Ok, quick warning about language in this chapter. If anyone thinks I should raise the overall rating, please poke me forcibly in your review. Because you will review, of course. ;-)
By the way, what does 'hiatus' mean???------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When morning came, tossing a little extra light in through his window, Mort was still awake. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be awake, either.He just wanted to exist in a semi-state of living, where Shooter couldn't reach him.
Days went past. Mort followed a little routine. He concentrated so hard on little things like; "looking out the window" or "folding the covers".
He blocked Shooter out for the whole day. Everyday. But at night...
Mort didn't 'wake up screaming' anymore. He went to bed screaming, spent all night in feverish terror and crawled out of bed each morning shaking with guilt and panic.
On the fifth day, Dr Carlton walked in.
She straightened her clipboard, tucked her hair behind her ears and looked at him.
Mort looked back.
"Well, Mr Rainey, I've heard some interesting things about you."
Mort stayed silent. He wasn't going to deny, admit or even say anything to a woman who charged into the room of a murderer with that sort of expression. It was one that had seen it all before, and could only be shocked if someone actually wanted to cooperate.
"Not inclined to talk are we?"
"You seem to be."
He couldn't resist. She shot a look of pure, distilled hatred at him. Mort let it bounce off his blank look. She continued to stare.
"I heard you shouting last night. Who's Shooter?"
Something went twang. Mort felt his cleverly built wall of self-defense collapse like an upright jigsaw. Dr Carlton raised her eyes to his suddenly trembling features.
"Who is he?"
Mort gulped. He, Morton Rainey, widower of Amy, and horror novel author wanted to tell her. This nice, understanding woman, who'd give him a load of 'intoxicating substances' for his 'condition'.
Eat that Shooter.
I don't think I want too.
"I don't know."
WHAT? Why the hell did you do that, you crazy Mississippi farm boy!
Same reason you got us hit by that car, pilgrim.
"I see."
She stood up, and crossed to the door. Mort felt a desperate urge to grab her by the coat and yell it desperately to her like a man conveying his final death wish. Shooter rooted him to the bed, daring him to move.
Carlton was halfway out.
"Wait!"
Don't you do it, Mr Rainey...Mort took in more oxygen. Couldn't she see how he was struggling? Couldn't she see the pleading, begging look in his eyes?
No.
Get over all that author crap, Mr Rainey.
"I have other patients to see. Goodbye."
Mort threw himself face down on the bed. His hands screwed the cotton sheets into rivulets and mountains.
Why? Why do you hate me so damn much?Because you stole my story.
It's yours! It's mine! WE'RE EXACTLY THE SAME PERSON! That's what you keep saying.
You changed the ending.
I KILLED MY WIFE!! I KILLED HER FOR YOU, YOU SHITHEAD! I CHANGED THE GODDAMN ENDING!
What more do you want? WHAT??
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Shooter? Are you there?
Mort lifted his face. The pillow was soaked with tears. Amy, Amy, Amy. He'd murdered his wife for some psycho voice in his head. And his dog. His faithful dog.
And Ted too.
Screw Ted. I'm glad I killed Ted.
Mort said that aloud too. No, if it came down to it he would admit that in court.
"Hell yes, sir, I killed him. I got him a good one with a spade."
Mort wanted to write. Maybe he could write a happy story, in which the convicted horror novelist escaped all hospitals/courts and other such establishments to fulfil a happy existence with a nice woman called Dr Hatfield.
It was late, and it was dark. Mort knew he was mad. He was so mad he couldn't imagine being sane. He also knew he wanted to write. And he knew why. If you looked at it, writing was just a way of putting your imagination down in cold, hard print. It couldn't escape, or hurt anybody.
If you kept it locked away in your head though...
There was an awful lot of the human brain, and no one knew what most of it did...
Imagination, Mort realised, needed to be caged. If you bottled it up, it got dangerous; it started doing strange things with you. Maybe if he could write enough of his out on paper, it would get less and less until he was a 2D person like Shooter, with no emotions.
Even I have an imagination, Mr Rainey.
"Maybe you're borrowing mine."
Mort smiled.