Normal...mostly.

God damnit, you think. Another dream and another mess to clean up. You sigh and push the dirty sheets off you. Luckily, your dick had made its way through the front hole of your boxer shorts this time and very little had splashed back onto you. You switch to another pair of shorts and gather all your sheets up into a big ball before dragging them downstairs to the laundry room in the basement.

Holding the sheets in front of you, you almost don't see your mother standing in the small room, stopping just short of bumping into her. For a second, the vision of your mother from the dream overlaps reality, and a stone cold fox is staring back at you. But that sight disappears quickly and your natural, familiar mother returns, wearing a bathrobe that bears no resemblance to her attire from your dream. This robe covers everything, with no gaps of skin peeking through and made of cotton at least four times as thick as the other one. She's back to normal...well, actually she never really changed, except in your mind.

Or did she?

You can't quite put your finger on it but there is something different about her. Maybe she's lost a little weight? Or perhaps she's done something with her hair? It's eluding you at the moment but there is definitely a...freshness about her that you don't remember being there before.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks, with a little bit of bite, and you realize that you've been standing there for almost a full minute without moving.

Unthinking, your mouth says, "I thought you wanted me to join you."

Immediately, her cheeks flood with a deep crimson and she looks flabbergasted. Her hands fidget with the tie of her robe, cinching it tighter and wrapping herself in its protective cloth. You feel heat in your own face as well, remembering her offer in your dream, and can only stand there, with your mouth slightly open and your feet glued to their spot. Why the fuck did I say that...and why the hell is she reacting like that?

Your mother's brain freeze dissipates quicker than yours and she says, "What?"

"I, uh, have laundry for the washer," you stammer, stupidly holding your soiled sheets up high as proof of your intentions.

"Oh, alright," she replies, as if you doing laundry is a natural, everyday occurrence, which it is not; in fact, you were planning on just tossing them into the washer and leaving them there until your mother or sister started their own load. "Thanks for taking the initiative, I guess. I need to...go start breakfast."

She moves to leave but you're still blocking the doorway. As she tries to slide by, she gives you a hug and peck on the cheek to make the whole situation seem normal, but it does nothing of the sort. Instead, the awkwardness is magnified tenfold and when she finally gets through, she climbs the stairs faster than you've ever seen her do before.

Weird.

You slip the sheets into the washer and, after a couple of minutes examining your options, you push a couple of buttons that you hope will work and shut the door, allowing the machine to clean the evidence of the previous nights. A basket of clean clothes sits folded in one corner and you find an acceptable outfit for the day, pulling it on as you head back upstairs.

In the kitchen, your mother is diligently putting together the morning meal for the three of you--your father often leaves well before daybreak to get to his job--and you take your regular seat at the table. Normally, you and your mother would talk about your plans for the day as she prepped breakfast but today there's total silence except for the crackling of cooking bacon. She even seems to deliberately keep her back to you then entire time, something she's never done before and you wonder what's wrong. A thought flies through your brain but your rational nature immediately rejects it as preposterous. There's no way she had the same dream as I did, it's just not possible. She would never act that sluttily, not even in dreams.

You're saved from such thoughts by the arrival of your sister, who is wearing her school uniform. She stops at the bottom of the stairs, able to sense the atmosphere in the kitchen, but then she shrugs and takes her seat, pulling out her phone and ignoring you and your mom. You silently thank all the gods when the food is served.

You scarf down the food as fast as you can and then flee the house filled with women you've had sex dreams of for the past two nights. Dreams are supposedly manifestations of your **** mind, a peek behind the curtain, so to speak. Does that mean you secretly are a pervert who wants to fuck your relatives?

You decide you need more information.