Disclaimer: I don't own Secret Window, although I wish I did!

AN: Yay, new story! I hope that you all weren't too depressed by the ending of my last story…I'll try and make this one a bit happier. Oh, stuff in italics are usually thoughts, but are sometimes an emphasis on words or ideas…it should be obvious what's what, but if not, let me know and I'll change stuff around. Anyway, enjoy this new idea of mine, and please leave a review! Happy reading!

Chapter 1: Of Madness and Confinement:

Mort's POV:

Rocking back and forth on his bed, Mort Rainey stared at an obscure spot on the floor of his room, trying to figure out how and why his life had taken such a horrible turn.

"That's easy, pilgrim," replied a Southern twang in his head. "I'm here, and I'm not goin' anywhere anytime soon."

'You bastard!' Mort mentally snapped back at his alternate personality. 'You killed them! You've ruined my life!'

"Tsk, tsk," Shooter chided him. "That's no way to treat someone who's done you a favor…or four."

'Those weren't favors, you murdered four people!' Mort "yelled" back.

"Those were still favors," Shooter calmly replied. "Ted and Amy betrayed you, and that old man and investigator friend of yours were going to expose us for what we did. I took care of them for you, so those were favors."

Mort growled aloud, but didn't reply. His life had been a nightmare since that hick of a second personality showed up at his door and in his head. Everything, including his freedom, was gone. Shooter had killed his dog, burned his house, and killed four people, two of which he cared about…Amy…sure he had hated Amy for what she'd done, but not enough to want to kill her! Not only that, but Shooter had made Mort a social outcast in Tashmore Lake and all the nearby towns. No one wanted to go near him, and the only way to get food was to order it online or drive fifty miles to get it. Still, no one wanted to go near his cabin to deliver the things he had ordered online, and he usually had to go and get it himself. I didn't even get my newspaper or mail anymore…

But Shooter's influence hadn't stopped there. Not long after the murders, he had taken control of Mort's body and had tried to live through his creator's life. Eventually, when Shooter had finished writing his own story, he's had nerve to go to Mort's agent with the piece and tried to get it published. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on you point of view), his agent, Jacob, had noticed the change in personality and had called the cops while Shooter had been preoccupied with a shelf of books in the lobby. Twenty minutes later, he was being taken away in the back of a police car.

That had been three weeks ago, and here they were…in the state mental hospital.

'Well, at least I can't hurt anybody while I'm here,' Mort thought, rubbing his face with his hand and turning to stare at the beige wall. 'And at least I have my body back after Shooter turned coward and moved to the back of my head. Guess I might as well enjoy the peace and quiet while I can.'

"And what makes you think that life will get all peaceful-like?" Shooter asked. Mort could almost hear him raise an eyebrow in skepticism. "You can't do much while you're in here…no writing because they're afraid you'll hurt somebody, and you're not allowed anywhere by yourself. What have you got here to enjoy?"

'A life without the fear of you hurting someone else,' Mort said back, looking out the window at the puffy clouds in the sky.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." The coldness in Shooter's voice disturbed Mort a great deal. "After all, accidents happen all the time."

'What do you mean by that?' Mort cried, fully panicked.

Shooter didn't answer.

Trying to forget about Shooter's words, Mort lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling until he drifted off to sleep.


Days Later: Mort's POV:

Life in the hospital couldn't be stranger, in Mort's point of view. He had expected to encounter odd people with a variety of mental illnesses, but expecting and experiencing were two different things. Sometimes Mort didn't know who to fear more: Shooter, or some of the people in the hospital! At least the nurses and doctors were kind to him…

'But they're only nice to you because you're nuts,' he thought to himself.

It was true. Even though Shooter had retreated to the back of Mort's mind and given him control of his body, Mort knew that at any moment, any second, his violent half could emerge at any time his chose. Thanks to a very few occasions where Shooter had shown up when Mort was angry or upset, the nursing staff were convinced of Mort's mental illness and did their best to keep him happy and calm. They also kept syringes of sedatives on hand to use when he was too 'worked up.'

But happiness in the mental hospital was the last thing that Mort wanted. He wanted to be out in the world, he wanted to be back at his cabin with his computer, surrounded by the peace and quiet of the woods and the lake. He didn't want the bland, sterile confines of the hospital or the false sympathetic smiles of the staff. He wanted to be free…free of Shooter, free of the madness, free of this damn hospital!

"That's never goin' to happen, pilgrim," Shooter replied, amusement apparent in his voice. "I'm here for good, so you might as well get used to it. I don't plan on going anywhere soon."

'We'll see about that,' Mort snarled as he went out into the gardens for some fresh air.

There may not be any forest, but if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he was at home by the lake, where he belonged.


Fourth Week of Confinement: Mort's POV:

"If they don't let me out of this place soon, Mr. Rainey, something drastic is going to happen," Shooter growled as Mort stared at the ceiling of his small room.

'Well that's not going to happen unless you stop showing up and threatening to kill people, Mr. Shooter,' Mort replied mockingly.

"I only do that because they make you angry," Shooter answered, sounding annoyed at Mort mocking him. "Remember, that's what I'm here for; to act out what you don't have the guts to do for yourself."

'I don't want to hurt any of these people; they're only trying to help me.' God, hurting anyone at the hospital was the last thing that he wanted. All he wanted was his life back, was that too much to ask?

"Mr. Rainey?" asked a voice…a real voice, not Shooter's!

"Yes?" Mort said as he instantly sat up.

A nurse stood in the doorway of his room, a clipboard in her hands and a small smile on her lips. "You have a visitor waiting for you."

Mort leapt up and followed the nurse down the hall, instantly noticing the large orderlies following them as they walked. These guys were big enough to take on professional wrestlers, and that was the reason that they both put him at ease and scared the shit out of him every time he saw them.

"Now why would you both like these fellas and hate them at the same time?" Shooter asked, sincerely amused at his host.

'Because being around these guys is the only thing that keeps you from doing terrible things to innocent people,' Mort replied, trying to ignore the large men following him as he walked.

"Now that isn't very nice, Mr. Rainey," came Shooter's annoyed voice. "After all, I'm here to help."

"The only thing you've ever 'helped' with is ruining my life!" Mort cried, clutching his head.

The nurse stopped walking to turn and look at him. At a signal from the nurse, the two large men grabbed Mort's arms to pull them away from his head and restrain him. After a few moments of silence and no further reactions or vocalizations, the nurse slowly came forward. Forcing him to look up, the nurse waited for Mort to meet her questioning gaze.

"Mr. Rainey, are you alright?" she asked. Mort looked her straight in the eye and nodded.

Satisfied, but still cautious, the nurse led a guarded and restrained Mort down the hallway and towards the visitor's area of the hospital. It was the first time in a month and a half that Mort had had a visitor, and he was curious as to who it could be. When he walked in, he was excited and confused to see his agent seated in a chair at a table, an empty seat in front of him.

Jacob Sawyer smiled and nodded at the seat in front of him, indicating that Mort should take a seat. He did so, and was unnerved that the nurse and orderlies remained to observe their conversation. However, the added security would ensure that Shooter couldn't try anything, so it was okay by him. Content with that thought, Mort turned his attentions towards his long-time agent and friend.

"Hiya, Mort," Jake said, leaning forward in his seat, his arms propped on the table as they supported him.

"Hey, Jake," Mort replied, giving his friend a small smile.

"How are they treating you in here?" Jake asked, nodding towards the nurse and orderlies.

"It's okay, the staff is nice, though the décor is bland as heck," Mort jokingly replied.

Jake chuckled. "Yeah, I can imagine that," he said, still smirking. Suddenly, his smile vanished as he leaned closer. "Mort, I'm sorry that I had to do this to you."

Mort winced and looked away. "It's not your fault," he whispered, looking at the floor. "I haven't been myself for a while, and I'm glad that you caught it before something happened to someone." Before something else happened, Mort thought.

"I'm sorry to say that you're going to have to be here a while, at least until the staff here feels that you're up to being released." Jake said apologetically. "For your own good, you understand."

"I'm sorry to say that I have to agree with you," Mort replied, looking his friend in the eye. Jake looked surprised at his reaction. "I don't want to risk hurting anyone. I'm trusting you to take care of everything at my cabin and in my affairs until I get out of here, Jake. I know you can do that for me."

Jake sighed. "Don't worry, Mort, you'll get out of here soon," he said, reaching over to clap Mort on the shoulder. "You'll be sane and free before you know it."


Three months later, Mort's POV:

"Now Mr. Rainey, there's no need to get upset," said a nurse. "It's only a mild sedative and you shouldn't feel a thing."

"For the last time, I'm not crazy and I don't need a shot!" Mort yelled, pulling against the straightjacket he was wrapped up in.

It had been weeks since Shooter had left him, and Mort was still being treated for a condition he no longer had.

Flashback to three weeks ago:

"I'm getting mighty tired of this here place, Mr. Rainey," commented a very annoyed John Shooter. "Everything here is bland…the walls, the furniture, the food…heck, even the people here are bland! What do you say we get out of here?"

'Can't happen until you get the hell out of my head, Shooter,' Mort replied, once again staring at the ceiling above his bed. Oddly enough, he found the pale beige color to be soothing. It got his mind and body to relax and let his creativity flow. It also pissed Shooter off like heck.

When Shooter didn't reply, Mort started to get a bit hopeful. Silence usually meant that Shooter was thinking thing over and would leave Mort in peace for at least a few moments. Quiet moments like that were becoming more frequent, and the fragile hope of Shooter leaving had grown stronger with each passing day. Now Mort held his breath, waiting for a reply.

"When you're right, you're right, pilgrim," Shooter replied. "But I still ain't too comfortable leaving you all alone like this. I was made to take care of you, and if something bad should happen, you'd be helpless without me."

'I can take care of myself, Shooter,' Mort argued. 'All of my problems except this one are gone, thanks to you, and the only way this problem will end is if you're gone. That's all there is to it.'

"True, true," Shooter said, sounding thoughtful. "I reckon that you're right." There was a brief moment of thoughtful silence. "You made me to take care of your pesky little wife and her boy-toy, and now that they're gone, there ain't a reason for me to stick around no more."

'So you're leaving?' Mort asked, thoroughly amazed and suspicious. 'No one ever gives up that easily, Shooter.'

"I ain't really giving up, Mr. Rainey, I'm just changing into a different form for you to use," the dairy farmer replied. "After all, I'm still a part of you. I'm the aggressive side that you've never really shown to anyone; a sort of outlet, if you will." Mort could swear that he heard him smirk. "I'll always be here inside your head, just in a different, what do you call, manifestation…whether I come out or not depends on how long you can keep your anger bottled up inside you."

Then he was gone…

End Flashback

Now, three weeks after being freed, there was no way for Mort to prove that he was sane. He had acted like he always did: quietly, calmly, without any sort of conflict until one of the other patients decided that Mort was the perfect target to act out on. It was only then that he acted out, defending himself as best he could. The problem with that was that he was so much stronger than everyone else. The other patients consisted of hunched-over, weak-limbed people who were on so much medication that they couldn't tell whether it was day or night. Since Mort was usually so calm, the nurses had decided to not medicate him to the extent of the other patients, but instead simply made sure that he was well watched and that all of his guards had effective sedatives on them. He was even allowed to write stories with pencils. The problem was his strength: it assured that when he acted out, he was often seen as the attacker and not the attacked, so the staff did not believe that he was sane and merely defending himself. Like today, where a patient had wanted his glasses and stolen them off his face; Mort had simply held the man in a passive headlock to get them back.

He felt a prick of pain in his leg and felt velvet-soft warmth flow through him as he drifted off into dreams.


Dream Sequence: Mort's POV:

Soft touches, kind eyes and a comforting voice…what a wonderful dream… it was the an angel, he was sure of that…her skin was a perfect, glowing pale gold, and her bright auburn hair was caught in an eternally soft blowing breeze…Mort sighed in bliss and reached for her…

"MR. RAINEY!"

Mort's eyes shot open and he sat straight up in bed. "What?" he gasped, looking around the room.

The large orderly at his bedside rolled his eyes. "You've been out for over twelve hours, Mr. Rainey," he said, his chest rumbling as he spoke. "The staff was becoming concerned."

Mort lay back down on his bed and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. "Well I wouldn't sleep for so long if they stopped pumping my body full of sedatives," Mort muttered, hoping that the man wouldn't hear. Apparently, it didn't work.

"They do it for your own good, Mr. Rainey," he said, taking a quick glance over Mort to see if he was really stable.

He rolled his eyes. "Well," Mort took a look at the name stitched on the white uniform, "Rick, maybe they should try taking me to a psychiatrist instead of drugging me, have they thought about that?" He combed his fingers through his blonde locks of hair.

Rick snorted. "Of course they have," he said, rolling his eyes in annoyance at being questioned by a patient. "They just have to decide whether you're a danger to the doctors or not. If you aren't, they'll let you talk to one; if you are, it's the drugs that keep visiting you."

Mort sighed. "Well, what am I allowed to do today?"

It was a typical question: every time they had to drug him, they usually put limits on what he was or was not allowed to do for a few days after his sedation. This assured that he calmed down and was no danger to anyone else around him. Today he hoped that he was allowed outside for some fresh air…he felt the need to smell some flowers and enjoy the crisp spring weather.

"You can either go and sit in the Sun Room or take a walk through the hallways," the orderly replied. "No outside time for a couple days, and no access to writing utensils for at least two weeks."

Mort groaned. No pens, pencils, or even crayons for two weeks…that meant no writing. He'd been allowed to write or draw a few times before, but now the opportunities to do so were becoming few and far-between thanks to his 'outbursts of aggression.' It was too bad, because, presently, he sure had a lot to write about! At least he could go and get some sun in the Sun Room (hence the name). He could think and calm himself in the Sun Room, which had quickly become one of his favorite places in the hospital, thanks to the golden beams of light and soft breaths of cool, fresh air coming in through the large open windows.

"Okay, Sun Room it is," Mort softly said, taking a quick glance out the window and into the yard outside his window. Thank goodness he was on the second floor and had a good view of the flowerbeds and green lawn, or else…

"Alright, then, Mr. Rainey," Rick said, stepping up to Mort's side. "Let's get you some sun and fresh air. Just take it slowly today, okay?"

"No problem," Mort replied, sitting up and reaching for the robe that Rick held out to him.

Standing up and putting the robe on, Mort searched for the white slippers given to every patient in the hospital. Once those were securely on his feet, Mort took a deep breath and walked out the door and into the sterile, white hallway. There was no one there. Looking questioningly up at Rick, Mort jerked his head at the hall.

"They're all outside with a nurse or orderly to enjoy the sun," the tall man replied. "Well, except for the troublemakers."

'Like me,' Mort thought, both angrily and wistfully. He then turned and headed down the hallway.


AN: Well, how was that? I hope that it isn't too boring or anything, but it'll get better, I promise! Please review and let me know what you think of it! Thanks!