Wow... Thanks so much to everyone who's already reviewed this! Like I said,
this is the first story I've written, so I was pretty nervous. Thanks for
the encouragement. (
Sorry the updates are coming kinda slow... schoolwork (and going to see
Secret Window a second time :-P) have been making my schedule pretty full.
It took several days of almost constant sleep for Mort to feel a little reconstructed, and at the end of them she reappeared and ruined it all over again.
He was lying on his new couch in his new tan bathrobe, dozing as he considered whether it would be best for his protagonist to kill his wife with a crowbar, or a little more romantically. Maybe he'd say he wanted to talk things over, bring her up on a cliff overlooking a wild, rocky beach, and then shove her over the edge to drown in blue oblivion. Suddenly there was a rap on his door; he bolted upright.
Fear rushed through him; he couldn't explain why. He hated the sound of knocking. He simply couldn't bear it. It sent thrills of terror up his spine and made the dark memories begin swirling under his consciousness again—never enough for him to see them and understand them, but enough to fill him with a cold, icy feeling just short of panic. After Amy and Ted had disappeared, a lot of things around the house had started making him feel that way. The old couch, for example, which he'd replaced with a much more modern, sophisticated, dark brown leather sofa. And the old ratty blue-and-black bathrobe. And that telephone, such a weird shade of green. He'd thrown them all out; he just couldn't stand to look at them anymore. He supposed he didn't want to think about Amy was all. The traitor.
He hurried to the door and yanked it open before whoever it was could knock again. And there stood Marah.
He blinked a little stupidly at her, trying to clear the last vestiges of sleep—and panic—from his mind. She looked uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether she had a right to be there.
"Hi," she said, smiling slightly. She was holding a thin stack of light blue papers; she gave him one. "The school's having a fundraiser, and I'm supposed to hand out the fliers."
He took it but didn't look at it, and gave a short bark of a laugh. "I really don't think my presence is ...desired," he said. "I make people nervous," he added with a touch of sarcasm.
She didn't try to contradict him or convince him otherwise. "Yeah," was all she said, softly, but she didn't turn to leave, and didn't take her eyes from his. They were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been too surprised that he was actually interacting with another person to take in her appearance much, past the fact that she was attractive. But he decided now: she was beautiful. His author brain began to mold words around her features, as carefully and delicately as if he were actually touching her. Skin as rich and smooth as apple butter... ears with curves like seashells... lips full and soft like sun-kissed berries... eyes that were dark mysteries, to be solved only under silver moonlight by the passion of a lover.
When the description of her lips hit him, flowing as naturally as the others, he stopped abruptly. No way was he going to get involved with this... this Marah. Safer that way. Better for all involved. But she wouldn't leave.
"Is there something else I can do for you?" he found himself saying, rather brusquely.
She looked as if she'd been shaken out of her own reverie. "Well, actually..." she tucked a strand of her midnight black hair behind her ears and looked away, then met his eyes again, "the real reason I came was, I didn't feel quite right about how we parted last time and I..." she trailed off. She had had an idea of what to say beforehand, had practiced it as she walked down his street, as she turned up his path. It was gone.
He stood, considering her. Finally, he smiled for the first time, a small smile, but a genuine one. He opened the door a little wider and stepped back, allowing room for her to pass through.
"Would you like to come in?"
"I..." she began, then stopped. "Yes." And she stepped inside.
It took several days of almost constant sleep for Mort to feel a little reconstructed, and at the end of them she reappeared and ruined it all over again.
He was lying on his new couch in his new tan bathrobe, dozing as he considered whether it would be best for his protagonist to kill his wife with a crowbar, or a little more romantically. Maybe he'd say he wanted to talk things over, bring her up on a cliff overlooking a wild, rocky beach, and then shove her over the edge to drown in blue oblivion. Suddenly there was a rap on his door; he bolted upright.
Fear rushed through him; he couldn't explain why. He hated the sound of knocking. He simply couldn't bear it. It sent thrills of terror up his spine and made the dark memories begin swirling under his consciousness again—never enough for him to see them and understand them, but enough to fill him with a cold, icy feeling just short of panic. After Amy and Ted had disappeared, a lot of things around the house had started making him feel that way. The old couch, for example, which he'd replaced with a much more modern, sophisticated, dark brown leather sofa. And the old ratty blue-and-black bathrobe. And that telephone, such a weird shade of green. He'd thrown them all out; he just couldn't stand to look at them anymore. He supposed he didn't want to think about Amy was all. The traitor.
He hurried to the door and yanked it open before whoever it was could knock again. And there stood Marah.
He blinked a little stupidly at her, trying to clear the last vestiges of sleep—and panic—from his mind. She looked uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether she had a right to be there.
"Hi," she said, smiling slightly. She was holding a thin stack of light blue papers; she gave him one. "The school's having a fundraiser, and I'm supposed to hand out the fliers."
He took it but didn't look at it, and gave a short bark of a laugh. "I really don't think my presence is ...desired," he said. "I make people nervous," he added with a touch of sarcasm.
She didn't try to contradict him or convince him otherwise. "Yeah," was all she said, softly, but she didn't turn to leave, and didn't take her eyes from his. They were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been too surprised that he was actually interacting with another person to take in her appearance much, past the fact that she was attractive. But he decided now: she was beautiful. His author brain began to mold words around her features, as carefully and delicately as if he were actually touching her. Skin as rich and smooth as apple butter... ears with curves like seashells... lips full and soft like sun-kissed berries... eyes that were dark mysteries, to be solved only under silver moonlight by the passion of a lover.
When the description of her lips hit him, flowing as naturally as the others, he stopped abruptly. No way was he going to get involved with this... this Marah. Safer that way. Better for all involved. But she wouldn't leave.
"Is there something else I can do for you?" he found himself saying, rather brusquely.
She looked as if she'd been shaken out of her own reverie. "Well, actually..." she tucked a strand of her midnight black hair behind her ears and looked away, then met his eyes again, "the real reason I came was, I didn't feel quite right about how we parted last time and I..." she trailed off. She had had an idea of what to say beforehand, had practiced it as she walked down his street, as she turned up his path. It was gone.
He stood, considering her. Finally, he smiled for the first time, a small smile, but a genuine one. He opened the door a little wider and stepped back, allowing room for her to pass through.
"Would you like to come in?"
"I..." she began, then stopped. "Yes." And she stepped inside.