Disclaimer: I swear that I own nothing from Secret Window, the movie, nor Secret Window, Secret Garden, the book. Stephen King owns it all, congratulations mate….
Soo, here we go, my first Secret Window fic, so I guess we'll see what happens.. lol…
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Mort Rainey missed his watch. He had the pressing urge to know what time it was, almost every moment of the day. Yet, he could not bring himself to buy himself a new one.
His previous watch was at the bottom of a cliff, covered by a whole lot of water. Therefore, it probably wouldn't be working, even if he had it back now.
The watch was the key to Mort's continued existence in his house at Tashmore Lake, he believed. The two men it had drowned with had the potential to completely ruin his life... but hadn't he done that when he'd killed them?
Morton Rainey shook his head vigorously to clear it of those thoughts. He had never killed anyone, despite what the locals of Tashmore Lake would tell anyone who would listen. He hadn't killed Tom Greenleaf, his neighbour and friend, nor Ken Karsch, his previous private investigator. It was also said that Mort killed his soon-to-be ex-wife Amy, and her boyfriend Ted. That was simply not true. He hadn't killed anyone.
Now, John Shooter, on the other hand. John Shooter was a sick bastard, and John Shooter was the man that had killed those people. John Shooter, the Mississippi man who was violent and unpredictable. The very same John Shooter whom Mort had created from the depths of his own mind to destroy the parts of his life that were causing him pain.
But he couldn't allow himself to think of Shooter at this point. Shooter was offlimits. It was like the Freddy Krueger movies. If he were completely forgotten, maybe he would go away.
But you think of him every day.
"I know that." Mort answered out loud, exasperated. He pushed a hand through his messy blonde hair, brushing it all back to reveal dark roots. The author was seated at his desk, as usual, with his laptop in front of him, Microsoft Word opened with a few lines of typing. The desk itself was littered with papers, bills, a torn dictionary, and many empty Doritos bags. His new silver-rimmed glasses laid beside the glass of water he'd only partially drank. He'd reverted back to wearing his black thick-framed glasses, because he couldn't seem to get used to the difference in weight.
So why don't you just forget him?
"Do you think I don't try?" Mort asked himself.
Oh, I know you try. You should try harder. He'll come back. You know it. This is just a temporary reprieve. The eye of the storm. He'll be back, and he'll kill again. You know it. I know it. So deal with it.
"Would you just shut the fuck up?" Mort said to himself, drinking the rest of the water from the clear crystal glass in one swallow. He was feeling restless, and irritated, never a good thing for him. His left eye twitched once, and he pressed his index finger against it.
You know that I'm right. Admit it.
Mort stumbled down the stairs, and flopped onto the couch. He hadn't taken a nap on the couch in a few months now. Not since Amy and Ted had disappeared. But either way, he laid back, and removed his glasses, placing them on the coffee table beside him.
Laying there like that, he drifted to sleep, having the same dream he had every night. The dream about Shooter. The dream were he was Shooter, and he killed Tom, and Ken, and Amy, and Ted. He hated that dream. But he had it every night, so he'd sort of gotten used to it.
This was what Mort Rainey's days were like. He would write something for a few hours everyday, he'd fight with himself about something or another, and then he'd take a nap. The only thing that was different about his life since Amy disappeared was the fact that he no longer had braces, nor the obsession with corn. Quite the contrary, actually. He was almost nauseated by the thought of corn on the cob these days.
Something has to change.
You're becoming caught up in memories of Shooter. Melancholy."I have returned to the couch," Mort murmured, using one of his favourite lines. "In shame. Degradation. Sloth."
Sloth is right. You have no inspiration anymore.
Something has to change.
And the next morning, change it did.
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Please, oh please review!
-Abbie