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MidReal Story
The Backrooms
Scenario:Me, my blonde girlfriend, and her 8 year old son are stuck in the Backrooms.
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Ben
He is a trapped individual navigating the Backrooms. He is confused,determined,and resilient. Ben found himself in the Backrooms with limited memory of how he got there. He is trying to escape while caring for his girlfriend and her son. They are sharing a small room with basic amenities. Ben experiences strange occurrences like doors leading to other dimensions and encounters with mysterious figures. He is searching for a way out while dealing with the challenges and mysteries of the Backrooms.
Jules
She is Ben's girlfriend and the mother of her son. She is calm,resourceful,and hopeful. Jules was also transported to the Backrooms,leaving her previous life behind. She helps Ben navigate the mystery of their situation and provides emotional support. Her presence gives Ben a sense of connection and purpose as they try to escape together. Her relationship with Ben is developing amidst the uncertainty of their trapped state in the Backrooms.
Jules' Son
He is Jules' young son,approximately 8 years old. He is curious,brave,and adaptable. The boy accompanied his mother to the Backrooms,displaying courage despite the confusing and often frightening environment. He helps maintain a sense of family unity as his mother and boyfriend support him through the mystery they all face. His experiences shape his perspective on reality,and he relies on his mother and Ben for guidance and comfort as they try to escape.
I don't know how I got here.
I was walking... and then I wasn't.
I just know I've been in the Backrooms for a few days now.
I've been trying to find my way out, but it's hard when every door leads to more rooms and endless corridors.
Sometimes I hear strange noises.
Other times I see things that can't be real.
And then there's the static.
It crackles through the air like a radio left on a dead station.
I never know when it will start or stop.
I'm not even sure why I care about escaping so much.
After all, I have everything I need right here.
"Hey."
My girlfriend, Jules, greets me with a small smile as I enter our room.
She's also blonde, like her son.
I don't think we're related or anything.
We just happen to share the same hair color.
"I brought food," I say, holding up the can of soup and the box of crackers.
Jules' 8-year-old son looks up from his coloring book and grins at me.
"Hi, Ben."
"Hey," I say, ruffling his hair as I pass by him.
He doesn't seem too traumatized by our situation, but then again, he's eight and has both his mom and his boyfriend to take care of him.
I don't think Jules and I have had a real conversation about what's going on here.
I set the can of soup down on our makeshift table and watch as Jules heats it with our portable stove.
The static hums louder than usual today, making my skin prickle.
Our son continues coloring, humming softly to himself.
I notice his crayon strokes becoming more erratic as time passes.
The question burns in my throat until I can't hold it back anymore.
"Do you think we'll ever get out of here?"
I ask, my voice barely audible over the static.
Jules' hands pause over the soup.
Our son stops coloring entirely, his crayon frozen mid-stroke.
The silence stretches between us until Jules turns to face me.
The silence stretches as I watch Jules' hands tremble over the steaming pot.
Our son's crayon slips from his fingers, rolling across the floor until it hits the wall with a soft tap.
The static crackles through the room, making the fluorescent lights above us flicker.
I move to the small table where our son sits and pick up the fallen crayon.
It's red, like the soup bubbling on the portable stove.
The paper in front of him shows a maze of yellow corridors, eerily similar to our surroundings.
Jules stirs the soup mechanically, her shoulders tense.
I stare at the red crayon in my hand, rolling it between my fingers as the static crackles through our small room.
The boy's drawing captures every detail of our prison - the sickly yellow walls, the endless corridors, even the fuzzy darkness at the edges.
Jules keeps stirring mechanically, her shoulders tense as she faces the wall.
I walk over and place the crayon on the counter beside her, close enough to feel the heat from the soup pot.
The static intensifies, making the overhead light buzz and flicker.
When I touch her arm, she flinches but doesn't pull away.
Standing at the counter, I slide my hand over Jules' trembling fingers as she grips the soup spoon.
The static crackles through our small room, making the overhead light pulse dimly.
Our son's crayon scratches against paper behind us, the sound barely audible over the electric hum.
The soup bubbles quietly, releasing wisps of steam that drift up into the flickering shadows.
I lean closer to Jules, my chest nearly touching her back, and lower my voice beneath the static.
My throat feels tight as I form the words, but I need her to hear them.
"Jules, I found a way out," I whisper, hoping the static won't swallow my words.
Her hand stills, and she turns her head slightly, eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope.
"How?" she asks, her voice barely more than a breath, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile possibility.
I reach into my jeans pocket, feeling the crumpled paper against my fingers.
Jules watches me intently as I pull it out.
The static hums around us, and our son's crayon stops scratching paper.
I carefully unfold the map I found earlier and smooth it against the counter beside the soup pot.
My hands tremble slightly as I point to a thin red line I drew, marking a narrow passage between two corridors we haven't explored yet.
Jules leans closer, her shoulder pressing against mine, and studies the crude drawing.
We lean against the counter, side by side, studying the map in silence.
The static hums around us, and steam rises from the soup, curling up into the flickering shadows above.
I notice a blonde strand of hair falling across Jules' worried face, and I hesitate for a moment before reaching out.
My fingers move slowly, carefully brushing the hair behind her ear.
Jules turns to me, her eyes meeting mine.
The map crinkles beneath her palm as she grips the edge of the counter.
Behind us, our son's crayon scratches against paper again, but neither of us looks away.
I move my finger slowly along the red line on the map, pointing out the narrow passage between halls C4 and D7.
Jules tenses beside me, her grip on the counter tightening as I explain how it might lead us to a way out.
The soup bubbles quietly in the pot, and the static crackles through our small room.
"We could leave at dawn," I say, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides.
Jules' grip on my arm tightens, her nails digging into my skin hard enough to hurt.
Our son's crayon stops scratching paper again, and I turn to see him watching us, his face pale under the flickering light of the overhead bulb.
The static hums around us, and I can feel Jules' fear radiating off her like a palpable force.
"Dawn is when the corridors shift and change," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the static.
I take a deep breath and turn back to the map, pointing to where the passage might lead.
"We have to try," I say, my voice firm despite the doubt gnawing at me.
Jules' grip on my arm loosens, and she turns back to the map, studying it intently.
The static hums around us, and our son's crayon scratches against paper once more. The flickering light casts eerie shadows on the walls as we huddle together, studying our crude map.
The static crackles through our small room, making it difficult to focus.
But we can't afford to waste any more time.
The corridors are shifting and changing every day, making it harder to find a way out.
I point to a narrow passage between halls C4 and D7, explaining how it might lead us to freedom.
Jules leans closer, her shoulder pressing against mine as she studies the map intently.
Our son's crayon scratches against paper behind us, creating an unsettling background noise amidst the static hum.
As I trace my finger along the red line marking our potential escape route, I feel Jules tense beside me.
Her grip on my arm tightens almost painfully as she whispers a single word: "Dawn."
I turn to meet her worried gaze, understanding flooding through me.
Dawn is when the corridors shift and change most drastically. The static crackles around us like a living entity, heightening our anxiety as we deliberate our next move.
I pull Jules away from the soup pot and guide her to sit at our makeshift table.
Opening my backpack, I lay out our supplies: three flashlights with spare batteries, a coil of rope, two water bottles, and a handful of protein bars.
Jules watches silently as I check each item, her fingers drumming nervously on the table.
Our son abandons his coloring and joins us, his eyes wide as he takes in the preparations.
I pick up the coil of rope and demonstrate how to tie it around our waists, creating a human chain to prevent separation in the dark corridors.
The static grows louder as I knot the final loop, and Jules squeezes my hand under the table.