The Ending: Chapter 3
(Headache vs. Heartache)
Flashbacks. They had started small and short, and gotten longer and more painful as the day wore on. Mort fought to push the memories out of his mind, but was unsuccessful. They began with John Shooter. Always Shooter. The first thing he was to learn was how he'd gotten this infernal bump on the side of his head. He'd been running through the forest with no shoes, twisted his ankle the wrong way and bashed his head on a rock. The memories were fuzzy, but always accurate. The next thing to come back was the reason for running in the first place. He'd seen Amy's body in the backyard and had set out to locate John Shithead to give him what was coming to him. And of course, the klutz he was, fell on a freaking rock. Anger and hatred coursed through him like a hot, corrosive poison, threatening to engulf him. He picked up a dirty plate sitting on his coffee table and in a burst of mad loathing, fired it against the wall. A string of nasty curse words escaped his mouth, and he collapsed on the couch, crying like a baby. "I love her! I love her!"
- - Yeah, I know you do. It's a shame she didn't return the favour. - -
- Shut up, you! I don't need that right now! I have enough to go through so shut your friggin' mouth for once in your life! –
- - All right. No need to get all tensed up, cowboy. - -
The thing that bothered Mort most was that he knew that his conscience was right. "Wait a sec. My conscience is right? Maybe I'm going insane. It wouldn't exactly surprise me." He shook away the thought. That was the other thing that irked him. The whole town thought he was nuts. They thought he killed Amy, and all the rest of those poor people who'd been murdered by Shooter. They told him that they hadn't seen anyone, that it had been Mort all along! That was insane. He'd never kill his own wife. The woman he loved. Yeah. Right. Keep dreaming. A pang of sadness washed over him once again, and he brushed a stray tear off his cheek at the thought of Amy. Beautiful, intelligent, caring...he could go on for hours. He still loved her, but he was such an idiot! He'd spent all his time on his stupid story, and completely ignored her. He really didn't blame her for cheating on him. He missed her so much! He had to convince the rest of the town that he wasn't crazy. But was he? That's the thing. He shook himself inwardly.
- - Of course, you're not! What are you thinking? That's disrespecting us both. Give me a break here! - -
His left eyelid began to twitch, as it often did if he was stressed, and he cracked his jaw. It was perpetually locking and giving him trouble. He made a mental note to get it fixed.
- - For the thousandth time, I might add. - -
- Cut me some slack. I've been kind of preoccupied. -
His head began to ache, signifying the fact that it was about time to call it a night. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, just above the mirror. It read 2:30.
- - Don't let your thoughts run away with you, Morty. Go to sleep. - -
And then Mort did something that was more rarely seen than a polar bear walking down the street in California. After taking some aspirin, he listened to his conscience and went to bed.
(Headache vs. Heartache)
Flashbacks. They had started small and short, and gotten longer and more painful as the day wore on. Mort fought to push the memories out of his mind, but was unsuccessful. They began with John Shooter. Always Shooter. The first thing he was to learn was how he'd gotten this infernal bump on the side of his head. He'd been running through the forest with no shoes, twisted his ankle the wrong way and bashed his head on a rock. The memories were fuzzy, but always accurate. The next thing to come back was the reason for running in the first place. He'd seen Amy's body in the backyard and had set out to locate John Shithead to give him what was coming to him. And of course, the klutz he was, fell on a freaking rock. Anger and hatred coursed through him like a hot, corrosive poison, threatening to engulf him. He picked up a dirty plate sitting on his coffee table and in a burst of mad loathing, fired it against the wall. A string of nasty curse words escaped his mouth, and he collapsed on the couch, crying like a baby. "I love her! I love her!"
- - Yeah, I know you do. It's a shame she didn't return the favour. - -
- Shut up, you! I don't need that right now! I have enough to go through so shut your friggin' mouth for once in your life! –
- - All right. No need to get all tensed up, cowboy. - -
The thing that bothered Mort most was that he knew that his conscience was right. "Wait a sec. My conscience is right? Maybe I'm going insane. It wouldn't exactly surprise me." He shook away the thought. That was the other thing that irked him. The whole town thought he was nuts. They thought he killed Amy, and all the rest of those poor people who'd been murdered by Shooter. They told him that they hadn't seen anyone, that it had been Mort all along! That was insane. He'd never kill his own wife. The woman he loved. Yeah. Right. Keep dreaming. A pang of sadness washed over him once again, and he brushed a stray tear off his cheek at the thought of Amy. Beautiful, intelligent, caring...he could go on for hours. He still loved her, but he was such an idiot! He'd spent all his time on his stupid story, and completely ignored her. He really didn't blame her for cheating on him. He missed her so much! He had to convince the rest of the town that he wasn't crazy. But was he? That's the thing. He shook himself inwardly.
- - Of course, you're not! What are you thinking? That's disrespecting us both. Give me a break here! - -
His left eyelid began to twitch, as it often did if he was stressed, and he cracked his jaw. It was perpetually locking and giving him trouble. He made a mental note to get it fixed.
- - For the thousandth time, I might add. - -
- Cut me some slack. I've been kind of preoccupied. -
His head began to ache, signifying the fact that it was about time to call it a night. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, just above the mirror. It read 2:30.
- - Don't let your thoughts run away with you, Morty. Go to sleep. - -
And then Mort did something that was more rarely seen than a polar bear walking down the street in California. After taking some aspirin, he listened to his conscience and went to bed.