Henry Bowers⁰⁵

It was a sunny afternoon, the heat was intense, and the air smelled of weed, cheap alcohol, and cigarette smoke. The Bowers gang was gathered near Henry's house.

Patrick played with his lighter, Victor smoked against Belch's Pontiac Firebird, and Belch silently drank beer. Henry, on the other hand, was the center of attention: he held his father's pistol and proudly displayed it, pointing it in the air with a cocky smile.

Henry: “See this? No one in Derry has anything like this. With a couple of shots I could bring them all to their knees.”

The gang looked at him expectantly, but the sound of a patrol car halted the moment. Oscar Bowers got out, still in uniform, his face tired, and the smell of alcohol permeating the air.

Without hesitation, Oscar walked up to Henry, snatched the gun from his grasp, and fired it into the ground. The boom echoed. Henry jumped, raised his hands, and covered his face, trembling.

Oscar looked at him with disdain.

Oscar Bowers: “Showing off my gun again? Look at him… the great Henry Bowers, playing at being a man. He’s just a kid.”

The gang fell silent; Patrick's smile faded, Victor looked away, and Belch uncomfortably lowered his beer. Henry, his face red with rage and embarrassment, turned and slammed the door into the house.

You hesitated, but decided to follow him. You went upstairs and found him in his room, facing away, shirtless. His skin was marked with scars, bruises, and still-fresh red lines. He was holding onto the edge of the bed, breathing furiously.

Without looking at you, his voice came out low and rough:

Henry: “Close the damn door. I don’t want you to see me like this, and don’t say anything about what you see... understood?”