SECRET WINDOW
Disclaimer: Blah, Blah, Blah. I didn't steal it. I don't think...hmm....
Archive: Yes. If you want to. Wow. Very flattered. Just tell me where.
Rating: R. Since Mort likes to swear (who doesn't with a psycho tormenting
you)
Summary: (short version) Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well,
until Shooter shows up. (long version) Um..This is right from where Mort
first meets Shooter. There are some differences, but basically the same.
Just a nice read (I hope) if you liked the movie. Which I did. Loved, more
like it.
Please review me too. I'd like that. Like to know if I'm writing okay or
just shit. Thanks. Um, anything else...don't think so, except to say enjoy.
Now I will return to the couch and curl up with some Doritos and soda. -----
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Too Many Naps
Mort's eyes were half slits before he realized that his body was falling off the chair. In an attempt to regain his balance, Mort jerked upright, but it was no use. He collided on the floor with the weight of the chair pressing against him.
"Shit." he said aloud, and slid from beneath it. He stood and shook himself off, bits of crumbs and cigarette ash drifted to his feet. Mort squinted at his computer screen. It was blank.
How long was I like that? He tried to remember but found that his leg was distracting him. It had no feeling. He must have dosed on a slant, because his whole left leg was numb. He stiffly maneuvered his way around the fallen chair and down the stair case.
"Food. Food, definitely." said Mort reaching the bottom. He lit the tip of a new cigarette and discarded the crushed pack on a nearby surface. A twinge of guilt stabbed his thoughts as he padded through the kitchen, considering for a moment before dismissing it.
You said you'd stop smoking. A voice echoed. Mort felt a flare of irritation rise from somewhere, but it subsided as he arrived at the fridge.
"When did I say that?" He asked the empty house, but no one answered. He didn't expect anyone to. But the voice in his head did, it always did, which he knew would be inevitable.
You know when.
Mort swung the door open and stood there, eyes moving over the contents thoughtfully. Mountain Dew lined the shelves, along with several containers filled with unintelligible leftovers. He thought he recognized something that looked vaguely like tuna but decided against it. Too green.
Mort grabbed a can of soda and pulled out a few other things, then closed the door with his foot. At the table, he began to finish a turkey sandwich he'd started on earlier.
"Chico." Mort called, wondering where he was suddenly. His only companion in this lonely house. He was breed of dog Mort couldn't quiet place, but favored lab with a hint of German Shepard as apposed to mixed colored mutt. He wasn't upstairs curled onto that leather recliner he loved so much; he knew that because he hadn't seen him. However Chico was prone to do whatever pleased him, and that usually meant roaming the cabin or taking a short trot around the lake. Although he usually he came running when he smelled food, especially turkey. Mort eyed the cigarette suspiciously and leaned forward enough to glimpse the bottom of the stair well.
He relaxed slightly, having not been too worried, when he saw a quick flash of tail, wagging happily between the living room table and the couch.
"Chico. Food. Come here." He called, and handed a slice of messy sandwich to him as he scampered up obediently.
"Must be the smoke. Can't find the scent huh?" He patted the dog's head and batted absently at the smoke clouded four inches from his face. He turned back to his thoughts; the dog ate hungrily and sat at his feet, looking blindly up at him.
"I wanna take a nap. I think I'll go do that." He said after a while of staring out the window. It was truly a nice day. The sun was reflecting off the lake in waves, as it rippled along with the soft breeze; the trees scarcely moved, indicating to Mort that it wasn't exactly too cold for a walk. But a nap sounded infinitely better. You do that so often now.
What else is there to do? Mort caught sight of what he thought was a flicker of disappointment raise Chico's eyelids and regarded him with a small gurgled scoff.
"What? Alright, alright," Mort said lying down next to Chico. "I'll go write some crap for a couple of hours, then take a nap. Okay?" Chico smiled, sneezed into Mort's old striped robe, and ambled off to another part of the house.
At his computer, Mort felt nothing. He was blank, and so was the screen. Ever since Amy he hadn't been able to write a single good line. And it was frustrating. Ideas came but nothing flowed through his fingers like they'd done before. He remembered Everybody Drops the Dime and smiled. He liked those, particularly Secret Window, although he hadn't known exactly where it had come from.
From you Mort. Not from the man sitting in a torn old robe your ex used to wear.
He tried to shatter that thought. He liked the robe too. It was relaxing, comfy. Not at all like anything he would find in his suitcase. Why not wear it? It was the only thing left of Amy's. Otherwise, all of his belongings were at their house.
Her house, Mort corrected, realizing he couldn't technically call it theirs, because it wasn't, theirs, any longer. The memory stung him and he tried to forget it. Outside, a motorboat roared across the quiet lake, fracturing the water's image into tiny fragments.
"Crap, shit, shit, shit." Mort sighed, and looked around at his cabin for nothing in particular. After moving in, he'd found that loneliness, other than Chico's company was something of a burden. He knew he'd have to start writing again, try and get past, her. And what more him. Ted. Fucking Ted. He'd found them in that bed at the motel. It was snowing. Cold weather had bitten at his heels as he walked the path up to the room. Finding relief and at the same time anger and sadness at proving his suspicions.
Since then he'd only written small beginnings, short conversations, and described little or no settings. He had nowhere to go. He had a feeling the divorce was the hitch in his writing. But he couldn't get past it, no matter how hard he tried. Why try anyway? It happened. She left you. Its over, and you have nothing.
That's not true. You have this cabin.
I didn't think I'd been needing it for this, Mort thought to himself, grimacing at the memory.
Don't go back. I told you not to go back.
"I couldn't just leave." Mort said angrily. The relentless voice was getting louder every day now, so much so that Mort couldn't deny its existence any longer. All he could do now was give in, talk to it, and hope it would wear of him and leave. That was one of the bonuses about living in a cabin on a lake though, Mort thought as he stretched his feet beneath the desk.
Nobody there to say that you were crazy for talking to yourself.
Too Many Naps
Mort's eyes were half slits before he realized that his body was falling off the chair. In an attempt to regain his balance, Mort jerked upright, but it was no use. He collided on the floor with the weight of the chair pressing against him.
"Shit." he said aloud, and slid from beneath it. He stood and shook himself off, bits of crumbs and cigarette ash drifted to his feet. Mort squinted at his computer screen. It was blank.
How long was I like that? He tried to remember but found that his leg was distracting him. It had no feeling. He must have dosed on a slant, because his whole left leg was numb. He stiffly maneuvered his way around the fallen chair and down the stair case.
"Food. Food, definitely." said Mort reaching the bottom. He lit the tip of a new cigarette and discarded the crushed pack on a nearby surface. A twinge of guilt stabbed his thoughts as he padded through the kitchen, considering for a moment before dismissing it.
You said you'd stop smoking. A voice echoed. Mort felt a flare of irritation rise from somewhere, but it subsided as he arrived at the fridge.
"When did I say that?" He asked the empty house, but no one answered. He didn't expect anyone to. But the voice in his head did, it always did, which he knew would be inevitable.
You know when.
Mort swung the door open and stood there, eyes moving over the contents thoughtfully. Mountain Dew lined the shelves, along with several containers filled with unintelligible leftovers. He thought he recognized something that looked vaguely like tuna but decided against it. Too green.
Mort grabbed a can of soda and pulled out a few other things, then closed the door with his foot. At the table, he began to finish a turkey sandwich he'd started on earlier.
"Chico." Mort called, wondering where he was suddenly. His only companion in this lonely house. He was breed of dog Mort couldn't quiet place, but favored lab with a hint of German Shepard as apposed to mixed colored mutt. He wasn't upstairs curled onto that leather recliner he loved so much; he knew that because he hadn't seen him. However Chico was prone to do whatever pleased him, and that usually meant roaming the cabin or taking a short trot around the lake. Although he usually he came running when he smelled food, especially turkey. Mort eyed the cigarette suspiciously and leaned forward enough to glimpse the bottom of the stair well.
He relaxed slightly, having not been too worried, when he saw a quick flash of tail, wagging happily between the living room table and the couch.
"Chico. Food. Come here." He called, and handed a slice of messy sandwich to him as he scampered up obediently.
"Must be the smoke. Can't find the scent huh?" He patted the dog's head and batted absently at the smoke clouded four inches from his face. He turned back to his thoughts; the dog ate hungrily and sat at his feet, looking blindly up at him.
"I wanna take a nap. I think I'll go do that." He said after a while of staring out the window. It was truly a nice day. The sun was reflecting off the lake in waves, as it rippled along with the soft breeze; the trees scarcely moved, indicating to Mort that it wasn't exactly too cold for a walk. But a nap sounded infinitely better. You do that so often now.
What else is there to do? Mort caught sight of what he thought was a flicker of disappointment raise Chico's eyelids and regarded him with a small gurgled scoff.
"What? Alright, alright," Mort said lying down next to Chico. "I'll go write some crap for a couple of hours, then take a nap. Okay?" Chico smiled, sneezed into Mort's old striped robe, and ambled off to another part of the house.
At his computer, Mort felt nothing. He was blank, and so was the screen. Ever since Amy he hadn't been able to write a single good line. And it was frustrating. Ideas came but nothing flowed through his fingers like they'd done before. He remembered Everybody Drops the Dime and smiled. He liked those, particularly Secret Window, although he hadn't known exactly where it had come from.
From you Mort. Not from the man sitting in a torn old robe your ex used to wear.
He tried to shatter that thought. He liked the robe too. It was relaxing, comfy. Not at all like anything he would find in his suitcase. Why not wear it? It was the only thing left of Amy's. Otherwise, all of his belongings were at their house.
Her house, Mort corrected, realizing he couldn't technically call it theirs, because it wasn't, theirs, any longer. The memory stung him and he tried to forget it. Outside, a motorboat roared across the quiet lake, fracturing the water's image into tiny fragments.
"Crap, shit, shit, shit." Mort sighed, and looked around at his cabin for nothing in particular. After moving in, he'd found that loneliness, other than Chico's company was something of a burden. He knew he'd have to start writing again, try and get past, her. And what more him. Ted. Fucking Ted. He'd found them in that bed at the motel. It was snowing. Cold weather had bitten at his heels as he walked the path up to the room. Finding relief and at the same time anger and sadness at proving his suspicions.
Since then he'd only written small beginnings, short conversations, and described little or no settings. He had nowhere to go. He had a feeling the divorce was the hitch in his writing. But he couldn't get past it, no matter how hard he tried. Why try anyway? It happened. She left you. Its over, and you have nothing.
That's not true. You have this cabin.
I didn't think I'd been needing it for this, Mort thought to himself, grimacing at the memory.
Don't go back. I told you not to go back.
"I couldn't just leave." Mort said angrily. The relentless voice was getting louder every day now, so much so that Mort couldn't deny its existence any longer. All he could do now was give in, talk to it, and hope it would wear of him and leave. That was one of the bonuses about living in a cabin on a lake though, Mort thought as he stretched his feet beneath the desk.
Nobody there to say that you were crazy for talking to yourself.