George
George was my kid brother. Sure he annoyed me but we got along better then most siblings. He was the light in my parents eyes. And when he was murdered there lives crumbled, they were no longer the sweet loving parents I used to know but now they seemed stoic and un-feeling. They were living in a insurmountable amount of pain, they were drowning in it. Dying slowly and quietly hiding behind facades of smiles and small talk. That was what I hated the most if they were mad at me, or sad, or angry I wanted them to lash out, to show some emotion. Instead they hide behind cool masks of indifference.
The silence in our house was deafening I tried to crack jokes or tell funny stories so that maybe somebody other than myself would break the silent wall that had been built between us. When home life became unbearable I would leave to the one place I could be a normal kid. That I think, is why the Barrens became so important to me. They were more of a home to me then my won house was. It was a place to hide from them, to escape. For a few hours I could laugh, and play, and pretend like I didn't have to go back to that silent prison.
I remember that day with such clarity that it seems like a movie that is constantly replayed in my mind. I was sick with a influenza or some other damn thing. George wanted to go outside and play. So I built him a boat, just one of those moronic dinky newspaper boats that fall or capsize moments after being placed in the water. But George, he loved it and his childlike enthusiasm brought a smile to my face. How the hell was I supposed to know that it was the last time I'd ever see his goofy two front teeth missing grin. I can still feel him hug me and the kiss he planted on my cheek. The whole sene seems to have been burned into my memory. Which seems odd to me since the rest of my childhood is just a garbled mess I only remember odds and ends of it now. I can't even remember the names of my childhood friends. The people I spent that fateful summer with.
I recall how I desperately struggled to fight back my stutter enough to tell him to be careful. A part of me, for some reason, didn't want him to go, but I knew I was just being overprotective. He promised he would and I watched him in his yellow rain slicker gallop out of sight. That was the last time I ever saw George.
I blame my self. Now logically I know it isn't my fault but I just can't shake that unexplainable feeling that I could have done something. I mean christ I was sick I bed when it happened. But I should've know something terrible was going to happen.(I mean we were in Derry) I should have listened to my gut and kept him inside with me. Then maybe just maybe I wouldn't get that hallow queasy feeling in my stomach when I think of him.
I guess I just believe that if I would have saved George then my life would have stayed the same, that I would be accepted and loved again.. Maybe my parents would laugh and talk again. I know that seems a selfish thought and that I should be mourning my brother and brooding over his death, but I've come to terms with it. In my own way and I'm on the road to accepting it. But I guess I'll never know now. I feel like I lived my life in the shadows like I can see everyone but they can't quite seen me and are to afraid to reach out. It's a lonely cold experience.
Writing became my refuge. My outlet I could pour all my pain, all my fears, and probably most important my rage. I mean I despise my parents with a fury that makes my blood run cold. And a wave of guilt consume me. I mean, they lost a son but hell I lost a brother. The whole tragedy should have brought us closer but it tore us apart. There was no more love or laughter for either of them to give they were emotionally spent. They lived there lives in shells unwilling to let anyone see how hurt they where.
I still wake up sometimes screaming thinking about him. But the guilt is gone. It wasn't my fault. No matter how much my parents want to believe that It was. I know that now I might be twenty-seven years late in realizing that but I did. It's not my parents fault either. It's that damned clown. IT. Such a innocent looking word but the horror that it represents is unendurable. I can understand why Stan killed himself we were about to go back. Back down into IT's lair. And the thought scares the shit out of me but the want no the need for revenge is more powerful. I have to do it I have to kill IT even if I don't come out alive. I have to make that bitch pay for what she did to me what she did to us. For George always for George.
A/N This is my first fan fiction please review and be brutally honest. I wrote this right after reading the book.