"So here we are again, Mr. Rainey," said Shooter, perched at his usual
place at the top of the stairs. His trademark hat was balanced upon his
knee. It bounced up and down whenever he jiggled his leg out of habit. It
was a habit that Mort had seen too often because John Shooter was around
too often.
And he was getting tired of it.
"You and me," Shooter continued. "You – lying there on that godamn couch moaning to yourself 'I didn't kill my wife' and all this other horseshit you've been trying to convince yourself of – and me: telling you the truth which you refuse to believe."
Mort was lying on the couch, wrapped in his robe with his hair slightly neater and running his tongue over the sharp braces that embedded his teeth.
"You're not real," muttered Mort. He was so weary these days.
"Didn't we already cover that?" drawled Shooter.
Mort turned over and buried his face in the cushion. His reply was muffled.
"Speak up sir, I can't hear you."
Mort sat up with a jerk and turned his head toward Shooter. "I said, I'm tired of having this argument with you over and over." He pushed himself off the couch and paced around the living room. "You lied to me before; why should I believe anything you say?"
"Why are you asking me? Shouldn't you be asking yourself that? I'm not real, remember?" Shooter's tone was sarcastic.
"Just leave, now! I'm trying to finish my book!" Mort grabbed a pillow off the couch and hugged it. Closed his eyes. Try to clear your mind . . .
Shooter drummed his finger on the stair. "Sir, I am just trying to keep you company during your working hours – although I don't see much work being done."
"Because you won't let me!" Mort yelled. Concentrate, he told himself. Make him go away . . . he hugged the pillow tighter. "You're evil! Why do you torture me like this?"
Shooter sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Frankly, Mr. Rainey I don't see what I am doing as torture . . . hardly. And I'm not the evil one here . . ."
Concentrate, Mort repeated to himself. Gone, gone, gone . . .
"You are sick, Mr. Rainey. You have problems. Emotional issues and whatnot – a difficulty with accepting the truth. I'll show you the truth if you want. The whole truth. Come with me out back and we'll dig up that lovely cornfield – find some truth in there perhaps . . ."
"NO!" yelled Mort. "Don't even touch it!"
Shooter nodded. "You're right, it's too pretty to mess up."
Mort threw the pillow to the ground. "You will not be touching that cornfield because there's nothing under there! Nothing! No bodies!"
Shooter just stared. "Aren't you supposed to be concentrating? Trying to get rid of me?"
Mort screwed up his eyes in concentration. Go away . . .
All of a sudden, he jumped in surprise. His forehead stung in irritation and he realized Shooter had just beaned him on the head with his hat. The cowboy circled Mort and spoke to him in his deep voice. "Don't even bother concentrating, pilgrim. I'm in your mind all the time; how do you expect to get rid of me exactly? Just humour me."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Mort swung a fist but all it hit was air.
"You're nobody without me, Mr. Rainey. Why else would you have made me? You need me. You didn't have the guts to kill Amy . . ."
"I didn't kill her! They disappeared, alright?"
Shooter raised his eyebrows. "I killed her, son. You never would have – you fold under pressure."
"Go away!" Mort screamed. "Just shut up and go away!" He stormed over to the fireplace and stared at himself in the mirror. "I'm Mort Rainey, not John Shooter."
Shooter walked over to the window and peered outside. "Looks like rain."
A/N: I'm not sure if I'm going to make this longer than a one-shot, but if I do, I'm going to make it true to the story instead of making Mort Rainey out to be some reformed killer – more or less. Reviews are yummy!!
And he was getting tired of it.
"You and me," Shooter continued. "You – lying there on that godamn couch moaning to yourself 'I didn't kill my wife' and all this other horseshit you've been trying to convince yourself of – and me: telling you the truth which you refuse to believe."
Mort was lying on the couch, wrapped in his robe with his hair slightly neater and running his tongue over the sharp braces that embedded his teeth.
"You're not real," muttered Mort. He was so weary these days.
"Didn't we already cover that?" drawled Shooter.
Mort turned over and buried his face in the cushion. His reply was muffled.
"Speak up sir, I can't hear you."
Mort sat up with a jerk and turned his head toward Shooter. "I said, I'm tired of having this argument with you over and over." He pushed himself off the couch and paced around the living room. "You lied to me before; why should I believe anything you say?"
"Why are you asking me? Shouldn't you be asking yourself that? I'm not real, remember?" Shooter's tone was sarcastic.
"Just leave, now! I'm trying to finish my book!" Mort grabbed a pillow off the couch and hugged it. Closed his eyes. Try to clear your mind . . .
Shooter drummed his finger on the stair. "Sir, I am just trying to keep you company during your working hours – although I don't see much work being done."
"Because you won't let me!" Mort yelled. Concentrate, he told himself. Make him go away . . . he hugged the pillow tighter. "You're evil! Why do you torture me like this?"
Shooter sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Frankly, Mr. Rainey I don't see what I am doing as torture . . . hardly. And I'm not the evil one here . . ."
Concentrate, Mort repeated to himself. Gone, gone, gone . . .
"You are sick, Mr. Rainey. You have problems. Emotional issues and whatnot – a difficulty with accepting the truth. I'll show you the truth if you want. The whole truth. Come with me out back and we'll dig up that lovely cornfield – find some truth in there perhaps . . ."
"NO!" yelled Mort. "Don't even touch it!"
Shooter nodded. "You're right, it's too pretty to mess up."
Mort threw the pillow to the ground. "You will not be touching that cornfield because there's nothing under there! Nothing! No bodies!"
Shooter just stared. "Aren't you supposed to be concentrating? Trying to get rid of me?"
Mort screwed up his eyes in concentration. Go away . . .
All of a sudden, he jumped in surprise. His forehead stung in irritation and he realized Shooter had just beaned him on the head with his hat. The cowboy circled Mort and spoke to him in his deep voice. "Don't even bother concentrating, pilgrim. I'm in your mind all the time; how do you expect to get rid of me exactly? Just humour me."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Mort swung a fist but all it hit was air.
"You're nobody without me, Mr. Rainey. Why else would you have made me? You need me. You didn't have the guts to kill Amy . . ."
"I didn't kill her! They disappeared, alright?"
Shooter raised his eyebrows. "I killed her, son. You never would have – you fold under pressure."
"Go away!" Mort screamed. "Just shut up and go away!" He stormed over to the fireplace and stared at himself in the mirror. "I'm Mort Rainey, not John Shooter."
Shooter walked over to the window and peered outside. "Looks like rain."
A/N: I'm not sure if I'm going to make this longer than a one-shot, but if I do, I'm going to make it true to the story instead of making Mort Rainey out to be some reformed killer – more or less. Reviews are yummy!!