Borderline Insanity

Morton Rainey/Edward Scissorhands

Mort sighed as he pressed 'ctrl + a + delete'. He growled as he slammed his laptop shut. He rolled his eyes as he walked down the stairs. He groaned as he lay down onto his couch. He scoffed as took off his glasses, and tossed them onto the coffee table. He frowned as he slowly fell asleep.

-

Mort was walking in a pastel neighborhood, crinkling his nose in disgust at all the happy faces. He clearly did not belong.

Then again, he never did.

He looked around, and saw a large mountain with a house on it. It was much more inviting than the perverse smiles from the old women in their fluorescent clothing. He walked rather quickly to the mountain, and soon arrived at the broken metal gates. Curiosity piquing his interest, Mort stepped over one broken gate, and went inside.

He looked around, at first seeing only dead shrubbery and thorns. As Mort walked deeper and deeper into the estate, the scenery slowly began to change. Suddenly, he saw beautiful topiary all over the place, with gorgeous flowerbeds sprinkled in between. He saw a heavy wooden door that led to the castle left slightly ajar, so he silently slipped inside.

Mort looked around, and noticed many mechanical instruments; all covered in cobwebs, and quite clearly had been out of use for a long time. Resisting the temptation of messing with the machines, Mort started to walk up the never-ending staircase, something calling to him.

It seemed like hours before he finally reached the top room. Slightly annoyed, Mort pushed the door open to reveal a bare attic, with a hole in the roof; letting beams of sunlight stream in, illuminating the whole room, except a corner, which he dismissed as unimportant. He walked the rickety wooden floor cautiously, wary of the sturdiness and support of the planks. He studied the cracks in the walls, which led him to turn to face a bare bed with newspaper clippings surrounding it. Mort scanned the clippings, finding them rather odd, with titles like, "Newlywed Couple Have Child at Age 90" or, "Boy Born Without Eyes Reads with Hands: Says He Feels Heat of the Words". Suddenly there was a sound of snips in the room. Mort turned around wildly, wary of the sound.

It had come from the dark corner.

Mort squinted, trying to see the figure. He yelled out something incoherent, mainly out of fear. The figure stood, and slowly walked to Mort. Rays of sunshine glinted menacingly off the weapons in the figure's possession.

"Don't go." The figure said meekly. "I'm not finished yet."

Mort stepped back in confusion and fear. Suddenly he heard a crack, and for a short, short moment, he was weightless. He felt that familiar and oh-so-frightening lift to his insides.

Then everything went black.

-

Mort woke up with a thump! and a fresh cut on his hand.

"God, damn it!" Mort growled, as he tried to stop the bleeding. It was unnerving to see all of the blood pouring out of his hand, a river of crimson. He panicked slightly as he started to feel faint, and he ran upstairs to the bathroom. He wrenched open the medicine cabinet, in a frantic search for gauze.

After he managed to stop the bleeding, there was a sudden knock at the door. He already knew who it was even before he opened the door. It was that stupid arthritic sheriff, coming to tell Mort something completely obtuse.

At least it would no longer be Amy.

Knock, knock!

"I'm coming! I'm coming…" He called out lethargically. The writer slowly made his way down the stairs, his annoyance growing more and more with each step. As he reached the front door, he heard a faint snip. He quickly glanced about his surroundings, an odd feeling running through his body. With a faint click, the writer opened his front door a small crack. "Yea?" He called out into the crack gruffly. Suddenly a thick manila folder whizzed past Mort's face, barely missing his nose by centimeters.

"Mr. Rainey?" A sharp, clipped voice replied. It seemed to belong to a woman, although Mort somewhat doubted it.

"Yea." He replied cautiously, wary of the sudden visit from someone he did not even know. Careful, she might be after somethin', one of the many voices in his head whispered. I know, now shut up.

"Hello, my name is Angela Mason, an agent from your literary company in New York. I've come here to talk to you regarding to your… diminishing writing career." She pushed herself past Mort, her heels making a severe clacking sound onto the hardwood floors. She crinkled her nose slightly at the mess in the house.

Mort glared at the woman. Who the hell was she to march into his house? "Why didn't you call, then?" He retorted bitterly. He didn't like to be bothered by anybody.

"I've attempted many calls to your house, but you've never answered. So I decided to drive down here, and talk to you face-to-face." Angela informed him, as she gingerly sat on his couch. She looked to Mort expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of an explanation.

Mort merely looked at the manila folder resting innocently on the agent's lap. He was somewhat fearful of the information that it contained. "What do we need to talk about?" He questioned, as he scratched his head and brushed off any remaining crumbs off his robe.

Ignoring Mort's behavior, Angela opened the folder and pulled out a chart. "Lately, we've noticed a lack of profit coming from your short stories. Many readers have complained that your plots seem repetitive, obvious, and somewhat cliché." She pointed at the down sloping chart. "Ever since 'Everybody Drops the Dime', your profits have gone down. If this pattern continues, we might have to let you go." She looked at Mort. "Of course, we would sincerely regret having to resort to this sort of behavior, but we need to think of what's best for the company." She slid the chart back into the manila folder and pulled out another paper. She handed it to Mort tentatively, as she pulled out her own copy. "Here is what we'd like for you to start writing."

Mort scanned the paper, and tore it in half. "No." He merely said, as he continued to rip up the offending sheet.

Angela was slightly surprised. "No?" She repeated dumbly, as she looked up to Mort. "What do you mean, 'No?' These are perfectly good suggestions, Mr. Rainey, and this is what is currently in style—"

"I don't fucking care what's in fucking style! I am not going to write some fucking bullshit about some stupid little teenager falling in love with some fucking vampire! Who the hell do you think you are?" Mort roared at the woman. She's the one who writes your fucking paycheck, shithead. Mort ignored the voice of reason, and kept on glaring at the woman.

Her clear blue eyes suddenly turned ice cold."Well, Mr. Rainey," She crossly said as she stood from his couch, "I hope you have a much better idea for a new story, because in two months from now, I will come to pick it up. If it is not satisfactory, we are going to let you go." And with that, she swiftly left the Rainey house.

"Yea, yea, whatever." Mort muttered quietly. He locked his door, and dusted off his couch. "I just want to take a nap, and nap for a long time, okay?" He lied there, and stared up at his ceiling. The writer blinked a few times, and slowly fell into a dreamless sleep. However, he could have sworn he heard a timid voice in his head meekly say, 'Hello.'