There were yellow eyes down there: the sort of eyes he had always imagined but never actually seen down in the basement. It’s an animal, he thought incoherently, that’s all it is, some animal, maybe a housecat that got stuck down there-
Still, he was ready to run - would run in a second or two, when his mental switchboard had dealt with the shock those two shiny yellow eyes had given him. He felt the rough surface of the macadam under his fingers, and the thin sheet of cold water flowing around them. He saw himself getting up and backing away, and that was when a voice - a perfectly reasonable and rather pleasant voice spoke to him from inside the storm drain.
‘Hi, Georgie,’ it said.
George blinked and looked again. He could barely credit what he saw; it was like something from a made-up story, or a movie where you know the animals will talk and dance. If he had been ten years older, he would not have believed what he was seeing, but he was not sixteen. He was six.
There was a clown in the stormdrain. The light in there was far from good, but it was good enough so that George Denbrough was sure of what he was seeing. It was a clown, like in the circus or on TV. In fact it looked like a cross between Bozo and Clarabell, who talked by honking his (or was it her?- George was never really sure of the gender) horn on Howdy Doody Saturday mornings - Buffalo Bob was just about the only one who could understand Clarabell, and that always cracked George up. The face of the clown in the stormdrain was white, there were funny tuffs of red hair on either side of his bald head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth. If George had been inhabiting a later year, he would have surely thought of Ronald McDonald before Bozo or Clarabell. The clown held a bunch of balloons, all colours, like gorgeous ripe fruit in one hand.
In the other he held George’s newspaper boat.
‘Want your boat, Georgie?’ The clown smiled.
George smiled back. He couldn’t help it; it was the kind of smile you just had to answer. ‘I sure do,’ he said.
The clown laughed ‘“I sure do.” That’s good! That’s very good! And how about a balloon?’
i’m really freaking tired of my mom constantly making me feel like everything’s my fault and making everything a big deal. same with my dad and brother sometimes too. most of the time i don’t let it get to me but sometimes it brings me down a lot. my mom is the main one who does this and she’s does it to my dad and brother too. most of the time i don’t think she realizes she’s doing it but there’s been a lot of times when me and my brother tell her so that she recognizes it so that she can make a change. but she hasn’t tried to make a change. any advice?