Some part of you wants to imagine that you could find a kindred spirit in the nearby Hot Topic. There could be, like, a lonely teen girl, or a somewhat responsible manager, or any number of disenfranchised youth, heads down to the ground, contemplative, with keen eyes ready to see any shrunken person throwing themselves at their feet. It seemed reasonable enough a plan, although unawares to you, it was basically a sentencing of torture-by-teen or falling into the sadistic whims of your average emo. Oh well!
The atmosphere of the store is appropriately lowkey. Dark, black floor tiles with imprints of treads - VANS, of course - treaded into them, invisible to the average eye. It smells like both fresh clothes and stale losers. No one really comes here unless they're a poseur or a kid with zero self-awareness. It feels empty.
A Brand New song echoes around you, guitars with haunting riffs swarming around your head in spiraling sonic waves trying to drag you into a depressive gulch. It reminds you of your own past in a somewhat nostalgic way.
Although the store is pretty barren, a few people dot the aisles and stand by the register. A disaffected cashier is hunched forward over the counter, cheek-in-hand, the other one drumming boredly against glass. She chews and pops bubblegum from her pink lips, a tone that strangely contrasts against her pale skin and black hair.
One other woman seems to be approaching the cash register, meaning she's coming straight for you. Easily accessible, but her clueless and lost doe-eyed look makes you wonder if she's in the wrong store altogether.
And furthest away there's a few gothic-looking girls prowling around the shirts and shoes, and a lone one staring up at a wall of skateboards. They're all carbon copies, poseurs, with black or green or blue hair. The skater is the closest to normalcy, a frail but tall girl in ripped denims and a striped black-and-white shirt, with brown hair in a bob.
You came here, it was time to figure out who to ask for help.
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