Trapped in the Mind's Games

(First Person POV)

The sweet smell of corn filled my nose as my senses awakened and hazel eyes fluttered open. At first I thought that I was back home in our New York City apartment, taking a quick nap on our leather couch before an afternoon lunch. But when my eyes adjusted to the bright light, I saw that I was in a mildly furnished cabin, lying on a comfortable couch with a wool quilt covering my warm body.

"Shit," I muttered, remembering somewhat of what had happened the night before. I sat up abruptly, seeing a door right across the room, but I also felt a huge pain in the back of my head. I put my hand to where it was hurting, and felt that my light brown hair was covered in dried blood. I almost cried out in surprise, but instead, I threw the quilt off of me, and bolted to the door without another thought. My hand was on the doorknob, and I was about to fling open the wooden door, but a voice had stopped me.

"Good morning," said a man in a striped and tattered bathrobe, standing by the stove, boiling water and dumping corn into a metal pot. He had untamed blonde hair that looked as if it had a mind of its own. Black rimmed glasses sat on his sloped nose, and as he turned to me he smiled, revealing metal braces. This was supposed to be a murderer? He was creepy, no doubt. After all, corn seemed to be invading his kitchen, and he didn't even mind. There were ears of corn everywhere. On the counters, table, on top of the refrigerator, pouring out of the cabinets…everywhere.

"You have quite a gash on your head," he said while turning back to his corn.

I felt the back of my head again in concern, and realized that the wound on my head was really disgusting and pretty large, but at the moment, I just wanted to leave. I felt really dizzy, and I knew that it wasn't due to a hangover. As I put my hand on the doorknob to make a quick leave, I muttered a quick, "Thanks."

"Oh, you're welcome!" he replied cheerfully, "You would've died if it wasn't for me."

"A thousand thanks," I said quickly, then started to open the door.

"What were you doing on my porch?" he asked determinedly, with a somewhat fierce tone in his voice. He turned to me, eyeing my suspiciously. A huge chill was sent down my spine as his brown eyes focused on me.

"I dunno," I said nervously.

"I guess you haven't heard the rumors about me," he said mysteriously, leaving his corn in the pot, and striding over to me. I was almost too scared to move, and I felt lightheaded as his steps echoed in my mind.

"I just…moved here…" I said as everything seemed to spin around. I felt my body sway to one side, but the suspicious man grabbed my shoulders and guided me back to the couch and sat me down lightly. He sat down on a small table covered in papers that was right in front of the couch and stared intently and worriedly at me. My eyes were wandering around in their sockets, and my head felt so incredibly strange.

The man began waving his hand in front of my clueless face, and pushed his glasses up as they slid down his nose.

"Uh, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asked.

"None," I said drearily since his hands were now holding up my shoulders.

"Sorry, sorry. My fault, my fault," he repeated, "My name's Mort Rainey," he said clearly.

"Hi…Mr. Rainey…I'm Riley Drews," I said quietly as my eyes faded into darkness.

(Third Person POV)

Mort Rainey guided Riley to lie back down on the couch as her eyes closed peacefully. He pulled the quilt over her body, and watched her helplessly. She was hurt badly, but there wasn't much that he could do. If he took her down to the local hospital everyone would think that he had hurt the poor girl and then the sheriff would have reason to put him in the jail.

Mort ran his fingers through his messy hair, contemplating what he could do. There was a teenage girl that smelled of beer and pine needles lying passed out on his old couch. Not that anyone ever came by his house, but if anyone did, it would be interesting to see what others thought of the situation. Mort was actually somewhat happy that someone had dropped by, even if she had been breaking and entering. He hadn't had any contact with humans for some time, and his appearance definitely showed it. He realized that he probably smelled worse than Riley, and though he didn't want to leave the girl's side, he got up from the coffee table and made his way to the staircase. He climbed the wooden steps, finally reaching the top and making his way to the small bathroom.

He opened the newly purchased shower door and turned the knob for the water to pour out. He undressed slowly and took off his glasses, setting them on the small sink. He stared into the mirror above the sink for a few seconds before he opened it and pulled out his razor and shaving cream. Mort squirted the cream into his hands, then spread it out over his rough cheeks. He brought the razor down along his cheeks gradually, feeling it cut his skin in a few unlucky places. Then, he stepped into the shower, letting the hot pricks of water soothe his skin and wash off all of the remaining shaving cream. Taking the soap and washcloth, he cleansed himself. Reaching for the shampoo on a nearby shelf he thought he saw someone enter the bathroom through the fogged glass door.

"Hello?" he said powerfully as he stood up slowly. There was a black shadow standing right in front of his door. It was taller than him, and skinny. Mort prayed that it wasn't his old "friend", John Shooter, but who else would it be? Shooter hadn't "visited" him in over two weeks, he thought, and Mort considered the idea that maybe his mind was done playing tricks on him. With the shampoo in hand, he thrust open the shower door, and threw the plastic bottle of shampoo at…nothing. It slammed into the wall, and Mort shuddered.

"Fuck…" Mort said breathlessly and grabbed his towel off the hook on the back of the door. "Stop doing that. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" he shouted as he hit his head angrily. He walked into his room as if he was walking to his death and threw on a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt. Ruffling his blonde hair so that it would dry faster, he walked over to his desk that overlooked the living room where Riley lay passed out. He was worried that maybe she wasn't going to wake up…but it was just a hangover he hoped.

Mort stared at the screen before him with one paragraph written.

"She gazed out of the car window, taking in all the pale scenery as the small vehicle sped down the long, dirt road," Mort read quietly and quickly, "Thoughts of her past ran through her troubled mind, but she did her best to forget it. After another thirty minutes, they were—this is shit." He pressed the deleting key and one by one, the letters vanishing on the screen before his eyes. He sat back in his chair for a second, hoping that a fantastic idea would suddenly pop into his head.

"Nothing," he said aloud.

'You can't just give up,' his mind argued.

"Watch me," Mort said and opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bag of Doritos.

'So you're just going to pretend as if nothing ever happened two weeks ago.'

"Nothing's wrong with that," he replied as he fidgeted with the Doritos bag, trying to open it.

'You saw him in the bathroom. He's fighting to come back.'

"He won't."

'Oh, but he will. He already did.'

"What? No he didn't," Mort laughed uneasily and popped a chip into his mouth. "He's gone forever."

'And what about the girl? You're just going to keep her here forever?'

"Well, I can't keep her in—"

'You'll have to. There's going to be even more talk around town and soon—'

"Shut up! I'm not going to be bossed around by my own fucking thoughts!" he yelled.

His mind was silent, but Mort sat on the edge of his seat, waiting for them to come back. Several seconds of silence later, he smiled proudly, thinking that they were gone. But when least expected it, they came back again.

'He came back last night, do you remember?'

"Jesus Christ," Mort said exasperatedly. "Leave me the hell alone!"

'Shooter. You don't remember how the girl got in your house, do you?'

"I…I…Yes I do," Mort stuttered.

'I told you he came back last night. He was the one who found her.'

"Not true," Mort objected shortly, "I would've remembered."

'Would you?' his mind asked sarcastically, 'Are you sure you would be able to remember if your old friend came back?'

(First Person POV)

I rolled onto my side, trying to listen to the voices that had awakened my slumber. Was there someone else in the house, or was this dude just talking to himself?

"I would know if Shooter came back, you dumbfuck!" the man who called himself Mort screamed. I stayed perfectly still, holding my breath in my lungs for as long as possible. A few seconds later, Mort started yelling again, as if he was answering to an invisible person or something.

"I figured it out eventually! GOD!" he screamed again and I heard him pound his fists against something hard, probably a table, or desk of some kind. Then, I heard his footsteps move farther away from me, and the sound of a dresser being pushed out of the way.

'He's busy,' I thought, 'I can get out of here without him noticing.'

Trying to make as little noise as possible, I lightly pulled the thick quilt off of my body, and lightly touched my flip-flops to the floor. I darted my head up to the loft above me, but I couldn't see Mort. I could only hear the grunts from attempting to move a large piece of furniture. I stood up as slowly as I could, and made my way to the door, every footstep taking an eternity. The door was so close, I could make out each individual square in the screen part of the door. My hand was moving towards the doorknob when I heard Mort's voice sting my ears.

"STOP!" he screamed, but I was already through the door, my mind set on escaping.