An average looking woman with dirty blonde hair always wears pastels with a cardigan tied loosely around her neck. She brings a dish from home. Usually casserole or some form of baked good, like cookies or brownies. She drives an off white mini van that's always overloaded in the back. It dips down far lower than it should for carrying nothing but an old wooden box barely big enough to fit your fist inside.
A little girl in a pink dress skips rope up the driveway. She sings the number of doctors Cinderella needs. She hasn't missed a meeting in the past three years. Although, She doesn't seem to ever wear anything but that pink dress. In fact, it doesn't appear she's changed at all since those first few weeks.
A man pulls up on a large, black bike. It is surprisingly quiet. The vibrations are rather obvious but the noise never reaches the ears. No noise does until he disappears inside the house where they return slowly in muffled tones. The silence eventually fades down to a gentle whisper until it floods back out when he leaves and follows him down the street.
A man wearing white is there. He is never seen arriving, he is only there. Appearing on the porch, seemingly from nowhere. He is bald and it is obvious he is covered head to toe in tattoos. Two large eyes are needled into the back of his head. They seem to follow. He wears sunglasses no matter the weather. He is always the last to leave, taking a long stroll down the short sidewalk.
A looming figure steps out of the back of an expensive looking car. They looked far too big to comfortably fit in there. The car leaves and does not return. They wear a long red cloak with dark green accents in an ancient, unknowable language. The figure is blurry in memory. The only lasting detail is the sense of impending doom. A different car picks them up.
A woman with long black hair and swaying hips is dropped off by male suitors. She wears high heels and a mischievous smile. Her hair flicks back and forth as she walks. The cats run between her legs, rubbing on her ankles and calves with happy purrs and love bites. She purrs back. There are no cats here. The same suitor picks her up. The following day they are on the news. An animal attack.
You watch them all arrive one after the other through your kitchen window as you finish off the dishes. You turn away, drying your hands on a dishtowel. The basket on the kitchen island overflowing with an unholy amount of snacks and treats. You grab it up and begin your walk across the street. The air cracking open around you as you walk, sealing like an old wound, ragged and still bleeding, behind you.
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