I do not own Secret Window
Who am I?
He didn't know who he was, or what he had done. He was a writer, and he loved corn. Everyone he came in contact with called him Mort or Mr Rainey, and they all treated him like the plague. He didn't know his name, but he was almost sure that wasn't it. Although, that's what those book covers said. He didn't know. He was confused and lost in a world that wasn't his own.
The local sheriff, an arthritic old man, came around every so often and threatened him. He just took it, and did whatever he said, arguing wasn't his style, whoever he was. He ate and wrote, letting the only two things he knew consume his life. He felt weird, as if he were in a constant daze, one he often tried to get out of.
But things were so quiet, so peaceful, in that daze. After a struggle to figure out who he was, he just slipped right back into it, letting the blurriness calm him, and take him to places where he felt normal. Whatever normal was. He listened to the music he found around the cabin, hoping it would jog his memory, it never did.
He read the books he supposedly wrote, dismissing most of them as crap, and wondering why anybody would pay to read them. His stories were much better, his endings were good. That's what he told that sheriff, 'the endings' the most important part.' It was too. The end of everything was important, a story, a meal, a life.
He thought about death a lot. He thought that might be a key to who he was. His stories involved death, his favorites being the ones where the murderer escaped. The favorite was about a man named Tod Downey, who killed his wife and forgot about it. He often wondered if he was Tod Downey, they had the same attraction to a yellow vegetable.
But then he thought he based the character on himself. There was no way he could be the character. But than again, he had no idea who he was. The first memory he had was standing in this cabin and noticing the mess. He instantly started cleaning up, erasing all traces of a certain name he found scrawled everywhere.
There was another reason he couldn't be Tod Downey. He was a cold blooded murderer. Whoever he was, he knew he was not that. Taking something as precious as a person's life away from them was cruel. And he wasn't that. Was he? After cleaning up the cabin, he cleaned up himself. Removing the tattered hat and switching the large black rimmed glasses for newer ones. He also had to get a very nasty problem with his teeth fixed.
He tried to adjust to this life he knew nothing about, living another man's life while searching for his own. He tried to start living, he even attempted to go on a date, but that girl treated him like a psycho. The same as all the others. He was alone. Just him and his over active imagination. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to do something.
He pounded the keys on the board in hopes of getting some inspiration. None came. Nothing came. Nothing important anyway. He had a plethora of stories in his head, but that's not what he wanted to type. He wanted to type his life's story. But it in order to do that, you have to have a life. Which he didn't. His new stories were successful, but success didn't make a man. Memories made a man.
He couldn't take it anymore, he broke down. His head was on the keyboard and he let the tears flow. He needed something, himself. He stopped his weeping and listened to the voices suddenly around him.
"I thought you took the cowards' way out Mr Rainey." "I'm not a coward Mr Shooter." "But you ran." "But now I'm back, to reclaim what's mine." "He was never yours Mr Rainey, he was always mine, I just let you get all the credit." "No, Mr Shooter, I just let you take over for a while, I have to do what's right." "You'll regret it, and I was always stronger than you." "Maybe you were. But you're not anymore."
He screamed, closed his eyes and covered his ears, hoping to make the voices stop. He released his head and looked around in anticipation, a smile forming on his lips. He knew who he was, where he was, and what he was doing. He licked his teeth and felt the foreign metal. He opened his desk drawer to pull out a cigarette. He lit it with a match from the same drawer and put his feet on his desk. Now all he needed was his hat. Mr Shooter had won.