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MidReal Story
Robert Smith
Scenario:emily is a 16 year old goth girl wearing black dress slacks. she deliberately pees her pants at the mall and wears her wet pants all day. security laughs it off.
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Emily
sarcastic, and nonconformist. Emily loves black clothing and music, emulating famous goths like Siouxsie Sioux. She enjoys causing minor chaos at the mall, once accidentally peeing her pants and blending in with the crowd. Her parents, though often frustrated, support her individuality. Her best friend, Jesse, shares her interest in music and fashion, while her crush, Robert Smith, inspires romantic fantasies.
Jesse
supportive, and spirited. Jesse shares Emily's passion for music and fashion, often accompanying her to mall antics and jamming on guitars. A dedicated drummer, she dreams of attending a Robert Smith concert with Emily by her side. Jesse admires Emily's bold nature and protects her from teasing at school. Despite their differences, their friendship remains strong, united by their shared love of rock music and alternative fashion.
Robert Smith
enigmatic, and influential. Known for his striking appearance and captivating voice, Smith inspires Emily's romantic fantasies and influences her musical aspirations. His fashion sense, particularly his iconic eyeliner and lipstick look, shapes Emily's personal style. Although she longs to meet him in person, Smith remains an elusive figure in her imagination, embodying the romantic ideal she cherishes in her teenage dreams.
I am a sixteen year old goth girl.
I wear black clothing, black makeup, and listen to black music... well, not literally black music, but rock music, which is about as close as you can get.
My idols are people like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith, the lead singer of The Cure.
I know I am supposed to be a little intimidated by him, but I'm not.
He's my god and I want to be just like him when I grow up... well, except for the fact that he's a man and I'm a woman.
But I don't let that stop me.
I have a black dress that looks just like his when he performed on the 'Cure for the 80s' concert video, and I have even learned how to play the guitar just like him.
I spot the security guard who laughed at me last week when I had wet pants.
He's standing by the mall directory, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest.
I strut over to him, my combat boots clicking on the tile floor.
He looks up as I approach and raises an eyebrow at me.
I cross my arms over my chest, mimicking him, and demand, "Name one song by The Cure."
I know he can't do it.
He has that same smirk on his face that he had last week when I was standing there with my wet pants.
Without saying a word, he pushes off from the directory and walks away from me, chuckling and shaking his head.
I follow him, my black dress slacks swishing as I walk.
He walks past Claire's and Hot Topic, both of which are stores I like to visit.
He keeps walking and I follow him, my eyes on his back.
The fluorescent lights in the mall ceiling make me squint a little.
I can feel the pressure building in my bladder, but I ignore it.
I'm not going to let this security guard get away from me that easily.
I have to prove to him that I am not just some stupid kid who he can laugh at and walk away from.
He stops to check the security camera on the wall outside of Sam Goody, and I plant myself right in his line of sight, still crossing my arms over my chest.
The warm wetness spreads down my legs before I can stop it, creating a dark patch on the front of my pants.
He glances down, then back up at me with a softer expression.
"Hey, it's okay," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle.
I blink, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness, and mutter, "Why are you being nice to me now?"
The security guard reaches for the radio on his belt and my heart sinks.
I know what's coming next.
I stand there, frozen in my wet pants, watching as the dark liquid pools around my black combat boots on the beige tile floor.
He speaks into the radio, his voice firm but polite.
"Need cleanup near Sam Goody, spill in progress."
He glances up at me briefly as he adds, "Take your time."
The growing puddle of liquid on the floor catches the eye of a passing shopper who slows down to stare, and I shift uncomfortably in my wet clothes, which cling to my legs.
We wait there in silence until we hear the squeak of the janitor's cart coming around the corner.
While we wait for the janitor to arrive, I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye.
A person in a dark hoodie walks past me, moving quickly and keeping their face down.
As they walk by, they press something into my hand, then continue on their way and disappear around the corner before I can turn to look at them.
The security guard is distracted, talking into his radio about where the spill is located and how long it will take to clean up.
I step away from the puddle on the floor and unfold my fingers to examine what was pressed into my hand.
It's a crumpled up receipt from the food court.
On the back, in messy handwriting, someone has written a note that reads: "Meet me at the food court at 5."
I walk through the mall with my pants still wet, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my legs.
The security guard offers to escort me, but I shake my head and clutch the crumpled receipt tightly in my fist.
Other shoppers give me strange looks as I walk by, some of them whispering to each other and pointing at the obvious accident I had.
I try to walk confidently despite the embarrassment that burns my cheeks, keeping my eyes fixed on the neon signs of the food court in front of me.
My black combat boots leave faint wet footprints on the tile floor behind me as I walk.
At the entrance to the food court, I pull out my phone and check the time - fifteen minutes early.
I stand awkwardly near a table, scanning the crowd for anyone who might be waiting for me.
A voice from behind startles me, "You actually came."
I turn to see the person in the dark hoodie, their face partially obscured, and they add, "I didn't think you'd be brave enough after what happened."
The hooded figure sits across from me, their face hidden in shadow beneath the dark fabric.
My wet pants cling uncomfortably to the plastic food court chair as I shift my weight.
They lean forward, pushing back their hood just enough for me to glimpse familiar black eyeliner - it's Jesse, my bandmate.
She glances at my soaked clothes but doesn't mention them.
Instead, she pulls out two wrinkled pieces of paper from her hoodie pocket.
Concert tickets.
The Cure.
Next month.
My heart races as she explains how she won them from the radio station.