Author's Note: This is a very short little "ficlet" that popped into my mind while I was struggling with a bit of writer's block over my other story. I thought about it while in the shower (man, that happens a lot) and knew that if I didn't pound it out, it would be stuck in my mind until I did. So here it is. Very brief – but considering the length of my other story, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Please read and review and let me know what you think! Thanks!!
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Mort looked at his surroundings, squinting in the moonlight. He was sitting in Amy's old garden, caked in dirt and mud. Underneath the muck, Mort was also saturated in blood, though he wasn't aware of it. He looked at the soil – it was freshly overturn. The shovel was stuck into the ground, something red and wet glistening on the handle.
"What the hell?" Mort said to himself.
The thick, Mississippi accent answered him. "Wasn' so bad, was it?" Mort looked up. Standing before him was John Shooter. "I'll be takin' my hat back, if it's all the same to you, Mr. Rainey." Shooter removed the black farmer's hat from Mort's head.
Mort couldn't find the words he wanted to say. He was disorientated, frightened…yet oddly at peace with himself. "Wh-what wasn't so bad?"
Shooter smiled. "You fixed my ending, Mr. Rainey, and I appreciate that. I had to help a little, but you did a mighty fine job, I must say. It's perfect now."
"You'll leave?" Mort asked.
Shooter tipped his hat. "I'll leave. You just make sure you go on upstairs and finish that now, while it's all fresh in your mind."
"While what's fresh?"
"The endin', Mr. Rainey. The endin'." Shooter turned and left Mort sitting alone in the garden. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll write it for you." Mort was startled to hear his own voice. He looked up and saw a much cleaner version of himself standing next to the shovel.
"I've lost my mind," Mort muttered.
"True, but you're not the first. You don't remember a thing, do you? Not even what I already told you?" Mort shook his head. "Better that way, really, you wouldn't last in a jail or a hospital."
"Why would I be in either place?"
The other Mort rubbed his temple. "I won't protect you again, understand? I'll write your ending, I'll let you forget everything, but this is your only 'get out of jail free card.'"
Mort stood up, his limbs aching. "I don't understand."
"I know you don't. Listen, I signed the divorce papers for you. It's all over, don't try to get in contact with Amy…she doesn't want to see you ever again."
"He burned our house…"
"He burned her house." He pointed to the cabin. "This is your house."
Mort nodded. "Just me?"
"It has to be that way. You can write the perfect ending, but you can never have one yourself." With that, Mort was finally alone. He shed his clothing on the porch before walking inside. He walked straight up the stairs and began to type.
"The ending's the most important part of the story."