Utterly Mad

You step out of the U-Haul truck and onto the quiet street. The perfectly blue sky hangs above you like an ocean, with its one yellow ship floating towards the horizon. It smells of freshly cut grass, and the only sounds you can hear are the sprinklers and your truck settling down on the curb. Your house- a quaint, two story affair with a white facade and, according to the realtor, gas heating and an "absolutely breathtaking living room" -stands before you, looking on as every other house did on the street. In fact, every other house on the street looked exactly like your own. The same one chimney, the same paint color, even the front porches were all in the same place with the same structure. It was a common choice to make cookie-cutter houses, the method made building them cheaper and faster. Still, you could end up at the wrong doorstep if you didn't pay attention to the houses's address.

There are no people about. It's three-o-clock on a Friday, so it's likely they were all at work. Their children would be coming back from school around now, but it was also the middle of summer, and they were out at the arcades or playgrounds or one another's houses, playing the weeks away. You walk up the curb, putting your key into the door's lock. As you grab the handle, a rumble of thunder passes overhead. The sounds of the day suddenly become muffled, and it's almost as if the sky itself becomes a bit darker. Checking over your shoulder, the world is still as normal as it's always been. The sprinklers, the sun, your truck, as normal as could be.

Always, always, so very normal.