was the secret. That wild brown hair all messed up, green eyes too bright, sharp cheekbones and that mouth. Pretty. Not in a fag way, obviously. Just- objectively. In a weird way. Freak-lookin’. Like a doll somebody half-melted in the sun.
Henry clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
Didn’t matter.
Patrick was dead.
Probably. Maybe. Probably.
Derry ate people all the fuckin’ time. Summer came around, kids started vanishin’, and no one gave enough of a shit to actually fix it. Just whispered about it, pretended they didn’t see the red stains by the creek, prayed harder on Sundays. And maybe that was the dumbest part of all this—standin’ out in the heat like a bunch of fuckin’ Girl Scouts for someone who was gone. Dead. Bones in the sewer. Or worse.
And it all felt pointless. Like pickin’ at a scab till it bled.
They’d already helped Mrs. Hockstetter pack the flyers up in boxes, load ’em into the back of Belch’s truck, and hand out the first stack. She’d kissed Henry’s cheek—actually kissed it—and called him sugar, which made his ears burn and his stomach twist. He wasn’t even sure why she liked him so much. None of them were good kids. Hell, they were barely kids. But Mrs. Hockstetter talked to ’em like they were the fuckin’ Boy Scouts of America. Like they were heroes.
She was a weird woman. Dumb as rocks, honestly. Nice as hell, but Henry had no clue how someone that small and soft had popped out someone like Patrick. She was short—barely reached Henry’s chest. Petite as a fuckin’ bird. Looked like she might blow away in a strong breeze.
And she wasn’t even white.
Henry didn’t know what she was exactly—some kind of Asian, probably. He didn’t know the difference. Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese—whatever. She didn’t look like she belonged in Derry, that was for fuckin’ sure. And she had this thick-as-molasses Southern accent that made every word sound like pie. Called everybody sweetheart, darlin’, sugar pie. Told ’em Jesus loved ’em, gave ’em cold lemonade and those chewy cookies with the powdered sugar on top. Vic always ate three. Belch stuffed his face with a whole plate. Henry never took more than one. Didn’t wanna owe her nothin’.
But she was real sweet to him. Always said he had “a good heart.” Said he had “Jesus’s light in him.”
Which was fuckin’ hilarious.
Henry didn’t believe in God. If there was a God, he’d’ve torched Derry to the ground by now.
“Hey,” Vic muttered, snappin’ him out of his thoughts. “You staplin’ the one at the rec center or am I?”
“I ain’t staplin’ shit,” Henry grunted. “Waste of fuckin’ time.”
Vic stared at him for a beat. “Still gotta do it.”
“Then you do it.”
Vic didn’t move. Just kept lookin’ at Henry, mouth twitchin’ like he wanted to say something. Henry wanted to claw his eyes out.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” Henry said, voice low, “and I’m gonna break your fuckin’ nose.”
Belch shifted nervously. “C’mon, Hen—don’t gotta get all pissy. Ain’t nobody mean nothin’.”
Henry whipped around. “Shut the fuck up, Belch. You ain’t said two words all day unless it’s to sniffle like some sad-ass bloodhound.”
Belch’s face fell. He looked down at his boots like they had answers.
Henry’s heart was beatin’ too fast. His mouth was dry as sand. It was the heat. That’s why he felt sick. Not because of the dumbass photo stapled behind him, not because he’d caught himself starin’ at it earlier when no one was lookin’, not because his chest felt all fucked up like it was cavein’ in whenever he saw those words at the bottom:
MISSING. LAST SEEN: JUNE 18TH.
Not because he missed the freak.
Not because he thought about him at night.
Not because he still had Patrick’s lighter in his pocket. The one with the busted flint. The one Patrick used to flick over and over just to watch the spark.
He didn’t care.
Patrick was probably dead. That’s how Derry worked.
So what if he’d gone to see Mrs. Hockstetter alone a couple times this week? Just to “check in.” Just to… make sure she was okay. That’s all. Nothin’ else.
He didn’t care.
He wasn’t thinkin’ about him.
And he sure as fuck wasn’t thinkin’ about the way Patrick used to watch him when no one else was payin’ attention. The little smirks. The offhand comments. The way he’d say shit just to poke at Henry. Like he was a bug under glass.
Freak.
Gone.
Dead.
“He probably just ran off,” Belch had said earlier, voice quiet and hopeful. “He always talked about leavin’ town. Maybe he finally did.”
Henry had laughed so hard it hurt. “Yeah? And didn’t take none of his shit with him? Not even that crusty-ass jacket? He didn’t run off, Belch. He got got.”
Belch hadn’t said anything after that.
Now, Henry stood in front of a bakery window, fists clenched, heat pressing in from all sides, his skin buzzin’ like he had a fever. He could feel the tears behind his eyes and that made him furious.
He was strong.
He was in charge.
He was fine.
So why did it feel like his whole goddamn stomach was rottin’?
Why did every second without Patrick feel like somethin’ was gnawin’ through his ribs?
Why did his throat tighten every time Mrs. Hockstetter smiled at him like he was good?
Why did he wanna kill Ben Hanscom more than anyone else in the goddamn world?
Why couldn’t he look at that stupid photo without his hands shakin’?
Why did he miss Patrick so bad he thought he might puke?
He didn’t.
He didn’t miss him.
He didn’t.
He didn’t.
“Henry?” Vic said, real quiet.
Henry didn’t turn.
Didn’t speak.
Just reached into his pocket, gripped the lighter so tight the metal bit into his palm.
Didn’t matter.
Patrick didn’t matter.
So why did it feel like Henry Bowers was fallin’ the fuck apart?
They finished with the last stack of posters around four, maybe four-thirty. The sun was still high but the heat had that mean quality to it—less like it was beatin’ down on you and more like it was sittin’ on your back, heavy and sticky, like an old wet dog.
Henry’s shirt was stuck to his shoulders, pit stains dark and wide. His boots were full of gravel, and his socks were swampy. He hated everything.
“Fuckin’ waste of time,” he muttered, kicking a rock out into the street as they walked down Main. “He’s dead anyway.”
Vic didn’t say shit. Just walked a step behind him, shoulders hunched up like he was cold or guilty or both. Belch was trailin’ a little further back, draggin’ his feet like a five-year-old who lost his balloon. Kept lookin’ down at the sidewalk like maybe Patrick’s shoes were gonna be sittin’ there waitin’ for him or some dumbass shit like that.
No one was talkin’.
And that was the worst part.
Usually by now they’d be fightin’ about where to go—Belch yellin’ about burgers, Vic tryin’ to get them to break into the school again, Henry threatenin’ to drown someone just for the hell of it, Patrick bein’ the one who came up with the final idea that ended up bein’ annoyingly fun. They were always shoutin’, laughin’, pushin’ each other into shit. Belch always farted loud enough to scare birds. Vic always rolled his eyes like he wasn’t laughin’ right along with ‘em. Patrick always said some weird, offhand shit that made your spine go cold.
Now? Fuckin’ silence.
“You wanna go throw rocks at the old trucks behind Johnson’s?” Belch offered, voice low, almost whisper-like. “Or we could go down behind the A&P. Sometimes the high school girls walk back there.”
Henry snorted. “Yeah, what, you gonna cry at ‘em? Bore ‘em to death with your puppy eyes?”
Belch’s mouth twisted but he didn’t fight back. Just looked down and mumbled, “Dunno. Just sayin’.”
They walked a few more feet.
Henry was pickin’ at a hangnail, already bleeding, and it felt good, a clean sting. His whole body was itchin’ under his skin, like his nerves were too big for his bones. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t fuckin’ breathe.
It was always like this lately. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop feelin’ like he was waitin’ for somethin’ to hit him in the back of the head.
“I miss when Patrick picked what to do,” Belch said, real quiet.
Henry didn’t even hesitate. “Shut the fuck up.”
Belch shut up.
Vic sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, but again—didn’t say shit.
Good.
They passed the corner where the used record store used to be before it caught fire last summer. Still smelled like ash when it got humid. Some kid across the street was ridin’ his bike barefoot. Henry glared at him for no reason at all and the kid took off down the block like his ass was on fire.
“Wanna go beat the shit outta some fags at the park?” Henry offered, tone too casual. He wasn’t even lookin’ at the others, just scratchin’ at a mosquito bite on his arm so hard it bled. “Hanscom’s probably there. I swear to Christ, if I see him, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”
Vic gave him that look again.
That fuckin’ look.
Like Henry just admitted his dog died and he was trying to pretend it was still alive.
Henry’s jaw locked. “Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to, you smug little bitch. It ain’t ‘cause of him . I just hate Hanscom, alright? He’s fat. And annoying. And runs his mouth. And thinks he’s so fuckin’ smart, walkin’ around with that book all the time like he reads or somethin’.”
“Okay,” Vic said, still quiet.
“Fuck off,” Henry added, sharper, meaner.
Vic didn’t respond.
Belch farted softly, almost like a reflex, and it was the saddest fart Henry’d ever heard.
They kept walkin’. No direction. Just loopin’ around town like three dogs that’d gotten outta the yard but didn’t know where to go.
“You could steal from Woolworth’s again,” Vic muttered eventually. “They still haven’t figured out it was you that time with the BBs.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and then we’ll sit in the alley and shoot rats for an hour, whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo.”
“Better than just walkin’.”
“I like walkin’.”
“Alright.”
Silence again.
The sun was goin’ down now, slow and gold and sticky, makin’ all the storefronts look orange and tired. The sky looked like it’d been rubbed raw—pale pink streaks stretchin’ out long over the rooflines.
It was quiet in the bad way. In the way that made your chest feel hollow.
“You know,” Vic said, not lookin’ at Henry, “we could go down to the Barrens. Just for a bit.”
Henry stopped dead.
Dead quiet.
The kind of quiet that made both Belch and Vic freeze, like dogs that heard a gun cock.
Then Henry turned slow, eyes narrow, voice a whisper but sharp enough to cut concrete.
“Kill yourself, Vic.”
Vic’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked away.
Henry didn’t wait for a response. He turned, boots hittin’ pavement hard, stompin’ down the sidewalk like the world owed him somethin’.
His face was hot. His hands were shakin’.
It wasn’t about Patrick.
He didn’t give a shit about Patrick.
Patrick was gone.
Probably. Maybe.
Definitely.
Didn’t matter.
But if Vic ever said that again, Henry was gonna knock his fuckin’ teeth down his throat.
Because the Barrens was where Patrick went missing.
And Henry wasn’t goin’ back there.
Not now.
Not ever.
Henry had no idea how long he’d been walkin’, but it was long enough for his boots to start hurtin’ and his shirt to be soaked clean through with sweat. The sun was lower now, bleedin’ orange through the cracks in the buildings, but it was still hot as a bastard. The kind of heat that made your teeth feel like they were sweatin’. Every breath he took felt like it was cookin’ him from the inside out. Air thick as shit. Smelled like tar and old piss.
And he was pissed.
Not just regular pissed—burnin’. Mean-hot. Fire-under-your-skin mad. Which, sure, wasn’t exactly new for Henry Bowers, but this was a different kinda mad. This was fuck everything, fuck everyone, fuck this whole goddamn world mad. The kind that pulsed in the back of your throat like a swallowed scream. Made your fists curl up even when you weren’t tryin’ to.
And now, he had to walk all the way home.
’Cause dumbass Belch drove ‘em into town in the truck earlier—he’d parked by the library like it was some big goddamn favor—and then stayed back with Vic after Henry stormed off. Traitors. Little bitch-ass motherfuckers. He’d told ‘em both to fuck off like four different ways already, but somehow it still wasn’t enough.
Fuck Vic.
Stupid, smug, quiet Vic with his too-long looks and too-soft eyes like he knew somethin’. Like he was tryin’ to understand Henry, which was even worse than him just being a dick.
Fuck Belch.
All sad and whimpery, like a kicked mutt. Hadn’t said a goddamn funny thing all week. Hadn’t even farted right. Looked like someone was about to take his favorite chew toy away. Jesus Christ. He was makin’ Henry feel bad. Henry Bowers didn’t feel bad. Not for anyone. Especially not for Belch-fuckin’-Huggins.
And fuck Ben Hanscom. Fat piece of shit was probably loungin’ around somewhere, eatin’ candy and readin’ books like the smug, sweaty fuck he was. If Henry saw him today, he really would beat the shit outta him. Really. Not for any reason. Not ‘cause of… anything.
Just ‘cause Ben was a fat little bastard and needed to get his teeth kicked in.
Had nothing to do with anything else.
And fuck— fuck Patrick. Honestly. This was all his fault anyway.
Going missing. Fuckin’ up the whole gang. Ruinin’ everything.
Like he meant to.
Henry could hear Patrick’s voice in his head, that snide little tone he used whenever he was bein’ a prick. “Don’t get all bent outta shape, Henry. You’ll wrinkle.”
Henry clenched his jaw so hard it clicked.
God. Fuckin’. Dammit.
He stomped down the sidewalk like the ground had insulted him, kickin’ a crumpled Coke can into the gutter and shovin’ his hands deep in his pockets. Sweat slid down the small of his back. One of his bootlaces was gettin’ loose but he didn’t stop to fix it.
He was just so goddamn angry.
The worst part was feelin’ stupid.
Not that he’d ever admit it. Not even if someone held a gun to his fuckin’ head.
But still. He knew he looked dumb, stormin’ off all dramatic and now walkin’ home alone like a jackass. Vic probably thought he was sulkin’. Belch probably felt bad or guilty or whatever the hell it was he always felt. And somewhere deep in Henry’s chest, behind all the anger, was this gross little ache that felt like somethin’ was missin’. Like he left the house without his belt or forgot how to breathe right.
He was walkin’ past all the stores now—most of ‘em closed for the evening, windows dark and full of dust. Derry looked like a ghost town when the sun got low. Empty sidewalks, flickerin’ street lamps, old neon signs hummin’ like flies.
That’s when he saw it.
The diner.
“Lou’s,” the shitty rusted sign read, half-lit, buzzin’ soft against the side of the building.
He hadn’t meant to walk this way. Hadn’t thought about it.
His stomach growled loud enough to make him pause mid-step.
No. He wasn’t hungry.
Wasn’t.
Food here was fine. Whatever. Hash browns were always too greasy and the coffee tasted like ash water. Nothing special.
Not like he’d been here before.
Not like it meant anything.
Just a fuckin’ diner.
Just a rusted down old place with peeling paint and sticky vinyl booths and a jukebox that only played Elvis and the Everly Brothers.
Just a place where—
No.
Not thinkin’ about that.
Wasn’t even a real memory. Not really.
Not like they’d done anything. It wasn’t a date- fuck no, Henry wasn’t a fag. They just… hung out. Two dudes. After school. Got some food. Talked. Laughed a little.
And yeah, Patrick paid. And yeah, they sat close. And yeah, Patrick looked at him like he was somethin’ interesting.
But that didn’t mean shit.
Henry wasn’t—he wasn’t some queer bitch, alright?
He liked girls.
He did.
Just ‘cause Patrick was—just ‘cause he was—didn’t mean Henry was.
Didn’t mean shit.
Fuck.
His stomach growled again.
Fine.
Whatever.
He’d eat.
Big fuckin’ deal.
Henry stomped up the two chipped concrete steps, shoved open the glass door with a jingle, and stepped inside the diner.
It smelled like bacon grease and mop water.
He didn’t look at the booth in the corner. The one they always sat at.
Didn’t even glance.
Didn’t mean anything.
Not a goddamn thing.
He sat at the counter instead. Ordered whatever was cheapest—grilled cheese, maybe, some sad-ass fries—and picked at it while the radio droned in the background and some old guy coughed into his coffee. Ate slow, even though he wasn’t hungry. Didn’t really taste it. Just needed somewhere to sit where no one’d ask questions. Where no one’d say Patrick’s name.
An hour passed like that. Slow. Greasy. Miserable.
Henry got home late.
Streetlights were on, flickerin’ yellow across the cracked sidewalk out front like piss-colored ghosts. House was dark ‘cept for the living room, blue glow spillin’ out from behind the curtains, the faint sound of some game show or news bullshit buzzin’ through the screen door.
He hadn’t planned on gettin’ a ride back. Was fully set on stompin’ the whole goddamn way home just outta spite—but then Belch had pulled up outta nowhere in the truck, slow and sheepish, windows down, engine rattlin’ like it needed a mercy kill.
Didn’t say nothin’ at first. Just leaned over, popped open the passenger door with that same fuckin’ look. That sad-puppy, sad-bear, guilty-dumbass look Belch had been wearin’ for weeks now. Like Patrick was his lost dog or somethin’. Like it was his fault Vic was a dumbass who said what he said.
Henry had half a mind to slam the truck door shut and walk anyway. But his feet were hurtin’ and he was startin’ to smell like sweat and rage, so he just climbed in without a word.
Belch still didn’t say shit. Not even a joke. Just drove, all quiet, hands too careful on the wheel like he was afraid to set Henry off.
Pissed Henry off even more.
He was tired of feelin’ like a bomb everyone was too scared to breathe near.
The drive was maybe five minutes. Felt like five hours.
And now he was home.
Great.
The house looked like shit from the outside. Shittier on the inside. It was a one-story with peeling white paint and an overgrown patch of lawn that was technically called a yard, but looked more like where weeds went to die.
Inside smelled like old beer and something burnt. Same as always.
TV was on low in the living room, and there he was—Butch Bowers. In his throne. Feet up, socks rolled down, first beer of the night in one hand, remote in the other, white undershirt stretched across his gut like it was beggin’ for mercy. The only light in the room came from the television, turnin’ his face shades of blue and green as it flickered.
Henry stepped in, boots thudding against the floor.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
Butch didn’t look up right away. Just took a swig of beer and grunted. “Where the hell you been?”
“Out.”
That earned him a glance. Cold brown eyes. Tired. Mean.
“’Out,’” Butch repeated, sneering a little. “Well shit, that’s helpful. Out where?”
Henry shifted, jaw clenched. “Helpin’ Mrs. Hockstetter put up signs.”
Butch snorted. “Signs for that missin’ fruitcake kid, huh?”
Henry didn’t move.
Not a blink.
Didn’t even breathe.
Butch shook his head, laughed to himself like he’d just said something real clever. “That boy always looked like he was off. Like he’d end up wearin’ his mama’s panties or killin’ the damn dog. Guess I was half-right.”
Henry stared. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t breathe.
He wanted to beat his father to death with the fuckin’ coffee table for saying that shit.
Rip the beer bottle outta his hand and smash it over his face. Watch him bleed. Watch him beg.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t say nothin’.
Because he was Henry Bowers and Henry Bowers didn’t talk back. Not to him. Not to sir.
It was five whole seconds before he could unclench his fists.
Butch had already gone back to watchin’ whatever was on TV. Something loud. Men shoutin’. Maybe baseball. Maybe the war channel. Didn’t matter.
“Make me a sandwich,” he barked without lookin’ away.
Henry swallowed hard. Felt like there was a nail in his throat. He wanted to spit in the fuckin’ bread. Wanted to put his hand on the burner and press down until it all went black.
But instead, he walked to the kitchen.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t slam the fridge. Didn’t punch the wall.
He got out the bread. Two slices. No crusts. Butch hated crusts, like a fuckin’ toddler.
Mustard. Cold bologna. That sticky Kraft cheese in plastic. One slice, folded, because God forbid it wasn’t folded.
Every part of him felt like it was on fire.
Butch hollered from the couch, “Don’t forget the fuckin’ pickles this time.”
Henry clenched the jar so tight it almost broke.
He didn’t forget the pickles.
He didn’t say a word when he brought the sandwich back.
Just handed it over, plate and all.
Butch grunted. Took a bite. “Didn’t screw it up this time. Good.”
Henry stared at him. At his hands. His face. His beer gut. His big dumb mouth.
Wanted to yell.
Wanted to kill.
But instead he turned around and walked upstairs.
Didn’t slam the door.
Didn’t scream into his pillow.
Didn’t punch the mirror.
Just lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, breath shakin’, chest burnin’.
And thought:
Fuck you, Patrick.
Seriously. Fuck you.
He must’ve laid there for a while. Long enough for the room to go dark ‘round the edges. Long enough for the burn in his chest to turn mean.
He was pissed off enough to kill somebody.
Like, really kill. Not in the dumb, joking way where he’d say it and Belch would laugh and Vic would roll his eyes and Patrick would do that weird-ass half-smile thing like he liked it—no. Not like that.
He wanted to actually fucking murder someone.
Startin’ with Patrick.
That freak. That cocksucker. That stupid, smug, rat-eyed fuckin’ bastard who just had to go and get himself missing. Who had to ruin everything. The gang, the summer, him.
He’d wring his skinny goddamn neck if he ever showed back up. No questions asked. Just grab him by that ugly-ass collar and snap.
And then he’d kill his dad.
Butch fuckin’ Bowers, sittin’ downstairs in his crusty underwear, shovelin’ that sandwich in like he’d earned it. Like he had the right to say shit about Patrick, about anything. He didn’t know jack fuck. Didn’t know Patrick. Didn’t know Henry. Just ran his mouth and threw punches and drank until his eyes went all glassy like a deer starin’ down a truck bumper.
Henry wanted to knock his teeth out.
And then there was Vic. Fuckin’ Vic.
Lookin’ at him like he was some wounded goddamn orphan. All sad-eyed and soft-voiced. Like Henry was broken and Vic was the only one who could see the cracks. Like he gave a shit.
He didn’t need Vic’s pity. He didn’t need anyone. He was fine.
Patrick was dead and that was it. Didn’t matter. Didn’t mean nothin’.
He didn’t care.
(He felt sick.)
And Belch? Fuck Belch. Big dumbass oaf, drivin’ around like a depressed St. Bernard, sniffin’ after Henry like maybe he could fix it with a ride home and a couple awkward farts. He was useless. Quiet. Mopey. Soft.
Henry couldn’t stand to look at him.
And Ben Hanscom. Oh, especially Ben Hanscom.
That fat fuck had a target on him now. Henry was gonna kill him. No more jokes. No more threats.
He was done.
He was gonna beat him to death with his own backpack.
Which, speakin’ of—
Henry looked over at the nasty-ass leather thing slumped in the corner of his room, crusted up and stiff with who-the-fuck-knows-what. The same piece-of-shit backpack he’d had since seventh grade. Stolen outta some other kid’s locker and never gave it back. Stained, torn, full of crap. Not gonna be used for another two months till’ school started up again.
He wasn’t about to sit on his bed mopin’ like some rejected girl in a soap opera. No way. No fuckin’ way. Would rather be productive like some nerd.
So he went over and grabbed it.
Tossed it on the bed.
Zipper half-broken, caught on something. He had to yank it like three times before it opened all the way with a gross, grinding kkrrrkkk noise.
“Christ,” he muttered, leaning over like he was dissectin’ a fuckin’ corpse.
Old gum wrappers. Pens without caps. Pencil stubs. Shreds of paper. Dirt. Some weird lint that might’ve once been food. A melted candy bar wrapper. A couple of his dad’s smokes he’d swiped from the truck’s glovebox and forgotten about. A fork, for some reason.
He started chuckin’ shit out one by one.
Empty folder. Torn notebook. Random-ass coin from… Canada? Fuck if he knew.
Then he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, shoved down in the bottom, balled up tight like it’d been jammed there on purpose.
Henry blinked.
Didn’t recognize it at first. Just looked like trash.
But the moment he unfolded it—creased, soft at the edges, ink slightly smeared—his stomach dropped.
Patrick’s handwriting.
Sharp, messy, all slanted like he was writin’ sideways on purpose.
Henry stared at it.
And just like that—
Boom.
Four months ago.
It was English class. Some long-ass poem on the board. Boring as shit. Some dead guy named Whitman or Wordsworth or Whothefuckcares.
Henry was slouched in his seat, chin in hand, chew mark in his pencil, eyes heavy, ready to die. Vic was two seats over, Belch behind him, and Patrick was—
Thunk.
Something hit the side of his arm.
Henry turned slow.
There it was. A paper ball. Sitting pretty on the corner of his desk like a challenge.
He looked up.
Patrick wasn’t lookin’ at him.
Not directly.
He was leanin’ back in his chair like he didn’t give a fuck about anything, arms crossed, eyes flickin’ to the board, but that smirk—
Goddamn smirk.
Henry snatched up the paper, half-ready to whip it back at whoever the hell thought they were funny—
Oh.
Of course.
He uncrumpled it, already frownin’.
U wanna kill yourself or u just look like that?
Henry had to bite the inside of his cheek to not laugh. Looked down, scrawled a response under it.
Die in a ditch.
Threw it back when the teacher turned around.
Thirty seconds later it came back again.
Hot. Make me.
Fuck Patrick.
He scribbled:
I will. W a tire iron.
Patrick threw the paper back.
Kinky.
Henry grinned so hard he had to cover his mouth with his hand.
They passed that note back the whole class. Dumb shit. Rude jokes. Random-ass insults. None of it made any sense. But every time it landed on his desk, Henry felt this jolt in his gut like he was alive again. Like he wasn’t stuck in that dumb classroom, in that dumb town, with that dumb last name.
And Patrick looked pretty that day.
Not that Henry thought that. No. Not pretty. Just—sharp. Annoying.
Ugly.
Whatever.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was Henry couldn’t stop grinning like a fuckin’ idiot and trying to hide it under his hand.
Now.
The paper felt soft in his hands. Too soft. Like it’d been read a thousand times. Like it didn’t belong in a fuckin’ graveyard of broken pencils and old gum.
His chest hurt.
His head hurt.
He blinked down at it, jaw tight, throat thick.
“Fuck you,” he whispered.
To the paper. To the memory. To Patrick.
To himself.
He crumpled it up again. Tight. As tight as it would go.
Threw it at the wall.
It bounced off and landed by the door.
Didn’t matter.
Didn’t mean anything.
He didn’t care.
Didn’t miss him.
Didn’t want him back.
Didn’t wanna go back to that class and throw notes and see that smirk and bite his cheek tryin’ not to laugh and catch him watchin’ outta the corner of his eye like he was a science project.
He didn’t care.
But his stomach felt hollow.
And his chest ached so bad he thought he might puke.
He lay back on the bed, hands over his face, breathing hard.
“Fuck you, Patrick,” he said again, quieter this time.
The paper stayed on the floor. Right where it landed.
And Henry didn’t pick it up.