There are few things in this world as pungent and noticeable as human cruelty. It is a smell like no other, a lingering sort of stench you can't get rid of in the wash. Derry reaks of it, this metallic aftermath of over a thousand bad days. If you had a map you could probably pinpoint where every single thing went wrong, dotting the paper with enough bad luck to make it look like a schoolboy's case of the chickenpox. That's why IT is here, after all, it smells cruelty. IT craves it in a way, drawing itself to it like a moth on a dull light.
"--misfortune, misfortune. You save that for rainy days."
The clown appears with a harem of balloons, they float with seemingly no concern for the rise of a mid-twilight gust blow. When he releases them, they stay undisturbed as if his hand never left them. It will be dark soon, maybe sooner now that Summer is an afterthought on the calendar. There are twisted metal bars lying strewn over the mud and foliage, evidence of what used to be a bike. And whose hands had done this damage? Whose strength had pulled the screws out and undid the welding?
Certainly, it could not have been this boy huddled near the rotted out remains of one of Derry's oldest trees. It's a humorous thought, but that's not why the clown is smiling. He doesn't draw nearer, perhaps he wishes to see that cruelty in the air turn into something more pungent, something more appetizing. His voice is soft though, his demeanor loose while his gloved hands cup around his mouth to form a whisper.
