Disclaimer: I do not own Stephen King or David Keopp's Secret Window.

Here we go....

Chapter Two

Fourteen years passed and I still couldn't help but hate the person I was becoming. I hadn't heard anything from Lindsay and I really wished I could just receive some kind of communication from the mother of my child or just my child herself. If I'd calculated correctly, her fourteenth birthday would have been nine days ago. I was the father of a teenager and I hadn't even seen her face.

I brought my laptop into my bedroom, which was rare. I hated my bedroom; it was so enclosed. It made me feel...schizophrenic. But by now, I'd learned to like that feeling. I liked knowing that nobody knew what I was doing up here. If somebody showed up at my mudstep, I could shoot them right then and there, and nobody would find out. Yes, my mudstep. I call it my mudstep because I really don't have a doorstep. My house is just surrounded by mud. It would be plain old dirt, but it rains too much up here, and there's nothing I enjoy more than the rain. It splatters atop the roof and sometimes, and it feels as if it will fall in any second. It was scary, but the rain was worth it. The rain was worth it to be scared.

Hell, I can't even understand myself anymore.

Well anyway, I started typing away at my pathetic attempt at a book. There was no way anyone would take my publication offers, but still, I write. I write because that's what I do. I have nothing else to do anyway.

My fingers became tired and for some reason, I was trembling. I noticed so after I lifted my hands up off the keyboard. See, I really do scare myself. I added my finishing touches and revisions to the chapter, and right as I hit the final key, the phone that sat next to my bed did something it hadn't done in fourteen years.

It rang.

I stared at it as if it were a monster in my closet. "Who the hell...?" I began asking myself but stopped after it rang three times. I picked it up, trembling harder than I was before. "H-Hello?"

"Is this Mort Rainey?" It was a man with an odd kind of accent.

"Yes..." I replied unsteadily.

"Um, we're going to need you to come by the Tashmore Medical, well, as soon as possible. Is that a problem at all?"

Okay, thoughts that were going through my head right now: WHAT? WHAT? GO INTO TOWN? ARE YOU INSANE? Oh, wait that's me. WHY? IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME? AM I GONNA DIE? NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! NO WAY! ABSOLUTELY NOT! YOU ALL HATE ME DOWN THERE!

"No, no problem at all," I replied dazedly. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Rainey."

We both hung up in unison.

Oh my God, I really am twisted....

[THE NEXT MORNING]

The sunlight hurt my eyes.

I drove up to the clinic, which was only three buildings down from Lindsay's post office. Well, what was once her post office, at least. You see, a few years ago, some psycho went off on a Sunday morning when the post office was closed and everyone was in church. He went to the post office, lit a match, and burned it down. Nobody ever figured out who did it, either. He's not from this town. He's really far away, physically and mentally. I heard he'd lost everything at one point in his life.

Poor guy.

But, hey.

I'm not one to feel sorry for myself.

Bars were nailed securely over the windows and doors of the under-sized hospital. I got out of my car and went inside. The walls were a pale green color. I looked around for the guy with the weird accent, painting an image of what he looked like in my mind. Kind of old with receding hair...blah, blah, blah. That's pretty much how I pictured everyone from this town. I didn't really care anymore.

Suddenly a man came up to me. Actually, I wouldn't even consider him a man. He was just a kid, probably eighteen or nineteen. He also had a full head of blond hair.

"Mr. Rainey," he said in a fearful kind of tone, "We have your prescription."

Huh?

"Wait, wait. I-I didn't order any kind of prescription."

Then he said while writing nonsense things down on a clipboard, "Oh, that's right. Your girlfriend did. A few months ago."

To notice when I'm not around...

I thought I might as well just have a heart attack. "My-my girlfriend?"

"Yes. Lindsay, I think her name is."

"I know her name, thank you very much."

"Very sorry, sir," he said blankly. "Well, she came by a while back and said she wanted to order a prescription for you."

"Th-that's it? She didn't say anything else?"

He looked up from his clipboard and stared ahead, trying to remember. He may have hair on top of his head, but there wasn't much in it. "Oh, yes. She said your daughter would be coming by your house in the next two months. And that was a month ago so..."

I didn't even bother to listen to the rest of what he had to say. I didn't care. I couldn't believe this. I was going to see my daughter. My little girl. My angel I'd waited to meet ever since I heard she was alive and breathing. I was going to see her.

I snapped back and saw that the doctor was staring at me, obviously waiting for me to respond.

"Sorry. Um...what-what did she prescribe for me exactly?"

"Phenobarbital," he said, checking his list again.

"What?"

"Insanity medication," he answered.

My eyes shaped themselves in an unusual way. I threw open the door to leave, but the young doctor laid a hand on my arm. "Please, sir. I really suggest you take them."

I thought. Well, if Beverly was going to come to see me, I might not want these pink circles around my eyes and this pale, pale skin. I didn't want the medication. I really didn't. But I chose to anyway. I would do anything for my daughter.

After receiving the medication, I stuff it in my pocket and hurried out to my car. The sunlight burned my eyes again. I winced and drove home.

I was instructed to take three pills each morning so I stored them away in the drawer by my laptop (which I'd returned to its original space.) I didn't like writing in my bedroom at all.)) I didn't want the next morning to arrive, but any second, my daughter could arrive at my door, and I wanted her to see what her dad has become. I would never want her to think she has some kind of freaky father. Even though, I know she thinks that. Well, Lindsay must at least. I mean, she prescribed me insanity medication, for God's sake. She must have somehow figured out how I was doing up here. And it apparently I'm not doing so good. But I never noticed. And when you live all alone, it only matters what you think, not to sound conceited though. But when you come to me on the list, you might find that I don't really find living alone that enjoyable anymore. I want to be with someone. Anyone. Anyone I love. Maybe suicide is the answer to all this. Maybe, just maybe...

I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and located the B.B. gun my father had given me when I was eight. I'd used up all my bullets on hunting out here, but one's left. One bullet is left. Now all I have to do is figure out where to shoot it.

Please find me, Beverly. Hurry.