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Bill Denbrough was absolutely certain that this year was shaping up to be the worst year of his life. And he had only had a birthday three months ago, but he wasn’t even sure he could count it as a proper birthday.
Yes, it was the day he was born, and yes, he did age. But everybody forgot him. His parents were too busy at work or getting drunk to notice him, his teammates didn’t give a shit, they probably wouldn’t even notice if he never came back to school, and his friends…
Well, he wasn’t even fully sure that they were his friends anymore. They hadn’t spoken in years, last he’d heard a few of them got into relationships and earned scholarships. All while little old Bill was trying to be somebody he was not.
Three months in and Sixteen was already shit.
Sixteen was supposed to be the year that everything came into place in his life. He was supposed to get the guy, be happy, smoke weed with people he loved, and go to parties.
He was supposed to belong . People were supposed to actually like him, why else did he work so hard to change everything about himself? Why else would he quit the writing club to join baseball and soccer and the fucking football team? He hated sports. He hated those teams, he hated everyone in the locker rooms who laughed at him, called him a faggot, punched and kicked him down until he had to learn how to fight back. He never did, though. It wasn’t worth fighting back when he knew that everything they said, everything those boys did, was true and well deserved.
But it wasn’t working. None of it would get better, no matter how hard he tried.
He tried to be a new and improved Bill, someone people would want to be around and stick with. He thought that maybe if he changed enough to the point he couldn’t remember who he really was, people might…
He didn’t even remember what he wanted anymore. It seemed so fake, so far away and out of reach.
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the freezing red locker he’d been standing in front of for the past 15 minutes, hating himself. He was going to cry, and he wanted to so badly. But he couldn’t.
Because boys don’t cry, attractive boys who have their shit together don’t cry. Ever.
He jumped when somebody slammed his locker shut. His eyes welled up while he looked at Gregory Stodder. He laughed.
“Pick your sissy shit up and get changed, Denbrough. Don’t be late again.”
His voice was so harsh, poisonous, and cold. Bill was afraid of this man, almost terrified of what he might do to him if they lost the scrimmage tonight. He hated how that tone always reminded him of the locker room showers, how it made his blood pump faster and his pants suddenly feel a little too tight. The tone Gregory had used when Bill was first allowed on the team.
He didn’t get a chance to reply before Gregory turned and left with the rest of the pack. He could hear them talking about him, laughing and spewing slurs and rumors like they were talking about the weather.
He changed quickly and tried to forget about the feeling that his heart was a brick. Bill’s legs felt like lead while he walked out of the locker room and onto the field, already sweating under the April sun.
He just had to get through today and he could go home, steal some of his dad’s alcohol, and pass out.
Maybe this time he’d act on the plan he’d made years ago when everything was just beginning to float away.
Back then, it felt like he was out at sea, gasping for air and for somebody, anybody to toss out a life vest or a rope or anything to save his life. And when somebody finally did throw him one? It was cement, pulling farther down and deeper into the dark and cold waters of loneliness and abandonment.
Sometimes, if Bill was honest with himself, it was like that feeling never really went away. Not even for a moment.
They won the scrimmage. Bill was outfield, which helped. There was nothing for him to mess up that way. Nobody paid attention to him. That meant he also wasn’t invited to drinks (Because did he really do anything?). He was never invited to drinks, anyway.
That was fine, because it meant he could go home and sink into the cold bathtub sooner without any feeling that somebody might care. He didn’t need to be surrounded by even more people who hated him when he already hated himself.
He didn’t want to be a fucking pussy again.
Walking home after practice was too hot and sticky. His clothes stuck to his body in all the wrong places, reminding him of everything he hated about his body.
Bill was relieved when he finally saw his house.
Even more relieved when there were no cars in the driveway.
He walked through the house, the wood creaking under his feet. It was freezing inside, despite the hot weather. Maybe the cold was a product of the emptiness—a reflection of how his parents were toward him after he wasn't the perfect son for them.
Maybe the cold was his fault.
Bill liked to imagine how different the world would be if he was suddenly no longer there. If he just disappeared into thin air, gone without a trace. He’d pictured his own funeral so many times that it became a comfort.
The usual picture came into his mind as he made his way up the stairs.
He wondered who would mourn him, who would look back and smile with tears in their eyes at the memories they had of him.
He wondered who would show up to his funeral.
Obviously, his parents would be there, and a few extended relatives who he’d only met as an infant. But would that be it? Maybe his old English teacher would show, maybe even his kindergarten speech therapist. But he couldn’t imagine anybody his own age would be there. Not his teammates, not the guy who laughed in his face when he’d asked him out. Not any of the men he slept with for half of a joint.
Would the losers be there?
His heart hurt when he thought about them, how their concern slowly turned to disdain and disgust. He was sure they hated him now, leaving them after all he’d put them through.
Fuck, now he was crying. God fucking dammit. Why was he such a fucking pussy ? Why did he have to think about what he was doing? Why did he have to take the time to be sentimental? Why couldn’t he just turn his mind off and just do it already?
People would call him a bitch for this. They’d say he was selfish, obsessed with himself and his problems. That he didn’t care about how he made the people around him feel. He knew it, but nobody would miss him. Nobody would say how they missed his smile that hadn’t been real in years. They wouldn’t talk about his writing or praise him as a “lost light” or whatever else they said at funerals. He had nothing to leave behind, nothing to remember him by.
Nothing but the relief that Bill Denbrough was finally gone.
The bathroom was freezing. The lights were too harsh.
His skin looked like thin paper over purple veins.
The bags under his eyes were so deep they looked like he’d been punched in the face.
He was crying.
He was skinny and bony.
Bill was weak.
Fucking pussy.
Bill stared at himself for a good while, criticizing his bloodshot eyes. His one saving grace was the freckles peppered across his nose. The one thing people would compliment him on. He didn’t deserve it, though. It was all genetic, all random luck from his mother.
He missed who his mother used to be. Before tragedy stole both of her children away and turned her husband into an abusive monster, she used to be so fun. She used to be full of life, and coming home to her was the best part of Bill’s day. Now, she was destroyed, only barely hanging onto herself through shrinks and psychiatric drugs.
In many ways, he was a lot like her. He looked just like her. It was almost fate that they’d end up the way that they did. They both had bright futures that pain destroyed. They both had over 10 hospital stays under their belts, and Bill was sure to have more by the time he reached her age. If he reached her age. He’d be lucky if he lived to see 21.
With a sigh, Bill shook his mother’s face out of his head and stepped away from the mirror, giving a tentative glance at his phone. Maybe for a sign, maybe for an excuse to hang around for a little while longer.
A text from a teammate, his parents telling him what time to expect them home or that they’d even be home at all.
He wanted to see that his essay had been graded.
Even a fucking angel number, anything to show him that today wasn’t the day to give up.
But, as if the universe was laughing right in his face, there was nothing. Not even a reminder to stay sober and “don’t break your streak!” from his stupid little health app. He was pathetic for even setting up that account in the first place, his longest “streak” was only a week long.
So much for bettering himself, he thought. The only way he could dig himself out of his pit of depression was to just end it all.
Bill rifled through the medicine cabinet for a few minutes before finding what he was looking for: some quaaludes, a few old sleep drugs from middle school, and his mom’s “emergency” tequila. Now that he was committing to his plan, Bill felt nervous.
His parents could easily be caught for child neglect if somebody saw it. Usually, when he was younger, Bill would've been worried, anxious about the possibility of being taken away from home. Today, he was just grateful his mom hadn’t gotten around to spring cleaning.
He stripped out of his sweaty clothes, down to his boxer briefs. It felt nice to have the air on his skin, but he gave himself and his parents a bit of decency to cover himself.
Quaaludes went down easily with the alcohol, he just wished it hadn’t been so strong. His limbs were already beginning to feel floaty and loose when he took a seat in the tub. Bill didn’t want any chance of being conscious if it didn’t go the way he’d planned, so he’d swallowed as many sedatives would fit down his throat.
Bill carried on alternating pills and alcohol for a while until he couldn’t force his arms up anymore. He felt heavy and weightless at the same time, floating in the air and sinking like a brick. His brain was just a mess of tangled-up thoughts and streams of consciousness until everything inside went silent and he was able to sleep.
It was a dark and dreamless sleep, but it was the best rest he’d had in a long time. Words and thoughts slowly made less sense until he didn’t even try to put them together anymore.
Bill was almost at peace in the suffocating quiet, whatever “at peace” truly meant.
If he was dying, Bill didn’t think it was half bad. Not as bad as anybody made it seem, anyway. He wasn’t scared or sad anymore, he couldn’t tell if he felt numb or if he was just going to sleep. Certainly not as bad as the big, scary ball of emotions that had built in his chest to lead to this moment. It was beautiful, in a sick, twisted way.
He enjoyed floating away into nothingness. He enjoyed the calm of dying and the silence in his mind.
That was until he woke up in a bright, loud, and smelly blur. There were hands on him and hurried voices that he couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t understand what they were saying and it didn’t matter when a hot river of bile fell from his mouth. He cried as it left a cruel taste on his tongue and a churn in his stomach, his throat feeling cut up and raw.
Bill couldn’t quite make out what anybody was doing, if the things they were saying were to him. All he knew was that he was uncomfortable and overwhelmed and he wanted to go to sleep so fucking bad. He whined and groaned in discomfort but the hands wouldn't stop touching him, wouldn’t leave him be in the-- where the fuck was he?
The beeping was what told him. The insistent, loud, annoying beeping that tracked his too-fast heart.
He began to sob, shaking his head and hating all of it. He couldn’t believe that it hadn’t worked, that he’d failed again, and that he had to face his actions. He just wanted all of it to end, waned the hurt to stop, but now it was only just beginning.
Bill was grateful when he was dragged into another heavy sleep. He’d take anything if it meant he could put off the inevitable.
He didn’t wake up again for a long time. Bill could feel how worn out and exhausted his body was from the day’s events.
It hurt to open his eyes and glance around the darkened room, shifting in the stiff hospital mattress to get a better look at things. That was when he realized that there was a tube down his throat.
Being aware of it made him gag, lurching forward and retching as his throat tried to reject the foreign object, and his eyes filled with tears. He gripped onto the sheets and cried until he was pulled back into his bed by small hands.
Bill blinked through his tears and stared at the person, letting out a miserable sob when he saw soft brown eyes staring back at him, a crease between their brows.
It was Eddie.
God, Eddie came to see him. He didn’t even think Eddie still cared about him, but here they were, shushing Bill and helping him back onto his bed.
“You have to calm down,” they whispered, looking at Bill with tears in their eyes. But Eddie had this weak smile on their face as they looked at him. “You have to relax, okay? You’re okay.”
They rambled on, still combing his hair back and even pressing a hesitant kiss to his forehead. Was Eddie that worried? It wasn’t usual for them to be so close to their friends.
Bill tried to voice this but was quickly shushed again.
They sat like that for a while, Eddie murmuring sweet things to him as Bill stared around the room.
He was so tired, he could barely pay attention to them.
Bill fell asleep again just like that, sharing the bed with Eddie laying next to him. It was nice. Eddie calming him and playing with his hair while he slept was so fucking nice .
He wished he could find somebody to love him like that. Maybe that would’ve kept him going, he thought. Maybe if he had someone like Eddie to keep him warm at night, he wouldn’t have given up so quickly.
Waking up without Eddie next to him felt like a stab in Bill’s heart.
He looked around, this time without the tube down his throat, and frowned when all he saw was a man in a white coat.
The man stared at him, took notes, and smiled. Bill hated his smile. It was patronizing, the kind of smile one might offer to a frightened animal or a small child.
“Hey, pal. How are we feeling?” His voice was just as condescending as his smile.
God, Bill wanted to punch this man in his stupid fucking smile.
“Tired,” he rasped. His throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper. “I’m really tired.”
“I bet,” the man chuckled, “I would be, too.” He scooted forward in his dumb little wheely stool and offered Bill a plastic cup of warm water. “I’m a doctor here, I’m going to help you out for a little while.”
Bill furrowed his eyebrows and sipped on the disgusting water.
“You’re a shrink,” he criticized, “I don’t need to talk to a shrink.”
“I think you do.”
‘I don’t want to, then.”
The doctor laughed at him.
He fucking laughed while Bill sat and stared at him.
“Listen, I know you’re probably in no mood to be talking to me–” that was putting it fucking lightly– “but I have to ask you these questions, bud, so we know where your mind’s at.”
“I tried to kill myself. That’s where I’m at.”
He laughed again. Maybe he was trying to connect to a teen’s sense of humor. Bill couldn’t tell.
They spoke for hours, shifting between a leading question and comments about Bill’s personal life.
“So, was this your first attempt?
“What about football? Don’t you like that?”
“Will you do it again?”
They were so easy to lie about. Bill had seen where they put kids who answered these questions honestly. Bill knew that if he did say “why, yes, I think about bleeding out in my bathtub quite often,” he’d be locked up for years and drugged until he didn’t know his own name, drool dripping down his chin.
So, he lied. And after he lied, the doctor left. And Eddie came back to hold him again.
They brought him a Honey Bun and a bottle of water so cold, he could’ve moaned.
Bill slept curled up with Eddie again that night, and this time, they stayed. They held Bill until morning and helped him get up, get dressed, and prepared him to see his mother in the lobby.
“You’re sure you’ll be okay at your place? I can– I mean, I can ask Rich or Mike to let you crash while you recover–”
“No, no… It’s too weird,” Bill sighed. It had been too long. “I’ll be okay. Already took all the pills in the house,” he chuckled, stopping when Eddie frowned, flashing their big doe eyes up at him.
They walked together in silence after that, Eddie giving him one last hug before Bill’s mother took him out to the car. She pretended like nothing had happened as she drove, she hardly even spoke.
Until they reached the house.
She turned in her seat and looked her son in the eyes, her own red-rimmed and puffy.
“Bill, honey…” She sniffed and sighed, “Bill, I’m so sorry.”
Bill sat in shock when his mother pulled him close and hugged him tightly, kissing his head and crying.
He didn’t know what to do, so he just… sat there. He hadn’t been hugged by his mother in years, hadn’t had a heart-to-heart with her since Georgie was taken away.
They walked inside together, hugged a bit more, and Bill went up to his room to lie down.
He felt like his body had been invaded, sore inside and out, and bruised from everything the doctors had done to him.
“Couldn’t have been gentler, huh?” He chuckled softly, looking at an old, beat-up teddybear. “Yeah, now I know how you feel.”
Bill held the bear to his chest and rolled onto his side.
Just as his eyes began to close and he relaxed into his bed– when was the last time he’d slept on clean sheets –his phone buzzed.
And then it buzzed again, and again, and again until it was impossible to ignore.
Bill sighed and rolled over, looking at the bright phone screen.
Texts, missed calls, and Instagram messages from the last two days filled his screen. A generic mention on his team’s Instagram story, a few texts from some relatives and an old project group, even a message on Remind from his literature teacher. None of it mattered to him.
He didn’t care about any of the messages until he scrolled and saw texts from the losers.
Stanley was pissed. Mike offered to bring over some food. It was weird to see their names and numbers after two years of separation.
Even Beverly had called him and left a message ( “I thought you were getting better before I moved,” was what broke the wall holding his tears at bay.)
All of it was too much.
Bill couldn’t deal with his emotions again, so he didn’t. He turned off his phone, pulled the covers over his head, and closed his eyes.
He could deal with his feelings in the morning. He could work through the tangled-up mess in his chest in required therapy sessions.
But not now.