So, for a while I was totally obsessed with Secret Window when I was running on a Johnny Depp high, so I wrote this during school last year. After a lot of editing, I present to you for your enjoyment. I don't know if it's good or not, but this is just a different take on how Mort Rainey lost his sanity.
He was in a dark room. Groping for the wall in the blackness, he felt his fingers graze a light switch. Flicking it on, he gasped. The room was a mess!
The room looked like an office cubicle: four flat, square walls, no windows, and a big desk littered with papers. He slowly walked up to the desk and stared at it.
There were so many papers that he couldn't even see the desk's surface. Gingerly, he lifted one up and read through it. "June fifteenth, 1995," he mumbled. "That was the day Secret Window was published." He grabbed another sheet. "May fourth, 1994. My wedding day." He snatched up a handful. "These are all dates from my life," he murmured, astonished. "My high school graduation, my tenth birthday, my first date with Amy, everything. These are my memories."
"Only your good ones," a voice said. He froze. "All your bad memories are in the trashcan." For the first time, he noticed a trashcan next the desk. It was overflowing with crumpled papers.
He whirled around to face whoever was talking to him, but there was nobody there. He turned back around and plucked a paper ball out of the metal can. Unfolding it, he read the writing. "September twenty-first, 1982. The day my mother died."
"That's one of your worst ones," the voice continued. "You hate that memory because you had a fight with her the day before."
"Who are you?" he asked the silence. "How do you know that?"
"Why, I'm your conscience Mort," the voice said. "I know everything about you."
Mort reached for another ball. "October seventeenth, 2004."
"The day you met John Shooter."
Mort nodded, his throat dry. He wanted a cigarette so bad.
"There aren't any here," his conscience said.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"You want a cigarette. There aren't any here. They're bad for your health."
Mort rolled his eyes. "Screw my health. I don't give a shit about my health."
"If you did, you wouldn't have taken up smoking in the first place."
"Where am I?" Mort questioned, changing the subject.
"Inside your head. This is what it looks like."
"I didn't know my conscience lived in a cubicle."
"I didn't pick it."
Mort reached back into the trashcan and fished around for a second before his hand emerged. He carefully unfolded the paper. "April fifteenth, 2004." It took a second for him to remember, but when he did, he chucked the paper at the wall.
"The day you caught…" his conscience started, but Mort interrupted him.
"The day I caught Amy at that stupid motel with her stupid new boyfriend, Ted."
"A woman who would steal your love when your love was really all you had wasn't much of a woman," another voice said. It was a deep male voice with a heavy Southern accent. Mort slowly turned around and saw John Shooter leaning against one of the four beige walls. "Isn't that right Mr. Rainey?"
"How did you get in here?" he snarled. For once his conscience, which looked exactly like Mort and had appeared during their conversation, was silent.
"Why, everyone who has a key can get in here," Shooter answered, holding up a gold key. "Now we got some business to take care of Mr. Rainey."
"I already told you I'd change my ending," he growled.
Shooter shook his head. "I'm not talking about the story. I'm talking about this." He held up three sheets of paper. On the other side, Mort could see that, instead of the black and blue ink like all the other sheets, the papers were stained with red ink.
"What are those?"
"Don't listen to him Mort," his conscience begged.
Shooter grinned. "My crimes, or should I say your crimes."
Mort's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Mort…" his conscience started.
"Shut up a second!" Mort shouted, turning to his conscience. His conscience took a step backward and held up his hands defensively. Mort whirled back around to face Shooter. "I didn't do any of those things. You did," he said, pointing at the southern man.
"I know you'd like to think that, but it's true," Shooter said, shaking his head.
"It's impossible!"
Shooter shrugged. "It's kinda hard for me to do those things considering I don't exist."
"You're lying!"
"Then how would I have gotten inside your head?"
Mort was silent. Then, he turned to Conscience. "Tell me this isn't true," he pleaded. "Tell me this isn't happening."
Conscience shook his head. "It's true. You made John Shooter up. He's just a very colorful figment of your imagination."
"But… but…"
"You were hallucinating," he continued. "You and me are the only ones who can see him."
"Now, Mr. Conscience, if you don't mind, Mr. Rainey and I have some business to discuss," Shooter interjected. Mort and Conscience looked at him, their identical jaws shut. "Now, back to what I said. If your wife were much of a woman, then why did she leave you? Do you know what we have to do Mr. Rainey?"
Shooter lifted his hat off his head and was about to put it on Mort's head when there was a knock at that door. "Mort? Are you in there?" Shooter and Mort froze. "I'm coming in, all right?" They heard the lock click and saw the knob turn. The door slowly creaked open and in stepped Amy Rainey. She was wearing a floor length white gown, the nightgown that Mort had given her for one of their wedding anniversaries. Her golden blonde hair seemed to glow, like a halo around her head. "Hello Mort," she said.
Mort turned to his conscience again. "What, does this mean Amy's an illusion too?" he asked, anger and sarcasm tingeing his voice.
Conscience shook his head. "No, but she is a part of you, just like Shooter."
Mort turned back to Amy. "What are you doing in here?" he asked softly.
"Well, I had another one of those 'feelings' and I was worried about you." She walked forward and embraced him. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too," he whispered into her hair, breathing in her flowery perfume and hugging her back.
"Well, that's all fine and dandy, but I have some business to take care of," Shooter interrupted again.
Amy let go of Mort, much to Mort's disappointment. "You must be John Shooter, my husbands psychotic stalker," she said, irritation edging into her voice. "It's very nice to meet you." She then extended her hand.
For a moment, Shooter looked startled, but then he smiled evilly. "I'm not a stalker ma'am. I'm a part of your husband." He pointed at Mort, who frowned.
"Oh, I see." She turned to Mort. "Mort, sweetie, whatever he's planning, don't do it. I don't know what he's going to do, but I do know that it's wrong."
Mort whirled around to face his conscience. "Mind explaining to me exactly what's going on here buddy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
His conscience rubbed his chin. "Well, you know how in cartoons the little angel and the little devil appear on a characters shoulders and advise them on what to do?"
Mort shrugged. "Yeah. What about it?"
"Well, you figure it out. Shooter wants to kill Amy and Ted because he hates them. Amy doesn't want you committing murder and adding to Shooter's list."
He frowned. "Well, you're my conscience. Why aren't you advising me?"
"I am advising you," his conscience said. "Actually, it's more like explaining. You ask a question, I tell you the answer. That's my job."
"I thought a conscience was supposed to give advice."
"No, I just tell you what's right and what's wrong, and I'm the one that makes you feel guilty."
"Shooter killed my dog, Tom Greenleaf, Ken Karsh, and he burned down my house. How the hell am I supposed to feel?" he asked through gritted teeth.
Conscience shrugged. "Yeah, that's my fault," he said, then he gestured to the other two guests. "But you have business to discuss."
"How do I decide what to do?"
"Figure it out."
Mort's conscience pushed him forward and he turned to face Amy and Shooter. "All right… uh… Amy, what do you want me to do?"
Amy took a step forward, a sad smile on her face as she laced her fingers together. "I don't want you to do whatever Shooter's planning," she said. "It's bad and I know it. I still love you Mort, and I don't want you to do anything you'll regret. Please listen to me, honey."
"You still love me?" he asked, astonished. He took a step toward her and her smile turned warm.
"Wait a minute Mr. Rainy," Shooter said, frowning, "you're gonna regret what you're doing. You haven't heard what I have to say."
"All right Mr. Shooter, what's your reason?" Mort asked absently, his eyes never leaving his ex-wife's face.
"I say you kill your ex and her boyfriend. You hate them, and you know it. She don't love you no more. This Amy might, but in reality she don't."
"Don't you ever talk about Amy like that," Mort growled, tearing his eyes away from Amy and glaring at Shooter. Shooter held his hands up defensively and took a step backwards, startling Mort. "Oh my God, you are a part of me," he said, his eyes widening. Shooter nodded and grinned, revealing two crooked front teeth. They looked exactly like… "Oh my God, those are my teeth."
"Told ya he's a part of you," his conscience said. "When you invented him, you gave him some of your personality and physical traits," he explained.
"Mr. Rainey, listen to me," Shooter said, taking a step forward. "This Amy ain't real, just like me. Anything she says don't apply to the real Amy. What she says is just what you want the real Amy to say. Amy don't you love you anymore Mr. Rainey." He lowered his voice as he took another step forward. "She ain't much of a woman, now is she?"
"No she's not," Mort answered, dazed.
"She stole your love," he said. "Your love was all you had."
"She did."
"Mort, don't listen to him!" Amy shrieked.
"Mort, think about what you're doing. Think about the consequences," his conscience warned.
"A woman like that don't deserve to live, does she now?" Shooter continued. As he talked, he was steadily getting closer to Mort.
"No, she doesn't."
"Her boyfriend don't deserve to live either."
A small smile appeared on Mort's lips. "Not a chance."
Shooter was directly behind Mort now. "Do you know what we need to do?" he murmured, his eyes taking on an evil glint. He took his hat from behind his back and placed it on Mort's head.
Mort felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. A terrific shock shot through his body and out his fingers and toes. His body was rigid, his eyes were twitching, and he felt like he was being pricked with thousands of needles. His brain was whirring with all kinds of obscure and random thoughts: his books, Tom, Amy, the manuscript, his house, the fire, blood, screwdrivers, Chico, Ken, death, cars, his watch, Shooter…
Then, as suddenly as it had all started, it stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around inside his head. He was alone now, in a sense.
On the floor, lying side by side, were two still bodies. One was dressed in a gown fit for an angel. The other looked identical to the only other person in the room. Mort smiled wickedly, displaying two crooked front teeth. There was no blood, no murder weapon.
Mort turned around and walked out the cubicle's door, leaving the two corpses on the floor, and effectively killing what little was left of his sanity.
OooooooooooooooooooooooooO
Amy flew up in her bed, clutching the sheets to her chest, her body breaking out in a cold sweat. Ted grumbled something in his sleep before rolling over, taking some of the sheets with him.
"It was just a dream, just a dream," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around herself and closing her eyes. However, her eyes immediately shot back open, as when she closed them, she could see her ex-husband grinning wickedly with his two crooked front teeth.
Lying back down next to her boyfriend, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled herself close. It was just a feeling, but she had learned over time to trust those feelings. Tomorrow, she would go check on Mort, and make sure he was all right. And ask if he signed the divorce papers yet.
It would be the last thing she would ever do.