Every Sunday afternoon, the goths reclaimed their territory. They gathered from all directions to feed off each other’s rebellion and gather strength for the week’s battle to resist normality. Here, they were normal. They did not have to maintain face against the sniggering of the masses or fight off attacks from the socialite gang leaders and their cronies. Even adults feared to challenge them at their weekly convocation.
They refused to be part of the crowd, to fit into a box. They embraced their inner freak and put it out there on show for everyone to see. If it repulsed people, then even better – the depths of the darkness within probably would have broken any puny little minds that didn’t belong there.
Yet, if anybody drinking oversized mugs of coffee in the café across the street chose to examine the goths from the outside, they would start to notice how much outfits conformed to the sterotype. As if they had merely swopped their school uniform for a goth uniform. Or how little nihilistic angst was present as they flirted and teased each other. How the same group dynamics could be seen as in the sporty crowd or the chic crowd or the techy crowd.
Or maybe the coffee-drinker thinks like that out of jealousy. Maybe envies their niche and their established meeting point. Regrets never having the courage to act the same as a teenager. Or even now, as an adult.
Because, to the insider looking out, the outsiders look like they are the insiders.