It (2017) || Imagines ||

Tristophobia || Bill Denbrough

Tristophobia ~
fear of sorrow or sadness

You traced a finger over the bruises and scars that seemed to line every inch of your body. Some were old, some were fresh. Like this one on your cheek. Old... but only by a few months or so. A cut from glass that had been thrown at you from across a room. It had shattered on the wall, narrowly missing your face, still managing to cut you.
After that incident, you ran to the only place you felt safe. To the only person you felt safe with. And you had stayed there. You were never going back home.

But if there's one thing your family taught you, the only thing they were ever right about, is that no matter what happened, you would never cry. As your father had said, "if you cried, you were weak." And never once had you shown them you were weak. You have never shown anybody, not even your new family.

The Denbroughs were more than willing to take you in. They made sure you were fed, clean and had a place to sleep. Bill was your best friend. Georgie was like a little brother to you.

You loved them like a real family, and you were sure they felt the same.

Then one day, everything just seemed to go wrong. 

Bill was practically bedbound with illness. You couldn't be too close for too long. Georgie, however, wanted to play, despite the heavy downpour thudding on the windows. You'd decided that you'd be Bill's personal carer till he got better; without him you were bored out of your mind anyway.

The rain was harsh and heavy. But in the afternoon, you found young Georgie pulling on your sleeve, begging you to go outside.

"No, Georgie. It's throwing it down. And I have to stay," you said, frowning at the disappointment in his face.

"Please will you come, Y/N?" He repeated. 

"I'm sorry. I need to stay here for Billy. But how about we make you a boat, huh?" you smiled. The delight returned, and you felt better. 

Perched on the elder brother's bed, you carefully tore and folded a paper boat, taking care not to papercut your already scarred hands. Bill sent Georgie to the basement for wax to make it float, as he delicately printed the words S S Georgie onto the side in black marker. Georgie returned, looking oddly shaken, but you brushed it off as a fear of the dark. Poor, sickly Bill managed to get himself out of bed and to his desk to paint on the wax. Finally, it was done, and Georgie held it up with amazement. He hugged Bill tightly, and then you, as he thanked the two of you. 

"Are you sure you can't come?" he asked sadly. 

"Your brother's dying, Georgie. I'm sorry," you replied, giving him another hug. 

He smiled and waved goodbye as he skipped out of the door. Neither you nor Bill moved from the window until Georgie and his paper boat were completely out of sight.

Neither of you knew that would be the last time you saw him.

When Georgie didn't return, his mother and father went out searching. They came home to find Bill and you sat anxiously on his bed. Your heart felt like it was going to burst from your ribcage, and your throat was tight.

And then they told you. He was gone. Georgie was dead.

At first, you thought it was like a bad dream, or a sick joke. Like the time your father pretended that your puppy had been run over, just to laugh at your heartbroken face. As the news settled in, you felt dizzy and sick. You knew you wouldn't be able to speak even if you wanted to. Your body felt limp, but your heart felt heavy. Your stomach twisted and sunk, as though you were on a drop on a rollercoaster- and right now, you wanted nothing more than to crash.

Bill's parents left the room without saying anything else. They should have stayed, hugged their remaining son tight, told him it would be okay; but you couldn't blame them once you saw the utter distraught and despair in their eyes. 

You were silent. You had no words as Bill, quieter than you had ever seen him before, looked at you. You could see that he wanted to scream, shout, break everything in sight. But he sat there, frozen. Staring. You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. There was a sting in your eye. It glistened momentarily. But you swallowed again.

Weak, you heard in your head. Your father's voice. Don't. Be strong. Don't cry. 

With a hiccup, Bill's face finally scrunched up, and he began to bawl. You reached over and grasped him, holding tight. For years, this boy had protected and comforted you. Then he had rescued you. Now it was your turn to comfort him, and you had no idea how to do it.

"They can't have l-looked everywhere. He ha-has to be s-somewhere," Bill wept. His stutter was more prominent in his cries. You wrapped your arms tighter around him, feeling his body wrack with sobs. 

"Bill. Billy. It's okay, shh, it's okay," you whispered, but your voice was hoarse. You didn't know what else to say. Of course it wasn't okay. Georgie was dead.

Please, Y/N. Please come with me.

No, Georgie. I have to stay.

Your last conversation. He had begged you to go, and you left him alone. You didn't need to stay. You left him to wander the streets alone, and he had been killed. You weren't there to protect him.

At that thought, the sting in your eye returned. Your chest tightened, squeezing at your heart. In your arms, Bill sobbed. You could feel his tears wet through your t-shirt. 

"It's my fault," you whimpered, barely audible even to your own ears. You buried your face into Bill's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

With your father's words still echoing in your head, for the first time in years a tear slipped from your eye. Within seconds, a river cascaded down your cheeks, soddening both yours and Bill's shirts. But you didn't care. Not any more.

You held each other tight as you sobbed. You were all each other had left.