Disclaimer: I do not own any 'Secret Window" characters. They all belong
to Stephen King and the writers of the movie, thank you very much. I shall
put them back where I found them when I am finished with them.
The Devil is Irish?
"Morton?" the door was wide open so she walked in. "Mort? Where are you? It's me, Ciara." Ciara looked around the room. The word "shooter" was carved everywhere and far too many times than she'd care to count. Hearing a floorboard creak, she began climbing the stairs. "Mort? Are you up there?" she called. At the top of the stairs, she turned to her right and saw to the left of the bedroom door, the carved word "shoot" and on the door "her." She slowly walked to the door. "Mort? Are you in there?"
As she reached for the door handle, the door burst open and Morton Reiney ran out at her, a crazed look on his face. He shoved her against the wall and shouted, "Damn you, Ciara!"
"What did I do, Mort?" she asked calmly. "Was it really me?"
"No..." he sank to the floor and hugged her knees. "It wasn't you..."
Ciara walked over to his chair and sat. Morton buried his face in her lap. "Tell me what happened..."
She stroked his hair gently as he told her everything that happened ever since he confirmed his suspicions that his wife had been cheating on him. Ciara's green eyes glowed eerily whenever he mentioned a death of any kind. "'Ara, what's wrong with me?" he asked as his story drew to a close.
Ciara lifted his head and looked into his eyes and said calmly and firmly, "Nothing's wrong with you. Besides split personality disorder thrown into the mix with insanity and criminal tendencies. But don't worry, everything's fine... Now."
~*~
Ciara stood in the shadows as the sheriff spoke to Morton about what happened the few days before.
"What's more important is the ending. That's the most important part," Mort said seriously, having completely forgotten his entire ordeal.
The sheriff sighed in exasperation and left.
Ciara walked over and began massaging his shoulders, muttering, "Keep going, Mort. Don't stop writing. You've sold your soul to the devil so you could finish writing your masterpieces... You don't want to make her angry. She's Irish, so she's prone to anger."
"The devil's Irish?" Mort asked then turned to look at her. "You're Irish?"
The Devil is Irish?
"Morton?" the door was wide open so she walked in. "Mort? Where are you? It's me, Ciara." Ciara looked around the room. The word "shooter" was carved everywhere and far too many times than she'd care to count. Hearing a floorboard creak, she began climbing the stairs. "Mort? Are you up there?" she called. At the top of the stairs, she turned to her right and saw to the left of the bedroom door, the carved word "shoot" and on the door "her." She slowly walked to the door. "Mort? Are you in there?"
As she reached for the door handle, the door burst open and Morton Reiney ran out at her, a crazed look on his face. He shoved her against the wall and shouted, "Damn you, Ciara!"
"What did I do, Mort?" she asked calmly. "Was it really me?"
"No..." he sank to the floor and hugged her knees. "It wasn't you..."
Ciara walked over to his chair and sat. Morton buried his face in her lap. "Tell me what happened..."
She stroked his hair gently as he told her everything that happened ever since he confirmed his suspicions that his wife had been cheating on him. Ciara's green eyes glowed eerily whenever he mentioned a death of any kind. "'Ara, what's wrong with me?" he asked as his story drew to a close.
Ciara lifted his head and looked into his eyes and said calmly and firmly, "Nothing's wrong with you. Besides split personality disorder thrown into the mix with insanity and criminal tendencies. But don't worry, everything's fine... Now."
~*~
Ciara stood in the shadows as the sheriff spoke to Morton about what happened the few days before.
"What's more important is the ending. That's the most important part," Mort said seriously, having completely forgotten his entire ordeal.
The sheriff sighed in exasperation and left.
Ciara walked over and began massaging his shoulders, muttering, "Keep going, Mort. Don't stop writing. You've sold your soul to the devil so you could finish writing your masterpieces... You don't want to make her angry. She's Irish, so she's prone to anger."
"The devil's Irish?" Mort asked then turned to look at her. "You're Irish?"