John Shooter wasn't scared. But he was imagining being petrified, and that was worse. Mort had given him a good imagination.
Some people had a stronger imagination than they had personality. Morton Rainey could be said to be one of them. He had an imagination so strong, so real, that it talked back to him, advised him; controlled him. He imagined it as a thin-faced man from Mississippi with a black hat. That was what his imagination looked like. His imagination was so strong, he could imagine it.
If only he could imagine that his personality was the stronger...
John Shooter didn't know how to cope. He was so very good at controlling the antisocial, reclusive author, who meandered about the house begging for inspiration. He gave it to him in buckets, and in return he had a body, and freedom to do whatever he liked. For such a long time, there had been no one inside Mort Rainey's head except John Shooter. Not even Mort Rainey himself. Just Shooter.
John wanted help. At least he thought he did.
Go on. Ask for some.
Go away! Get out of my HEAD!
It's MY head.
You died ages ago. You died when she lost the baby.
...
"That shut your ungrateful little mouth, Mr Rainey. I been lookin' after you since then and you never did thank me properly."
Shooter waited. Nothing.
"Well, I just think you should owe me an apology."
John Shooter stood up, shook himself and went down to the cellar. He searched through the food, pulled out a pack of stir-fry, and went back to the kitchen. Pretty soon he felt a good deal more prepared to face the world. Feeling pleasantly sleepy, he wandered up stairs, and fell asleep in the old creaky bed, surrounded by broken fragments of mirrors and vases. The soughing of the wind outside and through the window calmed his nerves and his mind closed for a long sleep.
John Shooter woke up. Yes, he was still John Shooter, upfront and conscious.
"Mr Rainey?"
No answer.
Mr Rainey?
...
He smiled and went into the bathroom.
There wasn't much left of the mirror. He recoiled in sudden terror, though, when he saw hundreds of dishevelled looking Mort Rainey's smiling back at him.
It's just his body.
"Who said that?"
...
John Shooter ran a hand gingerly over his new face. He was no longer the gimlet eyed, stony-faced individual he had been. Shame. It was difficult to be a haunting vision that lingered in the mind's eye with a face like a rebellious choirboy. Or those absurd cheekbones. As for the blond hair... John shuddered violently.
He returned to the bedroom, and flung open the wardrobe doors. He selected a shirt, and a pair of jeans. Struggling out of the dressing gown, he changed, and attempted to drag a comb through his hair. It took nearly an hour to get it looking as good as it was going to get in that disgusting blond colour. Stepping down the stairs with a jaunt, he lifted a jacket from the pegs by the door, and went out into the world.
It was a short walk to the bus stop. Standing there, alone, Shooter wondered if this mental state was permanent. Rainey seemed to have vanished completely. Only his imagination remained.
Bus is late.
"What?"
...
Shooter looked around. He shrugged his jacket closer. The trees could be hiding any kind of fruitcake or nutcase.
Nothing compared to what's in your head.
"Who said that?"
Shooter spun round.
I should say 'who'.
"Where are you?"
You know where I am. You're not as ignorant as you think I look.
"I don't even know who you are! Let alone what you look like!"
I look like the rebellious choirboy you're 'looking after' Mr Shooter.
Shooter cringed. He shrunk back against the bus shelter. A light drizzle was misting lazily out of the sky. A mad man was throwing punches angrily inside his skull.
You're mad Mr Shooter.
"SHUT UP! I can't BE anything! I'm imaginary, YOU'RE CRAZY!!"
I'm not the one screaming at himself in a bus stop.
"LEAVE ME ALONE! I'm in charge now!"
No you're not! You're my imagination, Shooter. I can do what I like with you.
"You're imagination's all that's left of you, Mr Rainey. Once I go, you're just a body."
That's what you think.
"It's what we both think. I am your thoughts. You're dead. Your personality, your soul. All that other writer crap you think you had, it's GONE!"
All a writer needs is imagination. Writer's can do what they like with their imagination.
"Ahh, but look who's up and walking around? Look who can do anything? Look who owns the body? Who's in control?"
I AM.
Shooter grinned widely. He opened his mouth for a witty retort. Nothing happened. His left leg jerked upwards and then he found himself taking a few shuddering steps into the road.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT RAINEY???"
His mind said nothing. Shooter moved toward the bus stop once more. But he couldn't. Inside his head, a very un-Mississippi accent started to hum...
...This idea, this one's very good. This one's perfect.
Shooter couldn't turn, so he didn't see the car swing round the corner. He heard it though.
"YOU'RE CRAZY RAINEY! SHIT-HEAD CRAZY!"
Goodbye, Mr Shooter......
"Hello, Mr Rainey."