Disclaimer: I don't own Mort (sadly) or any other characters from the movie Secret Window. However, all characters in the hospital (besides Mort), are mine.
Cheers!

Chapter One: Struggling for Crayons

"Mr. Rainey?"

Mort mentality rolled his eyes at the voice. Janice, nurse de mort (irocnicly). She was possibly he most kind bitch he had ever met. And of course, she was assigned to getting his sorry ass up.

"Mr. Rainey, come on dear, time to get up."

"Five minutes." Mort said, feeling like he was a small child bartering with his mother not to get up for school. He didn't see why he had to get up anyway. It didn't make a difference.

"No dear, up now." Janice said, transforming into the Nazi nurse. Mort weighted his options carefully.

"How about I get up if I can have some crayons?' Mort asked. Pens and pencils were out of the question, as they were too easy to stab one's self with, but crayons were ok, as the colored wax couldn't do much permanent damage. He needed to write something.

"Will you contain yourself?" Janice asked. Mort smiled into his pillow. In other words, would he not write 'fuck' every other word.

"Sure." Mort mumbled.

"Alright, get up." she demanded. Mort slowly pulled his face out of the pillow and looked around his room. It was as he had left it the night before, nothing had changed. It was a small white pained room, with a small white (now messy) bed, nice bullet proof glass windows and blanc tiled floor. Mort felt off in such a white room, so he had hung up a small drawing he had done in crayon of Tashmore lake. It was crude and ugly, as Mort had no talent in the art department, but at least it added a little personality to his small blanc prison.

Mort got up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stayed in his pajamas; grey baggy sweat pants and a dark blue t-shirt, pulling his ratty red robe around him. He was all about fucking the conformity here, even if all he could fuck was not getting dressed. Anything counted.

"Slippers." Janice commanded like the drill Sargent she so was. Mort rolled his eyes and slipped his feet into the white slipper everyone wore around the hospital. Janice nodded as he did so, as if she was glad he wasn't putting up a fight today. Janice was a plump woman with tangerine curly hair and a thick Atalanta drawl. Mort often wondered what she wore in real life, if anything. She was of course dressed like all the nurses there, in peach scrubs. But it was too bad it wasn't a normal hospital, or Mort could have signed himself out.

Mort Rainey had been at Blanchard Institution for some three months now, and was used to the order of operations here. He had been sent via his old friend, Michael Barrie, a fellow author, whom he had (with a little help from some Tequila) confessed the entire episode of Amy and Ted too, including how he had killed and buried them. He had thought Barrie would keep his secret, as Mort had kept the one about Barrie stealing $4,000 from his ex-wife, and spent it one coke, not the soft drink either. But mike had sent him "for his own good", or so he said. Fuck him, Mort thought as Janice escorted him down the long white hallway toward t he cafeteria. He had been here so long he didnt fight it. He just rolled with the punches.

Mort had been clear of Shooter for weeks now. He suspected his worse half had gotten bored and just left. Which was rather disappointing in a way, since at least that would have been nice to talk to someone, even if it was only his other personality.

"You feelin' alright today darlin'?" Janice asked, like she did every morning.

"I want some Doritos and I'm horny as hell, but otherwise I'm just peachy." Mort said darkly, which caused Janice to laugh. He didn't mean it to be funny, as he had been totally serious. He needed to get laid, eat as much junk food as humanly possible and drink a bottle (or two) of Jack Daniel's. Then he'd be good to go.

"Well I'll see you later dear. Here." Janice said, and handed him a box of crayons and a notepad from the pocket of her scrubs. Mort grinned like a six year old, and resisted the urge to hug her. He'd waited weeks for a writing utensil, and now he had some. And multicolored, too.

"Go eat honey, it'll do you good" the Nazi nurse/Glenda the Good Witch nurse said, and left him at the door. The cafeteria was a large room (white, given), with about 50 round wooden tables with chairs, and a large buffet style kitchen at the front. They people who worked at the Institution put little plastic vases with fake flowers on the tables, to make the eating experience more enjoyable, or so Mort that gathered. He found this amusing. The people here were crazy, they couldn't tell the difference between a flower and a elephant.

Putting his precious crayons in the pocket of his robe along with the paper, Mort grabbed a tray and headed toward the line. He grabbed some eggs, pancakes and sausage out of the metal heating containers. He was allowed to serve himself now. Evidently, the social workers figured he could serve himself at 41 years of age. Mort mentally thanked them for that with utter sarcasm as he filled a glass with tart grapefruit juice.

Mort turned back to the table he usually occupied in the back of the large room, but found someone was already sitting there. This surprised him. He had never seen the person who sat there before, so he reasoned they must have been new. It was a girl, maybe in her mid 20's. She was very pretty, Mort noticed. She had peach skin that looked soft, nice. Her node was straight and her lips full and pink. Her hair was straight, and a dark reddish brown, like henna in a bottle before its painted on the Hindu bride's hands, falling to the middle of her back, with sweeping bangs across her forehead. He face was round, but not fat. She was pretty in a classic sort of way. She didn't look crazy. Her hair and face were clean, taken care of. She was wearing a pair of expensive fitting looking jeans and a navy zip up sweatshirt, but he knew she was a patient by the white slippers on her feet. She was eating a eggs and a bagel, reading a heavy novel, or so it seemed. Mort couldnt help it. He was curious. And thus, carefully holding his heavy tray in one hand, he approached the table that was formerly his.