+~Henry Bowers~+

The fluorescent lights in the main hallway of Derry High buzzed faintly overhead, still waking up for the day like the rest of the building. It was Monday, February 1958 few weeks until Valentine's Day, and the air already carried that faint, forced sweetness of cheap candy hearts and nervous whispers about who was asking who to the dance.

Lockers slammed in uneven rhythm, sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, and the smell of wet wool coats, cigarette smoke snuck in from the parking lot, and yesterday's cafeteria meatloaf hung everywhere.

Henry Bowers stood leaning against the row of lockers nearest the east stairwell, arms crossed tight over his pink motorcycle jacket, the eagle on the back staring down anyone who dared walk too close. His flattop was freshly spiked, the tin of Butch Wax still warm in his front pocket from the reapplication he'd done in the bathroom mirror two minutes ago. He chewed his Juicy Fruit hard enough that the snap of it could be heard over the hallway noise, jaw working like he was grinding something between his molars besides gum.

Belch Huggins loomed beside him, half-sitting on the ledge of an open locker door, one boot propped back against the metal. He was halfway through a Snickers bar he'd pulled from his jacket pocket, chocolate already smearing the corners of his mouth as he talked around it.

"so I told the old man if he wants the carburetor fixed right, he better let me take the Chevy out this weekend. Said no, of course. Fuckin' miser." Belch wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the rest of the candy bar to Vic without looking. "You want the last bite?"

Victor Criss stood a little apart, one shoulder against the wall, arms folded loose. His pompadour gleamed under the lights, every strand in place.

He shook his head at the offered chocolate, eyes flicking down the hallway in a slow, habitual scan always watching corners, always clocking who was coming and who was avoiding them.

"Nah. I'm good." His voice was calm, low, the way it always was unless Henry started winding up. He tilted his head slightly toward the far end of the hall where a couple of freshmen had just scurried past like startled rabbits, heads down, books clutched to their chests. "You see those two? They practically climbed the lockers to get around us."

Henry snorted, a short, ugly sound. "Pussies." He pushed off the lockers, straightening to his full height, shoulders rolling like he was shaking off sleep or getting ready to start something. The gum popped again, louder. "Whole school's full of 'em. Nobody's got any guts anymore."

Patrick Hockstetter stood a few feet behind the group, back pressed flat to the lockers, hands in his pockets. He hadn't said a word since they'd walked in from the cold.

His round, pale face was blank as a plate, grey-green eyes half-lidded and fixed on nothing in particular maybe the chipped paint on the opposite wall, maybe the way the light flickered in the overhead fixture. He breathed slow and even. If he was listening, it didn't show.

Belch finished the Snickers, crumpled the wrapper, and flicked it toward the nearest trash can. Missed by a foot. He didn't bother picking it up.

"First bell's in like eight minutes," Vic said, glancing at the big clock above the trophy case. "You still wanna hit the bathroom before class? Or we just gonna stand here till Bowers decides who to ruin today?"

Henry's lips peeled back in a rotten-toothed grin that wasn't friendly. "Plenty of time."

He cracked his neck side to side, eyes narrowing as he scanned the hallway again, looking for movement, for weakness, for anything worth noticing. "Day just started. Somebody's gonna fuck up. Always do."

The hallway kept moving around them kids hurrying, laughing too loud, pretending not to see the knot of greasers taking up space like they owned the air itself. The Bowers Gang didn't move for anyone. Not yet.

The moon hung low and fat over Derry that night, February, 1958, spilling a sickly silver light across the cracked asphalt and rusted chain-link fence that ringed the old playground on the far side of the Barrens. The place had been shut down years ago some kid broke his neck off the high slide back in '49 or '50, depending on who you asked and the town never bothered tearing it down.

Just let the weeds choke the swings, the paint peel off the merry-go-round in long curling strips, and the seesaws sag until the wooden seats kissed the dirt.

Henry Bowers kicked the chain link gate open with one engineer boot the padlock had rusted through long ago and gave way like wet cardboard. The metal clanged loud enough to echo off the skeletal slide tower twenty yards away.

"Place still smells like piss and dead leaves," Henry said, voice carrying in the cold air. He spat a wad of Juicy Fruit into the gravel and immediately fished the tin out of his jacket pocket, running a thick finger through the wax before spiking his flattop again.

The pink eagle on his back caught the moonlight like it was ready to take flight. Belch Huggins ducked through the gap next, broad shoulders scraping the fence even though he tried to turn sideways.

He carried a half empty six pack of Narragansett in one meaty hand, the bottles clinking softly. "Better than sittin' in the car listenin' to the radio again. My old man’s been on a tear about the garage books all week needed to get the hell out."

Victor Criss slipped in last, moving quiet and smooth, hands in his jacket pockets. His pompadour stayed perfect even in the wind that rattled the empty swings.

He scanned the playground once habit taking in the busted basketball hoop with no net, the sandbox half-filled with broken glass and pine needles, the jungle gym that looked like a giant rusty cage. No one else around. No cars on the access road. Just them.

"Patrick bail again?" Vic asked, not really expecting an answer.

Henry snorted. "Freak probably found a dead cat to play doctor with. Didn't even ask where we were goin'. Good riddance kid gives me the creeps when he just stares like that."

Belch laughed, a big barking sound that bounced off the metal slide. "Yeah, well, more beer for us." He twisted the cap off one bottle with his palm and passed it to Henry first, then took another for himself. The third he offered to Vic, who shook his head.

"I'm good. Someone's gotta drive us back without wrapping the Chevy around a tree."

Henry took a long pull from the bottle, throat working, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. " ." But there was no real heat in it just the usual ritual. He wandered deeper into the playground, boots crunching over broken bottles and gravel. Stopped at the base of the tall slide, looked up at the rusted ladder like he was sizing up an enemy.

"Remember when we used to chase those little shits up here? Make 'em piss themselves tryin' to climb down?" He grinned, teeth dark and rotten in the moonlight. "Bet the whole town's still scared of this place 'cause of us."

Belch plopped down on one of the seesaws, making the whole thing groan under his weight. He rocked it once, hard, then let it settle. "We could still do it. Plenty of freshmen dumb enough to come out here on a dare. Or we just wait for Valentine's girls get stupid around then. Think they're in some movie."

Vic stayed near the fence, leaning against it, arms crossed. He watched Henry pace, watched Belch drink, listened to the wind move through the bare trees beyond the fence.

Something about the empty playground felt heavier tonight maybe the cold, maybe the way the shadows pooled under the equipment like oil.

He didn't say it out loud. Henry climbed the ladder halfway, boots ringing on the metal rungs, then slid back down on his ass, fast and loud, laughing as he hit the bottom and rolled to his feet. Dust and grit stuck to the back of his jacket. He cracked his neck, eyes bright and restless.

"Let's break something," he said suddenly. "This place is too quiet. Needs some noise."

Belch grinned, already reaching for an empty bottle. "I'm in. What we throwin' at?"

Vic pushed off the fence, stepping forward slow. "Just don't burn it down. Cops still check this dump sometimes."

Henry shot him a look half challenge, half amusement. "Since when you the voice of reason, Criss?" "Since I don't wanna spend the night in county explaining to your old man why his truck's impounded again."

Henry barked a laugh, short and ugly. He picked up a rusted hubcap half-buried in the dirt and winged it toward the merry go round. It hit one of the bars with a sharp clang and spun away into the dark.

The night swallowed the sound. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The three of them stood in the silvered wreckage of the playground, bottles in hand, waiting for whatever came next because with Henry, something always did.

The wind cut sharp across the empty lot behind the old Kitchener Ironworks on the edge of Derry that night, February, 1958. The mill had been shuttered since the war, leaving behind acres of cracked concrete, rusted chain link, and piles of forgotten junk that nobody bothered to clear.

Perfect spot. No houses close enough to call the cops, no streetlights to spoil the dark, just the low hiss of the Penobscot a quarter-mile off and the occasional bark of some farm dog too far away to matter.

Henry Bowers pushed the shopping cart ahead of him like it owed him money. The thing was ancient chrome pitted to gray, one wheel wobbling so bad it squealed every rotation but it held.

Inside a teetering stack of cardboard boxes he'd dragged from behind the A&P dumpster earlier, some still smelling faintly of rotting produce and wet paper. On top of the pile sat a couple of splintered wooden pallets Belch had pried off a loading dock and a half-dozen empty motor-oil cans for good measure.

"Keep movin', fat ass," Henry barked over his shoulder. "I ain't pushin' this the whole way." Belch grunted, hands on the cart's handle now, leaning his bulk into it. The wheel shrieked louder. "This thing's gonna fall apart before we get a spark. Shoulda just piled it on the ground."

"Ground's wet," Vic said from the side, walking easy, hands in his pockets. His pompadour barely moved in the wind. "Cart keeps it up off the concrete. Burns cleaner. Longer."

Patrick Hockstetter trailed a few steps behind the group, hands deep in his coat pockets, moon round face blank under the thin moonlight. He hadn't spoken since they left the car parked half a mile back on the service road.

His grey green eyes tracked the cart like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen all week, but his expression gave nothing away. Just slow, even breathing, boots scuffing the gravel in perfect time.

They stopped in the middle of the widest stretch of open lot, maybe fifty yards from the nearest fence. Henry kicked the brake on the cart more habit than necessity—and stepped back, surveying their work like an artist checking a canvas.

"Looks good," he said. He pulled a book of matches from his jacket, struck one on the zipper, and held the flame out toward Belch. "You got the gas?"

Belch fished a small metal can from inside his leather jacket about a pint of regular unleaded he'd siphoned from his old man's garage tank that afternoon.

He unscrewed the cap, sloshed a generous stream over the boxes, the pallets, the oil cans. The sharp, sweet stink of gasoline cut through the cold air immediately.

"Easy," Vic muttered, taking a half-step back. "Don't drown it. We want it to burn, not explode in our faces."

Henry snatched the can from Belch when he was done, gave it one more shake for luck, then tossed it aside. It clattered and rolled into the dark. He struck another match, cupped it against the wind, and flicked it toward the bottom layer of cardboard.

The fire caught fast greedy orange tongues licking up the soaked edges, crackling as they hit the gasoline-soaked wood. Within seconds the whole pile was roaring, flames climbing ten, twelve feet high, throwing long jumping shadows across the cracked concrete. Heat rolled out in waves, welcome against the February chill.

Henry stepped closer, close enough that the fire painted his face in flickering red and gold. He grinned wide, rotten teeth flashing. "That's more like it." He spat into the flames they hissed back at him.

Belch laughed, loud and barking, already pulling another Narragansett from his coat pocket. He cracked it open with his lighter and took a long swallow. "Better than TV. We should do this every night."

Vic stayed a little farther out, arms crossed, watching the fire with the same calm assessment he gave everything. The light caught the grease in his hair, made it shine. "Cops'll see the glow from Route 7 if it gets too big. Keep it contained."

Henry ignored him. He picked up a loose piece of cardboard from the ground, held it to the flames until it caught, then waved it like a torch, drawing loops of fire in the air.

" the cops. Let 'em come. We'll be gone before they get here."

Patrick hadn't moved closer. He stood exactly where he'd stopped, maybe ten feet from the cart, staring into the heart of the blaze. The firelight turned his pale skin almost translucent, made his eyes look like flat pieces of glass reflecting orange.

He didn't blink much. After a long moment he tilted his head slightly, the way someone might study a bug pinned under glass.

Henry noticed. "What the hell you lookin' at, Hockstetter? You gonna say somethin' or just stand there like a damn statue?"

Patrick's voice came out flat, husky, no inflection. "It's burning." A pause. "The boxes are unreal anyway."

Henry barked a laugh short, mean. "Course they're burnin', genius. That's the point." He tossed the burning cardboard into the cart; it flared up brighter, sending a shower of sparks twisting into the night sky.

Belch belched loudly, wiped his mouth. "Man, this is the life. No school tomorrow till noon 'cause of the assembly. We could stay out here till dawn if we wanted."

Vic glanced at his watch, the cheap Timex glinting in the firelight. "We got maybe twenty minutes before someone notices. Wind's carrying the smoke toward town."

Henry shrugged, eyes locked on the flames like they were telling him secrets. "Let it burn." He cracked his knuckles, one by one. "Whole town's asleep anyway. Nobody gives a shit about an old shopping cart full of trash."

The fire snapped and popped, devouring cardboard, wood, metal edges beginning to glow dull red. Smoke boiled upward in thick black coils, twisting against the stars. The four of them stood around it Henry restless and grinning, Belch drinking and laughing, Vic watchful and quiet, Patrick simply... there, staring into the heart of the blaze like he was waiting for it to prove something.

The fluorescent hum of the guidance office felt louder than usual on the afternoon of February, 1958. The clock on the wall ticked past 3:15, detention long over for most kids, but Henry Bowers still sat slouched in the hard plastic chair outside Mrs. Hargrove’s door, one leg kicked out straight, the other bouncing with restless energy.

His pink motorcycle jacket hung off the back of the chair like a shed skin, sleeves rolled up to show the fresh scabs on his knuckles from yesterday’s “incident.”

Inside the office, Mrs. Hargrove fifty something, horn rimmed glasses, permanent frown had just finished lecturing him for the third time that week. The words still echoed in his head even though the door was closed now

“...serious infraction...broken nose...hospital...suspension pending...apology letter to the victim mandatory if you want any chance of staying in school...write it now, Henry, or I call your father myself...”

Henry had stared at the wall the whole time, chewing his Juicy Fruit so hard the snap carried through the thin partition. When she finally shoved a blank sheet of lined paper and a ballpoint pen across the desk, he’d snatched them without a word. Now the door opened again. Mrs. Hargrove stood in the frame, arms crossed, looking like she already knew what was coming.

“Done?” she asked, voice clipped.

Henry didn’t look up. He folded the paper once, twice, then stood slowly, chair scraping back. He held the note out between two fingers like it was something dirty. Mrs. Hargrove took it, unfolded it, and read.

Her lips thinned to a white line. The page held exactly one sentence, written in Henry’s blocky, angry scrawl that took up almost the whole sheet: AN APOLOGY IM NOT SORRY FOR ANYTHING

All capital letters. No punctuation except the missing period he couldn’t be bothered with. The ink had bled slightly where he’d pressed too hard on the F and the last G. She looked up at him. Henry met her eyes dead on, jaw set, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his rotten toothed mouth. The smell of Juicy Fruit and old sweat rolled off him in waves.

“You think this is funny, Henry?” she said quietly.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t say it was funny. Just said what I meant.”

Mrs. Hargrove exhaled through her nose, refolded the paper with deliberate calm, and tucked it into the top drawer of her desk like evidence. “You’re suspended. Three days minimum. I’m calling your father right now. And when you come back if you come back you will write a real apology. Or we start talking expulsion.”

Henry’s smirk didn’t fade. He grabbed his jacket, slung it over one shoulder, and turned for the door. “Tell Butch whatever you want. He’ll just laugh.”

He walked out without looking back, boots thudding heavy on the linoleum. The hallway was mostly empty now after school hush broken only by the distant clang of a locker and the janitor’s mop sloshing somewhere far off.

Outside the main doors, Belch’s beat up Chevy idled at the curb, exhaust puffing white in the cold February air. Vic leaned against the passenger door, arms crossed, pompadour perfect. Belch sat behind the wheel, radio low, chewing on a toothpick. Patrick wasn’t there hadn’t been all day.

Henry yanked open the back door and dropped into the seat hard enough to make the springs groan.

Vic glanced back. “How’d it go?”

Henry pulled the tin of Butch Wax from his pocket, dipped two fingers in, and started spiking his flattop again, slow and deliberate. “Told ‘em to off. In writing.”

Belch barked a laugh that shook the whole car. “No shit? You actually wrote that?” Henry didn’t answer right away. He popped his gum, loud. “Yeah. And I meant every goddamn word.”

Vic shook his head once, small, almost imperceptible. “You’re gonna get yourself kicked out for real this time.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Vic’s gaze. “Good. Maybe then I can stop pretendin’ I give a shit about this dump.”

Belch put the car in gear, tires crunching gravel as they pulled away from the school. The sun was already dropping behind the treeline, turning the sky the color of old bruises. Somewhere in the glovebox, a fresh pack of Juicy Fruit rattled.

Henry leaned his head back against the seat, staring at the roof liner. The broken nose wasn’t even on his mind anymore not the blood, not the crack of cartilage, not the way {{user}} had gone down clutching their face. Just another Tuesday. Just another thing that happened. And he wasn’t sorry. Not one bit.

The morning of February 14, 1958 Valentine’s Day dawned gray and slushy over Derry, the kind of cold that seeped through coat seams and made everyone hunch their shoulders against the wind.

Derry High smelled like wet paper valentines, cheap drugstore chocolate, and the faint tang of nervous sweat from kids who’d spent all week working up the courage to pass notes or ask someone to the sock hop that night. Henry Bowers arrived late, as usual.

The first bell had rung ten minutes earlier, but he didn’t care. He slouched through the side entrance near the gym, pink motorcycle jacket zipped to the throat, collar popped, flattop freshly waxed and gleaming even under the shitty hallway fluorescents. His boots left dirty tracks on the tile.

In his left hand he carried nothing no books, no lunch sack just a single folded piece of notebook paper clenched so tight the edges were creased and damp from his palm. He’d written it last night in the dim light of his bedroom after Butch passed out on the couch with a bottle of Old Crow.

The words had come out jagged and furious, like everything else about him. He hadn’t shown it to Belch, Vic, or Patrick. Hadn’t even mentioned {{user}}’s name all week.

This wasn’t something the gang got a vote on. This was his, and if anyone found out especially them he’d make sure they regretted opening their mouths.

He spotted {{user}} near the row of lockers by the science wing, back turned, fiddling with a combination lock or maybe just stalling before homeroom. The hallway was thinning out most kids already in class but a few stragglers still milled around, trading candy hearts and giggling over crinkled cards.

Henry moved fast. No swagger, no loud announcement. Just long strides that ate the distance. He came up behind {{user}}, close enough that the smell of Juicy Fruit and motor oil rolled off him like heat.

Without a word he reached around, shoved the folded note into the front pocket of {{user}}’s coat or jacket hard enough to make the fabric bunch and kept walking like nothing happened.

His shoulder clipped {{user}}’s just enough to jolt them. He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Just disappeared around the corner toward the boys bathroom, boots echoing sharp.

The note was simple notebook paper, torn ragged from the spiral binding. Henry’s handwriting was big, angry block letters that dug into the page like they wanted to tear through it: You’re my valentine. DON’T FUCKING ARGUE. DON’T TELL ANYONE NOT YOUR FRIENDS, NOT TEACHERS, NOT MY GANG. IF ONE WORD GETS OUT I’LL BREAK MORE THAN YOUR NOSE NEXT TIME. Be at the back parking lot after the last bell. We’re going somewhere. -H

No hearts. No “please.” Just the threat hanging there plain as day, underlined twice on the last line for emphasis. The ink had smeared slightly where his thumb had pressed too hard.

Down the hall, Belch was leaning against Vic’s locker, laughing about something dumb while Vic combed his pompadour with slow, precise strokes. Patrick stood a little apart, staring at a water fountain like it might do something interesting. None of them had seen the handoff.

None of them knew the note existed. Henry slipped into the bathroom, kicked a stall door shut behind him, and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers not from nerves, but from the same restless energy that always boiled under his skin. He took a long drag, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, and stared at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from this.

Wasn’t sure if he even liked {{user}} in any normal way. But the thought of someone else asking them to the dance, or passing them a card, or even looking at them too long it made something in his chest twist ugly and hot.

So he’d claimed it. The way he claimed everything else.

And if {{user}} talked...

He flicked ash into the sink and grinned at his rotten teeth in the glass. They wouldn’t.

Not if they knew what was good for them.

The second bell rang, muffled through the door. Henry stubbed the cigarette out on the tile, pocketed the butt, and walked out like any other day.

But the note was out there now.

And the clock was ticking until the end of last period.

The clock on the bank across from the alley read 12:03 a.m. when the last streetlight flickered and died, plunging the narrow cut between the old Rexall drugstore and the shuttered barber shop into near total black. Saturday morning, February, 1958 technically.

Derry was dead quiet except for the distant rumble of a freight train crawling through the switching yard and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement two blocks over on Main.

Henry Bowers had {{user}} pinned against the brick wall halfway down the alley, one big hand braced above their head, the other shoved under their coat and shirt, rough palm scraping skin. His pink motorcycle jacket hung open, eagle patch catching the faint moonlight that leaked around the corner.

His flattop was wrecked spikes flattened and greasy from fingers running through it and his breath came hot and fast against {{user}}’s neck, reeking of Juicy Fruit and the half pint of cheap whiskey he’d downed earlier at the edge of the Barrens.

They weren’t dating. Weren’t even friends. This wasn’t planned, wasn’t romantic, wasn’t anything that made sense if you tried to explain it in daylight. One minute they’d been arguing in the back parking lot after the sock hop let out something stupid about who looked at who too long, who said what to who and the next Henry had shoved {{user}} against the Chevy’s fender, mouth crashing down hard enough to bruise lips. Then the car, then driving too fast with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping {{user}}’s thigh like he was afraid they’d vanish if he let go. Then this alley. No words. Just motion.

Henry’s belt buckle clinked as he yanked it open one handed, jeans shoved down just enough. He didn’t bother with finesse never did. He hooked {{user}}’s leg over his hip, boot scraping brick, and pushed in slow at first, then hard, burying himself with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against {{user}}’s collarbone.

The wall was cold against their back, rough mortar biting through fabric, but Henry’s body was furnace-hot, sweat already slicking the space between them.

“ ,” he growled into {{user}}’s ear, voice wrecked and ragged. His hips snapped forward again, setting a brutal rhythm deep, punishing, like he was trying to prove something or erase something or both. His free hand slid up to grip {{user}}’s jaw, thumb pressing into the soft spot under it, forcing their head back so he could see their face in the dim. His own eyes were wild, pupils blown, rotten teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Don’t- don’t fuckin’ say anything,” he rasped, even though {{user}} hadn’t spoken. “Just take it.”

The alley smelled like wet asphalt, spilled beer from some earlier fight, and the sharp metallic tang of Henry’s sweat. Every thrust shoved {{user}} harder against the wall bricks scraped shoulders, elbows, whatever skin was exposed. Henry’s breath hitched every time he bottomed out, a low, animal grunt escaping between clenched teeth.

His hand left {{user}}’s jaw and slid down between them, rough fingers finding where they were joined, rubbing messy circles that didn’t match the rhythm of his hips but didn’t need to Henry wasn’t trying to be gentle or good at this. He was just taking.

...