Disclaimer: I do not own Secret Window, nor Secret Window, Secret Garden. Please don't sue me. I also don't own the lyrics or music to "Angel", by Sarah McLachlan.

A/N: Question for everyone… in Secret Window, when Mort's thinking, "this is just bad writing" and whatnot, and then he deletes it, and gets this satisfied smile on his face? Is it just me, or does anyone else go through those exact same thoughts and motions every day? Honestly, it was like a mirror.. only… Johnny Depp… heeeeyyyy..

Anyway, onto the story!!

-------------------

Mort sat straight up, his tousled hair flying about his head. He reached blindly for his glasses, and pushed them up the bridge of his nose so he could see the clock on the other side of the room.

2:04.

"Shit." Mort cursed quietly. He'd slept for a total of ten minutes or so. Stupid ass dumb dreams.

'Cause it's really going to help if you call the dreams names, hmm?

"You have no say." Mort muttered, swinging his legs off the couch, and slowly pushing himself to his feet. "No damn say in the ways of Mort Rainey."

He stumbled to the kitchen, the clothes he had slept in wrinkled and a bit bunched up. Mort went pawing through his cupboards looking for something… almost anything to eat. And, of course, there wasn't anything. Mostly because he hadn't gone shopping in two weeks now. He hated shopping. For one thing, he had to go into New London to shop, because according to the sheriff, he made people in Tashmore "uncomfortable". Second, it didn't matter where he went to shop around here. He got the looks anyway. The damn looks that said, "there's that killer." The looks that Mort hated so much.

That's because you're a coward.

"And you're an insulting little shithead." He said out loud. But he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, taking a single glance at his glowing laptop screen, with the half-finished sentence across it. Damn writer's block. He hated not having inspiration. But he was going out. He'd buy some groceries, and maybe see a movie. Regular stuff. Normal stuff people did on Friday nights. Shooter would be forgotten.

Normal? Do you even know what normal means these days? Groceries aren't going to get rid of Shooter.

Mort pulled his shirt over his head, and smelled it. Blech. He'd been wearing it for a couple of days already, and it smelt none too good. He tossed it to the hardwood floor, not really caring about the mess, and went to find another one. Preferably a clean one. And, of course, not a one could be found. All he had was dirty shirts. That was because he also hadn't done his laundry in a few weeks. Damn, he wasn't very organized, was he?

You're a writer. Who ever said you had to be clean?

Mort ignored himself. He found a black shirt that didn't look, nor smell too dirty, and put it on, adjusting it over his chest properly. Glancing at his jeans, they passed his inspection for cleanliness, so he went down the stairs, stepping lightly on each stair.

So, do you have any idea what you're doing, or are you heading blindly into traffic, hoping to get run over?

"Oh stop raining on my parade." Mort said, grabbing his jacket and leaving his old, and yet beautiful house, the screen door squeaking as it swung shut.

He took a single step from his porch, with a sneakered foot, and jumped. "Ah!" He yelled in surprise, as a big German Shepherd barked at him. It ran up to him, and started licking his hands, frantic for some attention.

"Christ, I'm sorry about that." A female voice distracted Mort from the dog, and he looked up to see a brunette girl walking past his house. "Rorry's a bit excitable. Rorry, get over here. Now!" She commanded the dog, and it ran back over to her. Mort noticed her British accent, and wondered. Not many foreigners were around Tashmore Lake, so this was certainly a change.

"Ah." Mort said still shaken up a bit. "That's… okay. I'm okay."

She's pretty, isn't she Mort?

"Lovely." The woman said, sounding relieved that he wasn't angry at being startled like that.

Yes, you are, pretty lady.

"I'm Mort." He said, trying his hardest to ignore the voice in his head. "Mort Rainey."

"Nice to meet you, Mort Rainey." The woman said with a bit of a smile, and then she whistled to her dog, and jogged off down the road.

Mort stared after her, and made a shooting motion at her head. Kind of rude, wasn't she?

Oh, you liked it.

"Shut up, you little bastard." Mort muttered at himself absentmindedly, and got into his truck. He had to admit, she was pretty. But the least she could've done was offer her name in return. Common courtesy, you'd think, but apparently not. But he let it go, and put his truck in drive.

He pulled out of his driveway, the truck bouncing hard on the bumpy dirt road, and jolting the man. He moved his slightly unshaven jaw in the way that a person would when their jaw is perpetually locking up. He supposed that it could be worse though. It could completely lock up, while his mouth was open. Amy's used to do that, and whenever it did, he would come along and pop her one, right under her chin. It had been this way almost since Shooter arrived, therefore Mort had decided that it was simply stress that made it do that. Same with his eye twitches. Just stress.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Mort thought.

I could've told you that, shithead.

He ignored that thought. It was an hour-long drive to New London, so he'd have plenty of time to think… and time to think seemed to lead to thinking about things he didn't want to think about. He couldn't keep thinking about Shooter, or Amy, or Tom Greenleaf, or anyone else from that time in his life. He just couldn't. If he kept it up, it would eventually destroy him. Jesus, now he was sounding exactly like the voice in his head. Maybe he was crazier than he thought.

So he did what most people do. He distracted himself, and turned on the radio. "Christ." Mort said out loud.

Spend all your time waiting,
for that second chance.
For a break that would make it okay,
There's always some reason to feel not good enough
and it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction,
Oh beautiful release,
Memories seep through my veins
Let me be empty,
And weightless and maybe,
I'll find some peace tonight,
in the arms of the --

Mort snapped the radio off, with a bit of a growl. Couldn't they possibly play anything else? Damn lyrics. So he distracted himself in another way. He multiplied by two.

"2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024, 2048…"Mort counted off out loud. He used to do this when he was a kid, and was trying not to cry. It helped him concentrate, and therefore distracted him. After awhile, he confused himself. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be 8388608, or 8388610, but it didn't matter, because he was in New London by that time, having taken so long to do a couple of the longer equations.

Angling his frame out of the truck, he started into a grocery store to be stopped by a little girl. "Are you Morton Rainey?" She asked innocently. She looked to be about ten, in a light pink dress, with a bow in her blonde hair. She looked like a little angel, but Mort knew better. Children were all little Lucifer's. But, then again, perhaps this girl was different. Although, he had to admit that it was odd for a ten year old to be asking for his autograph. He doubted that most ten year olds would read stories like the ones he wrote.

"I am, miss." Mort said, trying to act a little more charming than he usually was. "What can I do for you?"

"Could I have your autograph?" She asked, all sweet as pie, and Mort couldn't help but smile as she handed him a pen, and a receipt to sign.

"Absolutely, darlin'. What's your name?" He asked. Well, this was nice. He liked signing autographs for people. Not that it happened very often.

"Christie." She said, and he wrote To Christie, and the next thing she said stopped his pen's movement. "My mom says you kill people."

Mort blinked once, shook his blonde-ish hair out of his face, and said "No. I don't." And then he finished his autograph. "To Christie, I'm your real father. Mort Rainey" And then he handed it back.

You're such a bastard. She's just a little girl.

"But it was funny." Mort murmured consolingly. The author strolled away feeling pretty damn good about himself. It wasn't often that he got to get back some of the assholes that accused him of things that he didn't do. That little girl and her mother were some of those few.

Either way, he got his groceries, and headed to the park. Maybe he would sit in the park and watch the people for a bit. He and Amy used to do that. They would sit on a bench and watch the world pass in front of them. Mort had loved it then, and still loved it now, so that's what he did.

Settling onto the worn wooden bench, Mort sighed. The fountain in the park was right in front of him, and it was a beautiful thing, the water streaming over the top terrace into an absolutely giant pool of water.

"Hello Mr. Rainey." Mort heard from beside him, and jumped at the Mississippi accent. He turned his head a little bit to see the one man he never, ever wanted to see again. John Shooter.

I told you he'd be back, you twit. I told you. Now see? He's back. You know what this means. He's going to kill someone, and you know it. Turn yourself in. Turn yourself in before someone gets hurt.

"Hello John." Mort said calmly. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

"I wanted t'thank you, mister." Shooter said adjusting the brim of the black hat on his head. "You changed th'endin' of my story, just like I asked you to."

"Not a problem." Mort answered. "Your ending was better anyway."

"But we still have a problem." Shooter told him. "You didn't change th'name. It's not your story, it's mine."

"Well I'll work on changing that Mr. Shooter." Mort said, just wanting the man to go away. Yes, Shooter was actually a figment of Mort's own imagination, but that didn't change anything. He was still dangerous, not to mention annoying.

"That's all I can ask Mr. Rainey. You do that, and I'll leave you alone."

"Lovely." Mort said, and watched as Shooter walked away, disappearing behind a tree, and not appearing on the other side. Dammit. He hated this, and he hated Shooter, and he even hated himself. Damn, damn, damn.

He glanced at his wrist for the time before remembering he no longer had a watch. "Fuck." Mort whispered, and stared at the fountain. The fountain was great. The fountain was perfect.

Mort stood up and drifted absentmindedly towards it, standing at the edge. This was all too much for him. He couldn't handle it anymore. He just wanted his life back. He wanted Amy back, he wanted the inspiration to write back. He wanted what used to be, but knew that it was gone.

The next thing he knew, he was being pulled out of the water in the fountain. He coughed up a little water, as someone laid him on his back.

"Mort Rainey, you should be more careful." A female voice came, holding the same British inflection as the woman from earlier. Mort opened his eyes, and coughed again, this time more in surprise.

It was the same woman from outside his house. The one with the dog, the dog that had licked his hands and whatnot. "What are you doing here?" He spluttered, startled.

"Apparently I'm saving your ass." She laughed out loud. "You just about drowned yourself. Maybe you should find other ways to let go of your problems, you think?"

"That's what I was trying to do." Mort said sullenly, as he sat up, water dripping from his clothes, but the woman had already gotten up and started away. "What's your name?" He yelled after her, but she either didn't hear him, or she completely ignored him.

Mort threw his hands down in frustration, flinging water everywhere. Who was this woman that would not tell him her name, and yet would save him from drowning himself? It didn't make any sense to Mort, but he would find out. The next time he saw her, Mort vowed he would be in a position better suited to following her.

Perhaps, however, Mort thought, he had found his inspiration…

-------------------

Huge thank you to my reviewers, untouchable1400: thanks for stopping by. Dawnie-7: thanks.. J sunkist3208: Well, lol, I suppose I should thank you for reviewing, even if you have no idea what's going on.. :-P. And an extra big thank you to Plateado (Riley) for an absolutely excellent review, which I adored to the bottom of my little pink heart, heheheh. It certainly meant a ton to me, that sort of encouragement… lol, so thank you, and you better get writing. ;) I've been waiting… :-P

Anyway, please review, and I'll give you all Mort Rainey action figures.. :D

-Abbie