.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

【 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 】

vii. the token

BREAKING AND ENTERING, as it turned out, wasn't as easy as it looked in the movies. Verity knew, somehow, that whatever her token was, it was inside her childhood home, but first, she had to find a way in. She entered the garden, stealing glances every few seconds, paranoid that she was being watched. Sneaking around the side of the house, she paused - eyes drawn to a sprawling patch of ivy attached to the wall - then, a smirk grew on her lips. The hatch to the basement, obscured by ivy, was her ticket inside.

She chewed on her lip, knowing she had to act fast; something like this could have gone unnoticed back in New York, but here, if she was seen hanging around, the neighbours would definitely see. She remembered it all too well; the way the net curtains would twitch, a sight enough to make even the most reckless child turn tail and hide.

"Small towns," she muttered in disgust, shaking her head.

Not letting her guard down just yet, Verity worked quickly; scrabbling to remove the ivy, revealing the faded doors underneath, then, after straining to pry them open, hoisted herself over the edge, and dropped. Her feet hit the basement floor, and she cursed as the impact sent waves of pain through her legs. Straightening up, she blinked, eyes adjusting to this new environment, then, mouth opening as she looked around.

Aided by the soft rays of sun filtering through the hatch, she was able to find her way through the jumbled mess on the floor and to the stairs, which she knew led to the kitchen.

Memories came to mind as she ascended the steps, making her smile faintly. The way her mother had loved to bake, filling the home with the warm scent of bread and cakes; how, as a child, Verity had often curled up in the living-room with her father, entranced as he read to her.

She ran a hand along the flowered wallpaper, making her way out of the kitchen and to the stairs, lost in the echoes of the past. She had been lucky enough to have a good upbringing, she realised now. Juliette and Charlie Summers, who had not only read to her, taught her about the world outside, but most importantly, had listened to her. They had treated her like an equal. It was only later on when she encountered other people's parents, and found that they weren't all like hers.

As though in a trance, she continued upstairs, hesitating at the door of her old bedroom. Her hand had barely made contact with the door when it swung open, the creak of the hinges jarring in the eerie quiet. Verity's breath hitched in her throat - unsure of what sort of memories she would find in this empty place - before she stepped inside.

The room was completely bare; the walls plain, the floor completely devoid of furniture. Verity circled the old bedroom, dragging a hand along the wall, tracing invisible shapes as she walked. She thought back to all the times she had spent there, her very own space in the world, and smiled. All of the days spent in her own little bubble; listening to records, sorting through the endless supply of photographs she had taken, reading. All on her own, but then, later on, when she was with Stan. The pair had spent many a rainy afternoon holed up in her room, not doing anything apart from enjoying each other's company; curled up under blankets, playing with each other's hair as they listened to music-

Verity frowned, stopping by the space where her dresser would have been. There had been something, something which was now trying to push to the front of her mind...

◇

"Um, Ver?" Stan had asked, face anxious as they prepared to enter the Neibolt house for the second time. "Before we go inside, I- well, I wanted to give you something,"

They stood a short distance away from the other boys, talking skittishly as they clutched makeshift weapons, and Verity's worry vanished momentarily at his words.

"Oh, Stan... you didn't have to get me anything-" she said.

"No," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I wanted to. Here," he handed her a small rectangular object, placing it into her palm and folding her fingers over it.

The girl looked from it to him, speechless. "A mixtape... you made this for me?"

He nodded in that serious way of his, eyes fixed on hers. "I've been working on it the past couple of weeks. I wanted to give it to you at a better time but-" he shook his head slightly. "I felt I needed to give it to you before... whatever happens in there. Maybe you could listen to it if we get out of here,"

"When we get out of here," Verity corrected, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Thank you, Stan. Just remember that whatever happens in here, even if we don't make it out... it'll always be us, okay?" she reached out with her free hand, taking his and holding it tightly. "It always has been and it always will be, Agents Uris and Summers."

◇

Looking back, that old tape had been the very soundtrack for their relationship. It had seen them through that first awkward crushing stage, then later, it had been played throughout their dates and teenage experiences. Listening to Heroes while driving around at night, the sky a glittering canvas overhead; Just Like Heaven playing in the backround as they made out after one of Stan's baseball games; or the time they had danced around Verity's bedroom until they were breathless, screaming the words to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go and laughing like lunatics.

Verity raised a hand to smooth the frown that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on her forehead, a sigh escaping her lips. If only she could go back to those days; where her only concerns were the trivial matters of math homework and finding a part-time job. The girl she had once been was nothing but a distant memory. Ver, sixteen and full of life, surrounded by friends who loved her, the future a faraway glimmer of opportunities. And now here she was, on the threshold of forty-one, desperately lonely, and tired. Oh, so very tired. Being back in her hometown was bad enough, but setting foot in her childhood home was far worse. Each passing second sent waves of wretched nostalgia crashing over her, while all she could do was lay in the current and hope not to drown.

"God... what am I doing here," she muttered, then, eyebrows raised, bent down to inspect something that had caught her eye. One of the floorboards, lying parallel to the faded wall, looked different from the others. It's edges were chipped and worn, as though once upon a time, the board had been pried up... Verity skimmed her fingertips over the rough edges of the board as a thought filled her mind, tumbling to the front of her mind, spreading and forming like ink in water. Mouth set in a thin line of determination, she hooked her fingers under the wooden slat, using her nails to pry it up. At first, it wouldn't budge; fused in place by time, but then, as she strained to lift it - a stream of profanities falling from her lips - she managed to prise it up.

Almost falling backwards from the force, Verity couldn't help but give a lopsided smile, triumphant. She set the board down, then leaned over to inspect the contents of her old hiding spot. A small space under the floor which she had once used to hide various items, trinkets and other priceless belongings; and sitting there, among the treasures of her youth, sat-

◇

The mixtape lay in the palm of Verity's hand, and Stan smiled at the sight. "Again, Ver? If you listen to it too much, you'll break it," he rolled his eyes, but reached for the stereo anyway.

It was a Friday night and the pair were lying on Verity's bedroom floor, sprawled among a jumble of books, notepads, and candy wrappers. These study-sessions usually ended in the same way; with the teens exhausted from a plethora of Spanish verbs and algebra.

"Side A or B?" Stan asked, looking over at her with a grin.

She closed her eyes, rolling her shoulders tiredly. "Hmm... Side A for sure," she hummed.

"My thoughts exactly, Summers," He took his place on the floor beside her once more, slipping a hand into hers as the first song played; Pictures Of You by The Cure.

"I've been looking so long at these pictures of you, that I almost believe that they're real," They both sang along, hushed voices mingling together as they lay parallel on the rug. "I've been living so long with my pictures of you, that I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel,"

It was an intimate moment, somehow far more intimate than any typical affection, whether it be verbal or physical. And so there they stayed, faces inches apart as they murmured the lyrics into the small space between them, the room dark save for the glow of the bedside lamp.

"You wanna know something?" he said softly, brushing the hair away from Verity's face with a gentle hand.

She studied his face, one eyebrow raised slightly. "What?"

"You're honestly the best thing that's ever happened to me," He breathed, eyes solemn in the fading light. "I love you so much, Ver,"

"I love you too." she whispered in reply, and they were the truest words she had ever spoken.

◇

Despite the tears that were now coursing down her ashen cheeks, Verity smiled, the shadow of nostalgia clouding her eyes. She stood like that for a few moments, gazing at nothing and everything at the same time; her heart full of memories.

She couldn't leave her old belongings here, not again. Working quickly, she plucked the items from the hole in the floor, stowing them safely in her bag. She could reminisce later, but now she needed to get out of there.

The tape clasped in one hand, she straightened up, drying the tears with her sleeve like a child. Wasn't that the whole point of this sorry affair, though? To revert back to one's youth, to reconnect with your childhood-self in a way that most adults couldn't. She let out a breath - the sound eerily loud in the silence that blanketed the house - then froze. No, that couldn't be right, she thought, heartbeat speeding up, mouth going dry. Then she heard it again, the noise ringing down the hallway. Footsteps. One part of her brain hoped desperately that it was a figment of her imagination, even a squatter, but deep down she knew that she was wrong. That it was someone, or something far worse.

It made sense, she thought faintly, looking around in vain for something to defend herself with, that It wouldn't want them to find their tokens. Would try to stop them.

"ShitShitSHIT," she cursed, frantically searching the barren room for something she could use, then resorted to raising the loose board as a sort-of makeshift bat. Hefting the board awkwardly, Verity crept out of the room, taking shallow breaths as she approached the source of the noise. She reached the end of the hall, her pulse beating a staccato rhythm in her ears. Peering into the room, she frowned when she saw it was empty, lowering her weapon as she realised where it had led her. Her brother's old room.

"Oh," she said in a small voice, looking around sadly at the space he had once occupied. "Isaac."

Isaac. Her little brother. She couldn't remember much of him; her time spent away from Derry had ensured that, but she could recall faint details. He had been what, seven when he had died? Struck down by a car on that rainy January afternoon, leaving her parents distraught, and her an only child. She shook her head, looking at the floor. His room, once a riot of colours and stuffed animals, now lay empty. The presence of its previous owner hanging over the place like a ghost.

Verity thought back to all those times they had sat there together, cross-legged on the floor as she hung-out with him, listening intently as he babbled happily on about the latest Ninja Turtles episode, or asked if she'd rather play Star Wars or Indiana Jones. (It was always Star Wars - she loved being Princess Leia.)

Deep in thought, she didn't notice as someone approached - coming up behind her silently - and jumped when they spoke, one word, enough to send a chill down her spine. "Verity."

She turned slowly, raising the wooden board in trembling hands, and almost blacked out there and then. Her brother stood no more than a foot away from her, fresh-faced and still seven years old, looking as though he hadn't aged a day since his death. He was dressed in a red sweater, jeans, and yellow rain boots, a jacket draped over one arm. This is what he was wearing, Verity thought with a sort-of detatched horror. What he was wearing the day he died.

"Short-round?" she choked the old nickname out, feeling as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs. And although she was sure this was an apparition, or perhaps a dream of some kind, she still had to resist the urge to run a hand through his unruly brown hair and flatten the cowlick that stood up at the back. "This is impossible..." she whispered. "You- You died,"

"Yes," her brother said softly, tilting his head to the side. "I did, didn't I? But do you know why?"

Verity blinked, looking at him in confusion. "Of course- you were hit by a car... God, how is this even happening?" she said to herself, convinced this was nothing more than a nightmare.

"You're wrong," he grinned, but there was no joy in it; it was cold, all ice and glaciers. "That's what you remember, but you're wrong."

"What do you mean?" she asked, fear growing behind her words.

His grin grew wider, and she shivered at the glint of malice in his eyes. "Do you really not remember? Use your brain, Verity,"

She wracked her brain, trying desperately trying to remember. A rainy afternoon, music swirling through the air as the heady scents of baking came from downstairs. "I have to go to the store. On my own." A dollar exchanged between them. How he had cheered up at that innocent bribe. "Oh wow! Is this all for me?". Giddy laughter as he raced to leave the house, and, "You're the best big sister ever Verity!"

How a week later he had been found in the Barrens, mutilated, almost unrecognizable. One leg missing completely, that last look of fear frozen on his bloodied face; and the money, that fucking dollar, still tucked into one small hand.

"No-" she choked out, feeling as though the world was spinning around her. "No,"

"Oh, yes," Isaac - or the thing that wore his face - said gleefully, not taking it's eyes off her. "It's All. Your. Fault."

Verity couldn't speak, and when she tried all that came out was a thin rasping sound; it was as though her lungs were full of ash, choking her from the inside out. It was funny, in a sort of twisted way, how drastically things could change in the space of two days. Two days ago, she had been back in New York, lonely, and tired, but safe. First Stan and now this, and Verity couldn't help but think that maybe it was all some sort of sick cosmic joke. That the universe had it out for her, and it was finally coming to fruition.

The thing grinned at her, and she felt a wave of nausea wash over her at the sight of it's wickedly sharp teeth. It had no right to do this, to parade around with the face of a brother that she hardly remembered at all. It was wrong, blasphemous, almost, and Verity was disgusted.

Steadied by this, her head was able to clear enough for her to choke out, "Go fuck yourself," she raised the board once more. "You are not my brother, you'll never be as good as he was. He was innocent, and sweet, and kind," she continued, fighting the hot tears that welled behind her eyelids as she kept her voice steady. "He was everything you're not. You're nothing but a coward, hiding behind disguises and expecting us all to run. But I'm finished playing your fucking games, okay? I'm done."

In the moments after she spoke, Verity could have sworn she saw It's smile slip, faltering for a second or two as her words hung in the air between them.

"Well then," It said softly, no-longer using her brother's voice but its own. A high, childlike voice that brought her back to the sewers and the Neibolt house; turning her knees to lead and her blood to ice. As It spoke, its body began to twist and reform. "I should probably go back to normal then, shouldn't I, Ver?"

A clown now stood before her, horribly familiar in the stillness of the house. It was dressed in that old silver suit adorned with red pom-poms, and Its face bore the ghastly white greasepaint that Verity remembered from her youth.

"Pennywise," she said faintly, feeling the little courage she had gained a minute ago begin to ebb away, suddenly feeling like a child again under the clown's terrible yellow gaze.

"That's right," It smiled, red mouth contorting into a mirthless smile. "And you're Verity." It shook its head, and the pom-poms on its suit jingled merrily. "Although you're all grown up, now." For a split second it raised one hand, and she could make out a scrap of white material in-between the clown's fingers.

Only half-listening, Verity's eyes shifted to the doorway. If she moved quick enough, there was a chance she could make it out the door, then, down the stairs and far away from the house. It was a slim chance, but it was the best one she had. After all, it was better to try than to be mutilated by a murderous clown.

Saying a silent prayer, she held her breath as she prepared herself to make a run for it - even asking Stan, wherever he was now, to help her. One. Verity glanced at the clown, who was inching towards her. Two. She ran her tongue over her lips, swallowing in an effort to take the ashen taste from her throat. Three. As though reading her mind, Pennywise lunged for her the exact moment she took off, missing her by a hair's breadth but managing to cuff her on the arm.

Ignoring the pain that lanced from the wound, Verity fled the room, charging down the landing as the clown cackled madly behind her. The floor shook, wooden boards crumpling in on themselves to reveal the dark crawlspace below, but still she ran, heart pounding painfully in her chest as each breath seared her throat. She managed to dodge the holes and began to charge down the stairs, cursing as her foot caught on the banister and she was falling, crashing into each step as she tumbled down onto the faded carpet.

Getting unsteadily to her feet, Verity scrambled to the front door and managed to unlock it from the inside. Before she left, however, she was able to steal one last glance behind her. The clown stood halfway up the stairs, trailing a gloved hand along the rail as its face split into a feral grin. That wasn't the worst thing about it, though, and even as she was running down the quiet street and far away from the house, the thing remained branded in her mind's eye. For when she looked at its other hand she saw that the scrap of cloth was in fact a kippah, just like the one Stan had used to wear; but the usually-spotless material was now marred by a large bloodstain, splattered crimson in the dim lights.

AUTHOR'S NOTE!

not me channeling my fear of growing up into my writing,,,,,,,,, anyways ❤