Disclaimer: Jeez, have I not told you all this enough? I don't own anything from Secret Window, nor Secret Window, Secret Garden. Stephen King is own lucky bastard… (-: I also don't own anything from Lord Of The Rings, nor Orlando Bloom, or Viggo Mortensen. Or Mountain Dew.

A/N: Well, it's come to my attention (thanks very much Swift Jewel), through an email about this story, that some readers may be confused by the fact that at the end of the movie, Shooter was Mort, and no longer his own entity. Yet, in my story, Shooter again appears as his own person. This is only because we are now in Mort's perspective again. At the beginning of the movie, that camera angle goes through the mirror in Mort's living room. This signifies that we are now part of Mort's outlook. We see what Mort sees. We see John Shooter as his own person. Then, at the end of the movie, we again go through the mirror. This signifies that we are outside Mort's perspective again, and we see what others ee. We see what Amy sees. A crazy man with a pair of scissors. Mort Rainey. But in my fanfiction, we see what Mort sees. A crazy man with a screwdriver. John Shooter. Anyway, I hope that's cleared a few things up. If not, please tell me in my review, or feel free to email me at sheangel15 at hotmail.

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Mort paused in the middle of a sentence he was typing, and downed the rest of the drink that Ivy had brought him that morning. Some fruit thing, with weird looking black things in it. She assured him that they were blueberry parts, but they still looked strange to Mort.

Let's see. That's because you haven't had a piece of fruit in, oh, we'll say a year.

But either way, it was quite tasty, and now he had the craving for another one. He glanced over at Ivy. She was lying on her stomach on the carpet downstairs reading some book she had found on his multiple bookshelves.

The two had spent all of yesterday talking about books, and then movies, when Mort had mentioned that The Lord Of The Ring books were better than the movies. Ivy disagreed, saying that she had no patience for those books, for whatever reason. So then Mort felt the need to go through his favourite of the three The Fellowship of the Ring, and read parts to her that he felt was some of the best writing the world had ever seen. Ivy had listened patiently, and argued furiously that the movies were better because of the blonde elf and the hot human.

Mort brought his hands up and pushed the hair from his face. He paused, having noticed something rather strange on his arm. He brought his arm up to the desk lamp to get a better look. It looked like… a needle mark.

Well, you're not on heroin, you can trust me on that.

"Where did it come from?" He muttered, looked at the mark with troubled eyes.

"Where did what come from?" Ivy asked as she came to the top of the stairs.

"Oh just…" Mort paused for a moment. "It's just nothing."

Don't you trust her enough pilgrim? You sure had a good time yesterday. Or was that a lie? Ironic that your world revolves around the word "false", eh?

"Okay." She smiled, and tucked her long dark hair over her shoulder. "Are you up for dinner tonight or something?"

"Well, you're here at my house. I'd say yes, probably." He laughed, trying to ignore the worries he had about the mark on his arm. It really did look like a needle mark, but he didn't know where it came from.

"I meant at a resteraunt or something." She grinned at him. "My treat."

He pretended to think about it for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger. "I'll say yes, but only if you come back home with me and have the chocolate cake that's in my freezer. I bought it a few weeks ago but never ate it."

"Agreed." She said, and winked at him. "A big hurrah for chocolate."

Later that evening, they sat in the kitchen eating generous slices of cake and drinking Mountain Dew. Mort swallowed the final bite from his piece, and leaned back, content to watch Ivy finish her piece.

She glanced up to see him watching her with an odd smile on his face. "What?" She asked self-conciously, wiping at the corners of her mouth in case she had cake stuck there. "What are you looking at?"

"You." He said simply, and adjusted his glasses. Suddenly he got up and paced into his living room.

Oh what now? You're acting different. Know why? You're flirting, shithead. At least give her a chance to flirt back.

"Shut the fuck up." He muttered at himself as he did so often. He stepped up to the huge mirror on his wall, and memories came reeling back. He remembered John Shooter. He remembered Amy. He remembered this mirror, and Shooter's hat. He remembered the exact moment that he realized that he was crazy.

"Mort?" He heard from behind him. He pivoted on one heel to see Ivy standing there awkwardly. She shifted her weight. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just fine little lady." He heard himself say, and immediately shook his head once. That Southern accent. Couldn't let that show through.

"Little lady?" She laughed, and then the awkwardness was gone from her face. "Interesting nickname, I admit."

"Nickname?" Mort asked questioningly. "It can't be a nickname if I've only used it once. That's against the nickname rules."

"Well you've called me that three times already." Ivy said and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Little lady."

To Mort's credit, he didn't totally panic. He simply freaked out. "Okay!" He said loudly, and headed toward her. "G'night Ivy." He told her, and started pushing her towards the door.

"But, Mort." She started to say, but he had already shoved her coat into her hands, and opened the door.

"Goodnight!." He told her, and she complied by stepping out of the house.

"Mort, I-"

He had already shut the door.

Crazy crazy. I told you so. You're a pyscho nutjob. How come you never listen to me?

"Because you're as crazy as me." He muttered. He bounded up the stairs and pulled a drawer on his desk open. Frantically, he dug through it until he found what he was looking for. His smokes. This seemed to be a reoccuring form of stress relief for him. The last time he had smoked was right before Amy had died. Right before Amy had been murdered.

By you.

"That's not true." He whispered. "I didn't kill her. I didn't."

Fuck yes, you did. You raised that shovel, WHAM!

"Shut up!" He yelled, and tossed a book at the wall. "I didn't fucking kill Amy!"

"Oh, you certainly did." Mort said in that dreaded accent.

"I didn't." He said defiantly, and took another drag on his cigarette. "You killed her, you bastard."

Well this can't be good. You haven't "been" Shooter in awhile now. Since you killed Amy.

"Since when did you start getting sarcastic?" Mort muttered, slamming the drawer on his desk shut with a resounding thud. He knew that it was true though. He had not spoken in that Southern accent since Shooter had killed Amy. Not a single word.

Oh about the same time you killed Amy.

"Fuck you." Mort said into the silence. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

This really wasn't good. He needed to maintain that distance from Shooter. Just yesterday, he had seen Shooter. Seen him with his own two eyes.

Although, the most terrible thing about Shooter nowadays was that Mort knew. Saw. Felt. After he had finally realized that Shooter really was a part of himself, he could be a part of that. When Shooter killed Amy and Ted, Mort watched. Not from any sort of distance. In a sense, Mort himself had killed them. He had seen them, felt their blood. Watched them die. But he was powerless to do anything about it until he had opened his eyes and recognized that he was Mort Rainey again.

I told you that you killed them. Idiot.

Mort ignored himself now. He had to work out some way to keep John Shooter compressed within himself. Then he understood. It was the possibility of a relationship with a woman that had brought Shooter out tonight. Mort ran his hands through his hair anxiously.

Ivy was attractive, and extremely intelligent. Amy had been the same. Ivy held the potential to hurt him in the exact same way that Amy had hurt him. If that was the case, Shooter would kill her. Mort knew this. He also knew that he had to stay away from Ivy from now on.

No sex? Damn. So go turn yourself in. Call the cops. Maybe you'll get a little love in the pyschiatric ward.

Mort made his way downstairs, and thought about that. Maybe a ward like that would be best for him. For God's sake, maniac inside him had killed four people and a dog.

But he didn't pursue the thought. He couldn't do that. He'd kill himself before he did that to himself. Mort sank down onto the couch, and leaned back, closing his dark eyes to the world.

Fuck Shooter. Fuck Amy and Ted. Fuck Ken and Tom. Most of all, fuck Ivy. He wouldn't see her tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever again.

Fuck Ivy. Right. You'll get to that if you're careful.

"Pervert." Mort Rainey muttered, and rolled over, promptly falling asleep. The morning would bring enough time to think all this over, he knew.


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Okay, so this wasn't the best of chapters. Sorry. I was at a loss for words (literally) for awhile, but figured that if I didn't force myself to write, I'd never get anywhere with this one. So, please forgive me… and I'd still love any reviews you have to spare! ;) :-P

Thanks to my reviewers from last chapter: Sunkist3208, thanks so much m'dear for reviewing everything I put up in an excellently timely fashion…
Goth Princess: Thanks very much, and yes, Mort and Ivy did seem to be getting along famously..
Dawnie-7: Weird? Absolutely…
Mishy:You can write as well as me.. :-P Put the damn chapter up!!!
Plateado: Well I guess you'll find out the answer to that suspicion soon enough.. mwhahahah… And thanks for your review!

Sorry for the stupid format. Any advice someone can give me on how to make this stupid thing indent for paragraphs properly, I'd love to hear it...

-Abbie-