Nightmare Fuel - Day the Third. Nothing

I'm running behind here; might catch up this week.

This fit the prompt better before some changes; I like this version of the story better, so take the image as metaphorical.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Between the pounding in your head and the late-night darkness you fumble to get the key into the latch. Why didn’t she leave the light on for you? You fumble once more, and the door pushes open. It hadn’t even been locked.

Wonderful.

You step into the darkness, push the door shut behind you. Making sure it locks. The lock feels strange under your fingers, but the deadbolt slides into place with a reassuring click.

You take two steps into the room, stumble. The chair isn’t where you remembered it, but that’s just your mind playing tricks. She wouldn’t rearrange the furniture. Would she?

You know you’re late again, know that happy hour drinks went a bit too long.

You can imagine the conversation. The same one.  She’s never had a job like yours, never gotten office politics. Doesn’t realize that you need to be seen at happy hour with the crew, like it or not.

You’ll sleep on the couch tonight, wake her in the morning.

Dawn comes, and with it the expected pounding headache. Light streams through the curtains onto the yellow couch.

Yellow?

You shake your head violently. Your couch is blue. You blink twice, disoriented, but the wrong furniture remains. And the wrong wall color.

And the fumbling with your key.

You quietly curse yourself, grab your shoes. You’ll slip out, get to the right house. And then figure out an explanation. Shit, she’ll probably think you were having an affair.

You quietly get to your feet, slip your shoes back on. Undo the deadbolt and push open the door.

The daylight stabs into your eyes like daggers. You close them tightly, then open them cautiously again, turn to look at the mailbox to see where you’ve ended up. It is.. #4.

It’s your house.

Heart pounding you run back inside, but nothing matches.

The wrong furniture.

No wife, no kids.

Just you. In your house.

That wasn’t yours.