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Stanley Uris had been haunted his entire life. The images, the feeling of large, spindly arms bigger than the height of his own body, reaching out and squeezing around him. The image of razor-sharp teeth widening and clearing away to show a quickly nearing dark cavern. Oh, yes, those images managed to glue themselves on the back of Stanley’s eyelids for what seemed like years upon years on end ever since he had stepped foot in his father’s office and had seen that painting for the first time. Yet, he had actually felt the sensation, he had felt the creature’s teeth sink into his skin like it was eating fucking jello , and he had made it through the other side. Although his friends were there to rescue him ( Could he even call them friends? They left him, they lefthim, theylefthim ), he still felt like a part of him had died. Like the...the thing had sucked a part of his soul with that haunting grin and left him with only a prosaic husk of what he once was. Birdwatching became a chore. The hobby acted like a control in a scientific experiment. If all was well, he could sit down in a field with a blanket, a pair of binoculars, and propped open book and just observe. God, something was terribly wrong with him. He knew it. The first (and only) time he had attempted to birdwatch again, it went fine-- normal for the first five minutes.
Then, it started. The screaming in his head like thousands upon thousands of nails on a chalkboard. Everytime he blinked he could see the thing lurching from the shadows, a grin on its face before it unlocked it’s jaw before it dove for Stan, who's fear kept him locked in place. From then on, he decided that time alone with his mind wasn’t a good idea anymore. He clung onto noise like a dehydrated man to water. He needed some sort of reminder that he wasn’t alone, that people or at least safety were readily accessible to him at the drop of a hat. The night was his own little circle of hell. He needed light. The night after he had gotten back from the hospital, he sat in his bed for what seemed like hours, a book that he had randomly picked up discarded on his bedside table, it was hard for him to really focus in on anything. He reached over and the moment he tugged on the lamp, he felt a pressure on top of his chest. His hands frantically grabbed at his chest making sure that Judith wasn’t on top of him again. Judith’s body was cold, so fucking cold, even thought Stan could still feel a heart beating in her-- it’s chest. He gasped for air, trying to blink away the image of Judith’s mouth covering his face like an oxygen mask from hell. He tumbled off his bed, his legs getting tangled between his bedsheets as he grasped uselessly for his lamp. He could feel something watching him, approaching behind him. He knocked the glass of water sitting on his table, flinching when it hit the floor before his hands could feel for the lamp. He clicked it back on and anxiously looked around his room. Nothing. No shit there was nothing, they killed It. They killed that stupid, fucking clown and Stan got to watch it’s descent into darkness.
It was hard to be around the Losers after the fact. Stanley was usually quiet but never shy to pipe up and lay the facts down onto the table but, now only judgement clouded his vision. ( If they left you behind then, they'll leave you now. They don't want you, Stan. Just accept it. They want you gone. ) During these moments, it wasn't rare for Mike Hanlon to slip a supporting arm around Stan's shoulders and pull him in close. The first time it had happened, Stan flinched away so violently, he had accidentally knocked over the vase on the table next to them. From that moment forward, Mike always asked first. It was practically written on Stan's face when The Thoughts would run across his mind, he would constantly fidget with the hemming of his shirt or he clears his throat unnecessarily, like making a noise would somehow invalidate his thoughts. Mike would whisper affirming words, usually telling Stan how much he and the other losers appreciated his presence. All of that made Stan feel warm. Warm was good . Cold reminded him of the sewer water his body was pressed into. Of the creature’s body. No, Mike’s body was warm, a clear sign of a heart that pumped warm blood. The other losers helped too. Bev made sure that Stan only referred to the creature as an “it” with the goal of ultimately dehumanizing it, making it more and more like a bad dream whether than a horrible memory. Eddie and Stan worked on breathing exercises together, although it seemed more for Eddie’s sake rather than Stan. Whenever they were next to each other, they would try to match each other’s slow and methodical breaths, letting Stan know he wasn’t alone and showing Eddie that he could breathe without his inhaler. Richie...Richie was different. Richie was always different. Richie would not seldom show up on Stan’s doorstep at complete random with no regard to the boy’s schedule. Stan would often chastise Richie on not being able to shut the fuck up but, after everything that happened, Stan would drag Richie to his bedroom, and sit him down with a warm cup of whatever and let Richie unload . It made him feel useful and quieted The Thoughts for longer than he’d like to admit. Bill would often go bike riding with Stan. He would babble on about random things that had happened in the passing week, even if Stan had experienced them right along with him and Stan would get time to bask in the warm, warm sun.
As the summer wound to a close, Stan yearned for his daily warmth back. The sun would quickly hide behind a sea of grey clouds and the trees began to shed themselves of their coverings. Stan began to see less and less of the Losers as September phased through. He knew that the logical reason why was because of the new school year, all of his friends were focusing on becoming hardass high schoolers instead of hardass middle schoolers but there was always Thoughts that continuously tugged at the back of his mind--always there, always present ( They're abandoning you again. They're leaving you all alone again. They don't care about you, Stanley ). It wasn't soon before Stan came to learn that he had his own heart which pumped warm blood. Blood that would provide a warmth greater than anything he could ever know