The Window Closed
"Mort! Mort stop it!"
"Mort....please.....don't....."
Mort Rainey shifted from his position in his bed. He quickly opened his eyes hearing the screaming in his sleep. The tears filled his eyes. It wasn't him, it was Shooter who did it. He wasn't crazy. Same thing again. Amy's voice rang throughout the room and was the only sound audiable. He threw his hands over his ears and held his aching head. He ran his fingers through his unruly hair in frustration. Nothing would drown them out. No matter what he tried, the voices stayed just as loud as ever. It had been 3 entire years since the murders came to an abrupt end. Shooter had been gone for some time. Shooter was the reason he checked himself into the St. Mary's Hospital for Mental Health. Afraid he would hurt someone else.
He never let anyone be close to him, since then.
Mort looked around the room in the dark to find it empty and he found himself, alone. Three years.
No one ever found the bodies.
The sheriff vowed he would find them and Mort resembled a crook that got away with it. The first in history to have people know about it, but not know enough. Mort brushed the tears away and a familiar Mississippi accent filled the silence.
"You know you did it."
Mort put his hands back over his ears. Not again. "I don't wanna hear it!"
"You're gonna hear it soona or lata. I'm not wastin my breath for nothin, ya know."
Mort let out a groan. "Just leave me alone." The tears started falling rapidly again.
"You did it. You killed um' all, not me. I didn't do anything. You were the one who owned the screwdriver and the hatchett. Remember our old friends?"
Mort concentrated on what he didn't hear. He began to miss the silence. Longing to have the thing that reminded him: Sometimes Loneliness is the only good thing you have.
"You're such a liar. Sittin there like a bobblehead doll." Shooter tried to immitate Mort.
"Yessuh, I'm Mort Rainy the crazy writer. I'm as sane as Charles Manson. Let meh loose on the chidren!"
"Stop it."
"I'm gonna sit here and answer "yes" ta all your questions. Why? Cause I don't want them doctas to mess with my head anymore and have them tell me I'm a loon."
"Stop it."
"I won't an' you know why? Cause I'm Mort Rainy! I live by mah own rules and I ain't gotta own up to nothin cause the money makes it all go away."
Mort began to whimper. Shooter was right. He never acted as crazy as he knew he was. The only reason he was still around was the fear of hurting someone else.
"Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!" Mort looked around to see nothing and the silence was back more comforting than before. He wanted to embrace it, if only it were that easy. Nothing.
Mort pulled the cover up to his neck. "Leave me alone..." He whimpered as the tears began to blur his vision.
Later that morning
Mort got up and went into the bathroom. His roomate hadn't woken up and he was thankful. He turned on the water and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands as he stood in the dark. He didn't feel like turning the lights on. He cupped his hands and gathered the water and splashed his face a couple of times then towled himself off. He looked out the corner of his eye and saw a familiar looking figure.
"So, Mr. Rainy. Why are you here?" The woman all but, hid behind her notebook as she wrote some notes down on Mort's appearance. Rachel looked different than your average doctor. She looked like she hopped out of a Vogue magazine and decided to become a psychiatrist, rather than stay on her page in the book.
Mort looked over at her and adjusted his glasses "Sorry? Miss Porter, I told you that a million times."
"I know, consider this a million and one because I think you're trying to hide something. From my notes, you don't show the average suicidal thoughts nor the behavior of someone on the brink of depression. I think there's something else." She took off her reading glasses and looked at Mort's eyes. They emitted a warm glow. For some reason it was like two pools of warm chocolate. She wanted to melt in them.
Mort uncrossed his legs. He felt so stupid. He was sitting there with their nice little embarrassing blue patient outfit with a white robe over it and a pair of brown slippers. He liked Dr. Porter for some reason. He just didn't know what. There seemed to be an unwritten logic to her and she knew how to use it to her advantage.
"Mort! Mort stop it!"
"Mort....please.....don't....."
Mort Rainey shifted from his position in his bed. He quickly opened his eyes hearing the screaming in his sleep. The tears filled his eyes. It wasn't him, it was Shooter who did it. He wasn't crazy. Same thing again. Amy's voice rang throughout the room and was the only sound audiable. He threw his hands over his ears and held his aching head. He ran his fingers through his unruly hair in frustration. Nothing would drown them out. No matter what he tried, the voices stayed just as loud as ever. It had been 3 entire years since the murders came to an abrupt end. Shooter had been gone for some time. Shooter was the reason he checked himself into the St. Mary's Hospital for Mental Health. Afraid he would hurt someone else.
He never let anyone be close to him, since then.
Mort looked around the room in the dark to find it empty and he found himself, alone. Three years.
No one ever found the bodies.
The sheriff vowed he would find them and Mort resembled a crook that got away with it. The first in history to have people know about it, but not know enough. Mort brushed the tears away and a familiar Mississippi accent filled the silence.
"You know you did it."
Mort put his hands back over his ears. Not again. "I don't wanna hear it!"
"You're gonna hear it soona or lata. I'm not wastin my breath for nothin, ya know."
Mort let out a groan. "Just leave me alone." The tears started falling rapidly again.
"You did it. You killed um' all, not me. I didn't do anything. You were the one who owned the screwdriver and the hatchett. Remember our old friends?"
Mort concentrated on what he didn't hear. He began to miss the silence. Longing to have the thing that reminded him: Sometimes Loneliness is the only good thing you have.
"You're such a liar. Sittin there like a bobblehead doll." Shooter tried to immitate Mort.
"Yessuh, I'm Mort Rainy the crazy writer. I'm as sane as Charles Manson. Let meh loose on the chidren!"
"Stop it."
"I'm gonna sit here and answer "yes" ta all your questions. Why? Cause I don't want them doctas to mess with my head anymore and have them tell me I'm a loon."
"Stop it."
"I won't an' you know why? Cause I'm Mort Rainy! I live by mah own rules and I ain't gotta own up to nothin cause the money makes it all go away."
Mort began to whimper. Shooter was right. He never acted as crazy as he knew he was. The only reason he was still around was the fear of hurting someone else.
"Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!" Mort looked around to see nothing and the silence was back more comforting than before. He wanted to embrace it, if only it were that easy. Nothing.
Mort pulled the cover up to his neck. "Leave me alone..." He whimpered as the tears began to blur his vision.
Later that morning
Mort got up and went into the bathroom. His roomate hadn't woken up and he was thankful. He turned on the water and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands as he stood in the dark. He didn't feel like turning the lights on. He cupped his hands and gathered the water and splashed his face a couple of times then towled himself off. He looked out the corner of his eye and saw a familiar looking figure.
"So, Mr. Rainy. Why are you here?" The woman all but, hid behind her notebook as she wrote some notes down on Mort's appearance. Rachel looked different than your average doctor. She looked like she hopped out of a Vogue magazine and decided to become a psychiatrist, rather than stay on her page in the book.
Mort looked over at her and adjusted his glasses "Sorry? Miss Porter, I told you that a million times."
"I know, consider this a million and one because I think you're trying to hide something. From my notes, you don't show the average suicidal thoughts nor the behavior of someone on the brink of depression. I think there's something else." She took off her reading glasses and looked at Mort's eyes. They emitted a warm glow. For some reason it was like two pools of warm chocolate. She wanted to melt in them.
Mort uncrossed his legs. He felt so stupid. He was sitting there with their nice little embarrassing blue patient outfit with a white robe over it and a pair of brown slippers. He liked Dr. Porter for some reason. He just didn't know what. There seemed to be an unwritten logic to her and she knew how to use it to her advantage.