Memory share.

[gristle]

[Video of the scene can be found here ]

You’re going to meet Bill. After everything with the Loser’s club breaking up, the two of you are the only ones who are doing any investigating. It’s simple for you to just shove your notebook into your bag--your father is supposed to be at work, and as long as you’re home before he is, then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Well, as much as you can have nothing to worry about when it comes to your father. But you’re running late as you head towards the front door and the vibe of the room is wrong, that much you can tell even before you see the shiny new brass of the padlock that you know is intended to keep you in.

Then you hear your father behind you, and your shoulders sink inward without your meaning too. God, you hate his voice so much, and the accusation in it when he asks: “Where are you sneaking off too?”

Your heart is in your throat and your stomach is at your feet when you find yourself just stammering back, letting the sense of self-preservation seep in, trying to keep him happy: “No where, Daddy.” Daddy. God how you fucking hate calling him that.

He’s staring at you overly intently from the easy chair half-hidden in the dark, and the first accusation takes you by surprise: “You’re looking prettied up.”

“I’m not prettied up, Daddy. I wear this almost every day.” It’s true, you do. It’s a hand-me-down dress and shorts and your keys around your neck. You wouldn’t wear makeup even if you could. You already hate how the people in this town look at you now, never mind adding that into it.

“Come.” He gestures to you, and it’s the last thing you wanna do. Your stomach is freezing over, and you set your bag down by the door so he can’t rip anything inside of it up. Your father’s hand reaches out for you, and you just swallow down the taste of bile before you put your own in his. And he squeezes it, running his fingers against the skin at your wrist. “You know, I worry about you, Bevvie--” god you hate that name!

“I know.” The words are breathed and you’re trying to look anywhere but in his eyes, but his hand tightens and releases against your own before tightening back against it.

“People in town have been saying some things to me about you.” You can only imagine, they’ve been saying things for years because you’re poor, because of your father. “Sneaking around all summer with a bunch of boys.” Friends, the friends you’ve had for the first time in a long time. “The only girl in the pack.” Because the other girls wouldn’t be friends with you if you paid them and you wouldn’t want to be friends with any of them! The Loser’s Club are the only friends you need and you miss them.

“They’re just friends. I swear.” You keep your voice light, gentle trying to keep him from getting angry, but his hand keeps getting tighter and his grip is starting to hurt!

“I know what’s in boys minds when they look at you, Bevvie. I know all too well.” Of course he does, because he’s been looking at you like that for longer than you want to remember.

“My hand..” You try as you take a step back. But he doesn’t let go. Instead his grip tightens as he stares you down.

“Are you doing womanly things down in the woods with those boys?” God the idea of it makes you want to vomit.

So does trying to convince him, but you have to. “No. No. No. Nothing. You don’t have anything to worry about! I promise. ” You’re pulling still, and now you’d be able to break his hold like that, but he’s not letting go.

And then he pulls out the postcard with the poem on it that you got. “Then what’s this?” Your heart is thudding so hard you can hear it, and are aware of it. And you can’t keep the fear off your face as you look at your father sullening it with his touch like he dirties everything else.

“It’s nothing. It’s just a poem.” Because if he thinks it’s nothing then maybe he’ll let it go, even if you know he won’t.

“Just a poem? But you had to hide it in your underwear drawer.” You swallow, because you’d been hoping that you’d left it out rather than him going through your things, even though you know you wouldn’t be so careless with something like this. With your other hand wrapping around your wrist for leverage, you try and pull your hand away from his grip. “Now why would you have to hide it there?!” His breathing is shaky, and that’s terrifying, but not as much as the next words that come out of his mouth: “are you still my girl?!”

“No.” For the first time, you allow yourself to say it to him, and you’re both a little in shock even as you’re still pulling on your hand with all of your weight.

His voice is harsh in disbelief. “What did you say?”

You scream it in his face, and it feels good: “I said no!” You grunt and pull or your father releases you and you fall backwards, knocking against the ironing board and sending the iron clattering to the ground as he comes stalking towards you. “Get away! No!” You scream the words at him, and you scream in general, scrambling back away from him. When he reaches for your legs, you make a decision, and you feel at peace with it in your mind. No. Never again. So you kick at him, and you scream: “Get off!” You’re gasping when he’s in your face and you can smell the stink of his breath.

“Those boys do they know that you’re my--” You don’t even give your father the chance to get the words out before you grunt and do what you always wanted to do: you draw your foot back and kick him directly in the balls. When he grunts and rears back, the heel of your shoe meets his nose with a satisfying crack. He groans, and you scramble onto your feet, running towards the one room in your house that still has a lock on the door, even if it’s flimsy at best. Whatever else, your father isn’t going to stay down.

You lock the door and pant against it for a moment, before you can hear him coming down the hall. You know he’s going to be able to get in. You know what will happen if you don’t stop him. You know what will keep happening. So, you pick up the lid to the back of the toilet seat and go and hide in the tub behind the curtain. If he doesn’t come after you, then nothing will happen. That’s what you decide. If he comes after you, then he deserves what he gets.

He rattles the doorknob, and you just grip the porcelain more tightly. It stops, and for a moment you hear his steps going away and you hope that’s the end of it for right now. But it’s not, and your father kicks the door to the bathroom open. He comes in and pauses to look for you, before he starts to draw back the cheap shower curtain. So, with a yell and all of the force in your body, you swing the toilet lid at his forehead. It connects with a solidness that vibrates through your hands and arms and the porcelain shatters around the both of you.

When you get out out of the tub, you’re breathing heavily and you just look down at your father on the floor. Blood is spreading from the wound in his head but you don’t feel bad at all. You feel relieved, and you close your eyes with that for a moment. It’s over, you think. It’s finally really over.

Then you open your eyes and turn to leave, and walk right into the demon clown who’s been stalking you and your friends and every other kid in Derry. Who's killed Georgie and so many others. IT's hand closes around your throat, and you black out.