Hey, this is my first story on FanFiction, so please R&R and go easy on me!
Disclaimer: I don't own Secret Window or any of the characters in this story except Marah.
Mort Rainey was on a roll.
His fingers danced furiously over the keyboard, clacking noisily as lines upon lines of text unfurled on the screen. He didn't know where he was getting all these new, innovative storylines from, but these last few months he'd felt as if he was drawing from a entirely untapped well of horrific experiences that he couldn't even remember very well. Ever since his wife and that boyfriend of hers, Ted, the hick from Shooter's Bay, disappeared. Dropped all contact, just like that. They probably took the money she got from the divorce and went to live in Majorca, he thought. And people thought he had killed them—how ridiculous was that, when they were almost certainly living off of his money right now. But he stayed calm about it; his indignation at being falsely accused was surprisingly mellow. Just one of those things. Let the little people run.
The strangest thing was... he didn't remember ever signing those divorce papers. Had Amy forged his signature? Unlikely. Probably she just wore him down until he was near insane, and he's signed just to get her out of his face. He had been very close to insane immediately after she disappeared—but he didn't like thinking about that too much. Hidden memories danced under the surface of his consciousness, but trying to get at them was like staring into a deep well. Nothing was clear; probably nothing ever would be. They were probably just a lot of bitter scenes from the divorce anyway.
He finished the bloody killing of the protagonist's wife's boyfriend. He stopped, feeling a little sick but mostly exhilarated. He took up an ear of corn and bit into it voraciously, chewed over the lines as he ate.
"Pretty good," he finally said aloud to himself. "Pretty damn good. I'll write the ending later."
He quickly ate the rest of the corn—it was the main staple of his diet nowadays. He wasn't sure when it had begun, but it was more than a predilection, it was a need. Not just any corn, either. It had to be grown in his very own miniature field. But he didn't think much about that either. So he liked corn. People could deal.
He got up from his desk and stretched, cricking his neck and shaking out his legs. He worked his jaw, ran his hands through his dark, longish hair, streaked with blond. He needed to go shopping for a few things. He'd have to drive all the way into the city for it, since these poor townspeople were still so terrified of him for killing Ted and Amy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Secret Window or any of the characters in this story except Marah.
Mort Rainey was on a roll.
His fingers danced furiously over the keyboard, clacking noisily as lines upon lines of text unfurled on the screen. He didn't know where he was getting all these new, innovative storylines from, but these last few months he'd felt as if he was drawing from a entirely untapped well of horrific experiences that he couldn't even remember very well. Ever since his wife and that boyfriend of hers, Ted, the hick from Shooter's Bay, disappeared. Dropped all contact, just like that. They probably took the money she got from the divorce and went to live in Majorca, he thought. And people thought he had killed them—how ridiculous was that, when they were almost certainly living off of his money right now. But he stayed calm about it; his indignation at being falsely accused was surprisingly mellow. Just one of those things. Let the little people run.
The strangest thing was... he didn't remember ever signing those divorce papers. Had Amy forged his signature? Unlikely. Probably she just wore him down until he was near insane, and he's signed just to get her out of his face. He had been very close to insane immediately after she disappeared—but he didn't like thinking about that too much. Hidden memories danced under the surface of his consciousness, but trying to get at them was like staring into a deep well. Nothing was clear; probably nothing ever would be. They were probably just a lot of bitter scenes from the divorce anyway.
He finished the bloody killing of the protagonist's wife's boyfriend. He stopped, feeling a little sick but mostly exhilarated. He took up an ear of corn and bit into it voraciously, chewed over the lines as he ate.
"Pretty good," he finally said aloud to himself. "Pretty damn good. I'll write the ending later."
He quickly ate the rest of the corn—it was the main staple of his diet nowadays. He wasn't sure when it had begun, but it was more than a predilection, it was a need. Not just any corn, either. It had to be grown in his very own miniature field. But he didn't think much about that either. So he liked corn. People could deal.
He got up from his desk and stretched, cricking his neck and shaking out his legs. He worked his jaw, ran his hands through his dark, longish hair, streaked with blond. He needed to go shopping for a few things. He'd have to drive all the way into the city for it, since these poor townspeople were still so terrified of him for killing Ted and Amy.