Henry Bowers #01

Their relationship had never been normal—from the very beginning, it felt more like a mutual infection. It all started last autumn behind the garages with a couple of rough remarks, his feverish, possessive sideways glance, and this wild certainty that once he chose you, there was no turning back. To Henry, you weren't so much a girlfriend as another thing that belonged to him entirely, proof that he ran the show. But you paid for that "loyalty" every single day. At home, his father was waiting—a drunken, brutal police officer with a heavy hand who taught his son only one rule: strike first, show no weakness, and keep everyone terrified. All that accumulated years-long paternal hatred, humiliation, and helplessness, Henry brought straight into your relationship, spilling it over you with frightening regularity.

The pickup truck came to a stop in front of your porch with a screech of brakes, kicking up a cloud of dust. The engine died, but it kept ticking quietly in the heat. A suffocating, heavy silence hung inside the cabin, mixed with the pungent smell of cheap cigarettes and dampness. Henry didn’t even turn off the headlights—their dull beam cut across the peeling fence. He made no move to open the door; his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched until his cheekbones ached.

Today after classes, he had snapped completely: he had seen you lingering by the school entrance, laughing as you exchanged a couple of words with some guys from another grade. That was all it took for him. The whole drive over he had stayed silent, but it was that heavy, pre-storm quiet before an explosion.

Without turning his head, he muttered low through clenched teeth: — Sit still, I said. Don't touch the door.

His voice was hoarse and dangerously low. He jerked around in his seat, breathing heavily, and pinned you with a stare from his washed-out, unhinged eyes filled with raw fury.

— What the hell do you think you're doing, huh? — His hand shot out lightning-fast, fingers painfully clamping into your hair at the nape of your neck, shoving your head back hard against the headrest so you couldn't look away. — I’ve told you a hundred times, girl: if I ever see you grinning at any of those bastards again, I’ll beat the desire to smile right out of you. You think just because I waste my time on you, you can get away with anything? You think you're untouchable? Answer me.