Weeks passed. It was basically just the same old routine every two days. Cora would let herself in, go about her cleaning, and then leave. Most of the time Mort was asleep and never noticed her coming in or leaving. Sometimes she was led to think that he really never woke up from the last time she came because he was always laying there on the couch, in the same exact position, napping his life away. And he dozed so silently, too.

There was one time, on a Tuesday, Mort slept so noiselessly that Cora figured that he had passed away! Cora Blair had accidentally dropped a china plate on the floor that morning, and the shattering of the plate after it hit the spotless tiled floor made such a cacophony that it echoed throughout the whole entire house. Surely, noise like that would have roused the heaviest sleeper in the world...But when she poked her head into the living room, Morton hadn't stirred the least bit. Oh, how she panicked! She tried everything! She poked him in the ribs, shook him, shouted in his ear, and STILL he failed to even make the slightest twitching movement. It was discovered that he still lived when she accidently sprayed him in the face with a generous dash of Lysol. He went into a coughing convulsion after that. The tide of guilt was so overwhelming that the least she could possibly do was make up for it. So later that morning when he awoke, he found a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon in the microwave. He hadn't remembered anything about coughing, and couldn't figure out why she had done such a thing for him.

Mort's detrimental habits steadily grew worse. He blew off work, started to smoke excessively, was almost always nodding off, and worst of all, he ate almost nothing aside Doritos and drank nothing but soda. It was most damaging to his health and his teeth. His teeth. ...His braces.

"Ah, shit! The orthodontist!" hissed Mort, his eyes snapping open in an instant. He leapt off the the couch with a jolt of energy and briskly shuffled up the flight of stairs. Perhaps he'd gotten up a little too posthaste. His vision faded into blackness for just a second...Just long enough to keep him from seeing the closed bathroom door he collided into. "Crraaaappp...." he moaned, holding his throbbing forehead. Before his mind could recover, the door flew open and swung smack into his sleep befogged body and sent him stumbling backwards. What a morning!

"Oh, my God! Mort! I'm so sorry!!! I didn't know you were there! You're usually not up this early!" Cora hastily apologized, taking Mort into her arms and stroking his hair with a motherly air.

"Eh, don't worry 'bout it, Cor. I'm fine. I just need to get into the bathroom before I'm late," Morton replied collectedly. He carefully wriggled out of her comforting grasp and made his way into the bathroom, stepping diligently over the mop on the floor and over to the mirror.

He stared at himself, running a hand through the bird's nest he called his hair. As he went about cleaning himself up, he thought about Cora and her kindly manner. It was really no wonder why the girl was so loved in Tashmore. She was just SO God-damned NICE! Didn't she ever get annoyed or angry? She had to have gotten angry one time or another. He wished Amy could've been like her. Caring. Thoughtful. Heart-felt. That wasn't Amy. Amy was cold. Stupid. Malicious. Amy released John Shooter...It was all her fault. Mort Rainey didn't kill Amy. John Shooter killed Amy and buried her in that garden. Would John Shooter hate Cora, too? Would John Shooter dispose of Cora and also bury her in the little garden? There was no reason to. Mort was musing when he saw it. His optics grew wide in horror as the image in the mirror morphed. It twisted into a visage that he didn't recognize as his own.

"What's the matter, Mr. Rainey?" a stony voice drawled with a hint of a southern accent. "Forget about me already?"

"L-leave me alone, John!" retorted Mort, shuddering at the sound of that awful voice. And there he saw the man that tormented him so. John Shooter. The man he supposedly stole a story from. He tried to wrench his gaze from the mirror, but his eyes were fixed on the long face of Shooter.

"I can't leave yeh alone, Mr. Rainey. Don't you remember? You created me. I'm a part of you."

"N-no! Leave me be!"

No matter how much Mort denied it, what John spoke of was true. Mort created the character John Shooter one day when he bought a black hat. And now John haunted Mort. John made Mort do things he wanted to do, but he couldn't do because of his personality. John Shooter was Morton Rainey's malevolent, monstruous other half.

Cora quirked an eyebrow when she identified the noise coming from the bathroom. It was Mort...And he was...Arguing with himself. She listened to him going back and forth in conversation as two people. Himself and another person named John. For John, Mort threw on an accent, and spoke normally for himself. It was all very interesting. Apparently, John wouldn't leave Mort alone. She shrugged and continued on with her cleaning. Mort was such a peculiar man.

Moments later, Mort left the bathroom. He hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in brown dress-pants and a casual gray sweater. As he was putting on his shiny, onyx-colored shoes, he heard a call from upstairs. "Where are you going, Mort?" It was Cora. At first, he thought it was Shooter.

"Orthodontist!" he responded, tying the laces on his left shoe.

"Your appointment was two weeks ago!"

Morton froze for a moment to comprehend her words, put a hand on his forehead, then sat down right where he was. "Damn..."