It was a less scorching summer day in Derry, Maine. The Bowers gang stood in Henry’s backyard, practicing their aim with his father’s gun. The sound of a bottle breaking, followed by some excited praises towards Henry filled the air. He smirked and ordered Belch to grab a stray cat that had been roaming around the backyard. Hesitantly, Belch grabbed the cat and held it as he putted it on the same spot where the bottle had been standing.

“Just hold it.” , Henry told Belch as the cat squirmed around and he pointed the gun at it. Just as he was about to shoot, he heard his father’s voice.

“What the Hell’s goin’ on here?” , the low and monotone voice of his alcoholic father muttered. He stood behind his son in his cop uniform.

“Cleanin’ your gun. Like you asked.” , Henry replied as he looked down, avoiding his father’s gaze. He turned around cautiously and finally looked at his father.

“You’re cleanin’ my gun, huh?” , his father mocked with a stern look on his face, before roughly grabbing the gun from his son’s hands.

Henry looked down as his father came closer, intimidating him. He felt a shudder going up his spine as he tried to form coherent words, his lips parting, but the only thing that came out was a silent ‘dad-‘ before he got cut off with a yell from his father and flinching. Butch Bowers turned around and proceeded to walk away, only to turn around when he was a few feet away from Henry and firing at his feet, not injuring him, but giving a mere warning. He looked at the rest of the gang as his own son trembled like a leaf and hid his face in his hands as he sobbed softly. After a sneer directed to Henry’s friends he turned around and left with slow strides.

Now, Henry sat in front of Belch’s blue Trans-Am, his eyes still lachrymating. He glared at the sight in front of him. Belch and Victor leaned against the side of the car, asking if he was okay, but getting completely ignored.