A/N: Must... write... Another... Chapter [gasps for air]
Disclaimer:[sniff] All Stephen King's. Except for Maria. Like who wants her anyway?
Chapter 5: Rendezvous
Maria only stared at her sofa companion. She MUST have heard him wrong. Either way, there was a dull pounding in her head. Threatening to give her a headache.
"Writing a story is like," Mort paused thoughtfully. "Being God." He smiled. Maria thought if he did that again she would be reduced to a puddle. "You create a world with humans or animals and give them life. You... form their characteristics and their personalities." He looked into his empty Coke bottle. "I guess I carried it too far this time,"
"S-So," Maria swallowed. She was lost for words, putting it lightly. "Is it possible? Haven't you told anyone?" Maria didn't like that her voice was betraying her. All in all, fear wasn't part of her now, it was i concern /i. Was it?
Mort looked at her with his deep brown eyes. "Well, if there is such a thing... I mean, if there is a God who could simultaneously love us enough to serve us His own Son on a slab of wood and send us all on a rocket-sled to hell just because some stupid bitch bit a bad apple, and then yes, it is certainly possible."
Maria let out something between a laugh and a harsh sigh. The sound scared her, really. "When sh-could I start the job?" Classic, she thought. This man pours out his damn conscience and you're worried about getting his house cleaned.
Mort looked at the ceiling with vague interest. "Tomorrow? Perhaps ten?"
Maria yawned and asked herself the same thing over and over before reaching to knock on Mort Rainey's door. She didn't sleep well the previous night... you could imagine why. It's not everyday you get to clean a house for a paranoid schizophrenic, nor do you have the strength and will to keep going back to his house, knowing that you can be chopped into kitty chow in seconds.
But, Mort Rainey, not Shooter, kept her coming back.
Maria paused mid-knock. Had she actually put that thought into her head?
She remembered Mort telling her there wasn't a need to knock, the door would be open.
Nonetheless, Maria felt strange walking into a murderer's house like she knew it so well.
Stop calling him that. Just stop it.
Surprised again, Maria was greeted by papers strewn all over the floor.
None were marked with "Shooter".
This made it less intensifying.
So she stood there, in the midst of the scattered papers, wondering what she should do. Where she should start.
It didn't look like Mr. Rainey/Shooter was home.
Mr. Rainey.
Mr. i Rainey /i, you dipshit.
Maria took a deep breath and took out her walkman. She pressed "play" and began to big up the blank papers.
i "Your love is a razorblade kiss; sweetest is the taste from your lips..." /i
Ville Valo screamed at her through the headphones. The headphones delivered some kind of comfort. At least, Maria didn't have to clean Mort Rainey's bedroom in silence. She would have to start talking to herself. Couldn't have that, could we?
Although the music was on full blast, the silence screamed at her.
She could hear it through her phones.
Maria worked quickly. The sooner she got out of the place, the better. The sky held a lid of dark clouds, and the wind rose, making the windows vibrate and disrupting the silence. Her hand stopped on a yellow pad of paper. There was writing on it, not a lot.
He's a famous writer, he probably writes in his sleep.
She started to read the first sentence.
Don't read it! No, you musn't read it!
i "He didn't expect it. Of course, who would expect a pretty girl on his doorstep on a rainy Tuesday night? She seemed frightened of him the minute she looked at his face, and backed away. She-"
It cut off there.
Her music was off. The silence was thickening.
He's standing right behind you. He's going to be right out pissed you read his little paper.
Maria froze. Her grip tightened on the pad and she sat on Mort's bed, afraid to even breathe.
Relief coursed through her veins when a door from downstairs was slammed shut. She put the pad of paper back on the nightstand and walked downstairs to finish off the kitchen. She would be done soon after.
But she didn't find Mort.
Mort wasn't there at all.
All that could be seen was a large paper pinned to the front door with a steak knife. In large red letters:
"RUN"
A/N: Got quite a knack for them cliffhangers [winks] You know the drill.
Disclaimer:[sniff] All Stephen King's. Except for Maria. Like who wants her anyway?
Chapter 5: Rendezvous
Maria only stared at her sofa companion. She MUST have heard him wrong. Either way, there was a dull pounding in her head. Threatening to give her a headache.
"Writing a story is like," Mort paused thoughtfully. "Being God." He smiled. Maria thought if he did that again she would be reduced to a puddle. "You create a world with humans or animals and give them life. You... form their characteristics and their personalities." He looked into his empty Coke bottle. "I guess I carried it too far this time,"
"S-So," Maria swallowed. She was lost for words, putting it lightly. "Is it possible? Haven't you told anyone?" Maria didn't like that her voice was betraying her. All in all, fear wasn't part of her now, it was i concern /i. Was it?
Mort looked at her with his deep brown eyes. "Well, if there is such a thing... I mean, if there is a God who could simultaneously love us enough to serve us His own Son on a slab of wood and send us all on a rocket-sled to hell just because some stupid bitch bit a bad apple, and then yes, it is certainly possible."
Maria let out something between a laugh and a harsh sigh. The sound scared her, really. "When sh-could I start the job?" Classic, she thought. This man pours out his damn conscience and you're worried about getting his house cleaned.
Mort looked at the ceiling with vague interest. "Tomorrow? Perhaps ten?"
Maria yawned and asked herself the same thing over and over before reaching to knock on Mort Rainey's door. She didn't sleep well the previous night... you could imagine why. It's not everyday you get to clean a house for a paranoid schizophrenic, nor do you have the strength and will to keep going back to his house, knowing that you can be chopped into kitty chow in seconds.
But, Mort Rainey, not Shooter, kept her coming back.
Maria paused mid-knock. Had she actually put that thought into her head?
She remembered Mort telling her there wasn't a need to knock, the door would be open.
Nonetheless, Maria felt strange walking into a murderer's house like she knew it so well.
Stop calling him that. Just stop it.
Surprised again, Maria was greeted by papers strewn all over the floor.
None were marked with "Shooter".
This made it less intensifying.
So she stood there, in the midst of the scattered papers, wondering what she should do. Where she should start.
It didn't look like Mr. Rainey/Shooter was home.
Mr. Rainey.
Mr. i Rainey /i, you dipshit.
Maria took a deep breath and took out her walkman. She pressed "play" and began to big up the blank papers.
i "Your love is a razorblade kiss; sweetest is the taste from your lips..." /i
Ville Valo screamed at her through the headphones. The headphones delivered some kind of comfort. At least, Maria didn't have to clean Mort Rainey's bedroom in silence. She would have to start talking to herself. Couldn't have that, could we?
Although the music was on full blast, the silence screamed at her.
She could hear it through her phones.
Maria worked quickly. The sooner she got out of the place, the better. The sky held a lid of dark clouds, and the wind rose, making the windows vibrate and disrupting the silence. Her hand stopped on a yellow pad of paper. There was writing on it, not a lot.
He's a famous writer, he probably writes in his sleep.
She started to read the first sentence.
Don't read it! No, you musn't read it!
i "He didn't expect it. Of course, who would expect a pretty girl on his doorstep on a rainy Tuesday night? She seemed frightened of him the minute she looked at his face, and backed away. She-"
It cut off there.
Her music was off. The silence was thickening.
He's standing right behind you. He's going to be right out pissed you read his little paper.
Maria froze. Her grip tightened on the pad and she sat on Mort's bed, afraid to even breathe.
Relief coursed through her veins when a door from downstairs was slammed shut. She put the pad of paper back on the nightstand and walked downstairs to finish off the kitchen. She would be done soon after.
But she didn't find Mort.
Mort wasn't there at all.
All that could be seen was a large paper pinned to the front door with a steak knife. In large red letters:
"RUN"
A/N: Got quite a knack for them cliffhangers [winks] You know the drill.