I've given up on having this formatted properly here and am going to just forge ahead and post. The original version of the story is on my Live Journal—my username is melodywilde. These characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement or anything intended.
Miss Becky beta-read the original on this, but I'm the one responsible for this edited version. Thanks to everyone who's sent reviews, especially the folks who have called me evil! You all make me glad I decided to share this one.
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 6Get a grip, Morty old boy. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get up now. You have to move. Take care of yourself. Okay, you're hurt, but you're still alive. You'll be okay. You can survive this—people do every day. You just need to get to the shower and wash and find something for the pain and then you'll be good as new. Not that your "new" was all that good...
On the third attempt, he managed to lift his upper body from the bed and hold himself up with shaking forearms. Good enough. Close enough for government work. I am not going to try to sit up and put any weight on...no, don't think about it.
He edged sideways, letting one knee drop from the bed to the floor. It hit hard, jarring him, sending him flat again and forcing him to cling desperately to the ruined bedspread until the lights dancing in front of his eyes had cleared.
Little setback there, but it's okay.
He wrapped his hands around the bars of the headboard and pulled himself forward until his leg straightened, then pushed upward again. Don't think. Just do it. And don't throw up on yourself. Take deep breaths. It's going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay.
He found himself standing, head down, hair falling across his face, legs spread apart for support, panting as if he'd run a marathon.
Take that first step now. You can do it. Think how good that shower's going to feel, that nice warm water, remember how good it felt this morning...this morning...shit, was it only this morning that I stood in the shower jerking off? Seems like it was a fucking lifetime ago. Before I got fucked.
He giggled. Uh oh. Not good. No giggling...giggling sounds crazy. Get a grip, hang on, just start moving, you can do it.
When he took the first step, all desire to giggle fled. He clenched his teeth against the other sorts of sounds that began trying to claw their way out of his chest, then lurched toward the bathroom. Shower. I'll shower. Feel better afterwards...
He shoved the bathroom door closed behind him and turned the lock, then leaned back against it. His eyes strayed to the bathroom mirror, and the creature staring back at him—white-faced, eyes huge and dark and empty—made him catch his breath. Jesus, I look like a ghoul. He forced himself to look away and take the last steps to the shower.
He groaned with pleasure as the water began to gush down on him, warm, cleansing, soothing. I could stand here for...for a very long time. He retrieved the soap, lathered his hands, and ran them slowly, carefully, across the front of his body.
"Mort? Mort, are you in there?"
The voice startled him. He choked on a whimper. Bain. He must've heard the water running. Maybe if I'm quiet, he'll go away and at least let me finish up here.
"Mort?" The tone was harsher now. "Answer me. Are you in there?"
What the fuck do you think—where else would I be? No, no, no. Not good. Do what he says.
"Mort." It was definitely a threat now, one he recognized even in his current not-quite-all-with-it state. "Open the door."
"I...just a minute..."
"I said open the door! Now!"
Oh...shit...
There was a crash, the splintering of wood, and then the shower door was flung back hard enough to make it jump its track. Bain was staring in at him, face was tight with fury.
"I told you to open the door," he snapped in a voice cold as death. "Why did you lock it? Did you try to lock me out?"
"I...I..." Mort's throat closed with terror.
"You tried to lock me out."
"No. Please..."
Bain was moving, in the shower, crowding him, a hand knotting in his hair, holding him, the other hand fisting, beginning to pound into his body. Mort's knees unlocked, his legs buckling.
"Why did you lock me out?" Bain slammed a forearm against Mort's neck, keeping him upright, choking him. "I. Warned. You." Bain punctuated each word with a blow. Arm. Chest. Stomach. "I. Warned. You. But. You. Did. Not. Listen."
I did! I swear to god I did! I just...
Breathing heavily, Bain shifted, moving his arm, pressing his hands against Mort's shoulders. "You must listen to me, Mort Rainey. You must do as I say. I do not like this loss of control that makes me do things like this."
Yeah...funny thing...me neither.
"Perhaps now you will remember that you must listen to what I say."
Bain spun and stepped out of the shower. Mort heard his footsteps crossing the bedroom, going down the stairs. Trailing water all the way. I hope he doesn't expect me to mop it up, because I think I'm going to...
Everything gave way. Mort slid bonelessly to the bottom of the tub, cracking his head against the metal and plexiglass of the door as he went down. He lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen, motionless except for the sobs that jarred his chest, feeling the water that gushed down from the showerhead turn from a gentle warmth to icy cold.
His stomach heaved, emptying itself, heaved again. He began to shudder with the cold and the sickness and the pain. He thought he heard Shooter's voice—"I sure did get a kick outta seein' that, Mr. Rainey"—and a dry laugh, but it flowed over him like the water, meaningless.
Finally, his mind let go and slipped away.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Someone was swearing loudly in Spanish. The sound and feel of the water cut off abruptly. A hand was touching his back, the side of his head.
"Mort? Mort!"
Sorry. Nobody here by that name.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Hands covered in terrycloth were moving gently but firmly over his body, drying, trying to rub back warmth and life. There was more Spanish, soft this time.
Sounds like some sort of prayer. Calling on God and Jesus and Mary and all those guys.
"Mort? Speak to me, please."
Nope. Talk to your holy folks. I'm not home.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Warm. Warm warm warm. Feels good. So good. I was so fucking cold. All wrapped up. Soft...must be in bed. Warm.
"I need you to open your mouth and swallow this pill. Can you do this thing for me?"
Nope.
"Mort, open your mouth!"
He flinched. Follow orders, don't fight. But the last time he had opened his mouth for this voice, it had led to kissing, which had been nice at first, and then to pain, which hadn't. So much pain. I don't want to remember it.
"Please? Oh please."
Is he crying? It sounds like he's crying. No, wrong, not him. I was the one crying like a baby.
"Please, Mort. Please."
Why not? Without opening his eyes, he let his lips part.
"Gracias, gracias." Fingers were touching his mouth, slipping a pill inside. A hand went beneath his head, raising it, and the round plastic of a straw was tucked between his lips. Instinctively, he sucked in the water, washing the pill down.
Wonder what it was. Something to kill me?
His head was settled back on the pillow, and he thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Cold again, so so cold. What happened to the warm?
He could feel the weight of the covers tucked about him, but they were useless against the violence of his shivering. He whimpered, and the gentle hands were back, pressing against his forehead, holding the straw to his lips, stroking his hair. He tried to open his eyes, to see the angel who was touching him with such care, but they remained stubbornly glued shut.
I'm so cold.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"You don't look so good, Mr. Rainey."
He was outside the cabin, beside the cornfield. It was dark, with only the vaguest illumination from the stars reflecting on the piles of newly fallen snow. It was freezing, and he'd stupidly come out dressed only in his t-shirt and cut-off jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and turned to face Shooter.
"What the fuck do you want now?"
"Why, I told you. I come to watch. I come to see you get what you deserved for the things you made me do."
"What things? What are you talking about?"
"You know what things. You jist don't want to let yourself know."
"You're crazy. You're fucking crazy." He began to edge away, to get inside and slam the door. But the cabin seemed to be moving, avoiding him, shifting from side to side, always out of reach.
"You been havin' a lot of trouble gettin' away from things lately, ain't you?"
Mort whirled and began to shove his way through the corn stalks, stalks that were still impossibly high despite the snow. And suddenly the small cornfield itself was huge. There was no end to it, no end, no escape.
"Why, Mort?"
"Amy!" She had appeared from between two rows, hands outstretched in supplication. "Oh god, Amy!"
He started toward her, but she shook her head, warning him away. "Why? Why did you make him do it?"
"Do what? Amy..."
He screamed as arms grabbed his from behind. He snapped his head to the side, and saw that he was being held by Ted Milner.
"Hey, Morty, old boy. How's it going these days? Not so good, huh?"
"Not good at all." Shooter came sauntering through the corn, nodding a greeting to the others. "You c'n let him go now."
"What's going on here?" Freed, Mort began to move again...only to take two steps and find himself with his back pressed against the wall of the cabin.
"I enjoyed watchin' so much that now I'm thinkin' I might like to get me a piece of that action." He waved a hand at Ted, then Amy. "Might let them enjoy watchin'."
"Not you too. You can't..."
"Oh I can. And I am gonna enjoy this. I purely am."
"No. This is a dream. You're not real."
Shooter laughed and grabbed him. "I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was." Then Shooter was shoving him to the ground and Ted and Amy were laughing and Shooter was...
Mort flung his arms upward and began to shriek with terror.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
I'm wet.
He managed to force one eye to open just enough to see where he was. Bathtub. I'm lying in the bathtub. I thought I was in bed. I thought...where are the shower doors? Who took them off?
There was a slight movement to one side and Bain leaned into view. Mort quickly let the eyelid close again, before Bain could see that he was awake. Am I? I think so.
"There, my friend. This is good." Bain's fingers brushed across his forehead. "Your fever has broken. So good. So good."
Friend? When did I go from fucktoy back to being his friend?
He risked opening the eye again, just enough to peer from beneath the lashes. Bain was draining the water, then bending over him with a towel, drying him, touching his battered body with an astonishing gentleness. What's going on here?
Bain slid his arms beneath Mort's shoulders and knees, lifting him easily and cradling him like a child. Or a lover. Despite Bain's care, there was still pain. A lot of pain. And he caused it. Don't forget that.
A moan escaped from his lips, and Bain froze. "Mort? Are you awake?"
No. Not yet. Not yet.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Awareness came back in small bits of feeling. Warmth. A body cuddled against his. An arm circling him protectively. A shoulder pillowing his head. Soft, even breathing.
No pain. I'm not hurting anywhere.
He sighed with relief, and the breathing changed to that of someone awake and alert, although the body beside him remained relaxed. A whisper. "Mort?"
It's Bain. Bain. Holding me like a lover, like he held me when...when? How long ago was that? How long have I been...not here?
"I know you're awake." Bain's voice was soft, barely audible. "You don't have to talk to me. I do not blame you. I have behaved...there are no words to describe the way I have behaved. I allowed the evil part of myself to take control of me, to hurt you, to take by force what I wanted to win with gentleness. And then, to make matters worse, I beat you."
Mort shuddered involuntarily.
"Mort?"
"Just..." His voice sounded rough, as if unused for a time. Or raw from screaming. No, let's not go there. "Don't...don't talk about..."
"All right." Bain moved ever so slightly. "May I do this? Tell me if you want me to stop." Bain's hand lifted, then began to slide comfortingly down the back of Mort's head, smoothing down, lifting, down again, lifting, a gentle, ceaseless caress.
Mort felt the tension begin to ease out of his body—tension he hadn't even been aware of. He seems okay enough now. Like he was...before. He was... I liked him. A lot. I still could if he hadn't...if I thought he wouldn't...
He drifted away once more.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
He was alone in the bed the next time he woke, wrapped in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. Snug as a bug in a rug. He slitted open an eye to peer around the room. Bain was sprawled half in and half out of Chico's chair, which had been pulled in beside the bed at some time during the past few...what? hours? days? weeks? Bain's head was tilted against the back of the chair, his jaw-stubble suggesting "days." Even in sleep, Bain looked as exhausted as Mort felt.
I've been...sick. And he took care of me. I remember...
He shoved the memories of warm soup and cool cloths and light, loving touches away. Okay, he took care of me, but it was his fault that I needed to be taken care of. And what now? What happens when he wakes up? Will he still take care of me? Be good to me? Be my friend? Or is he going to...
"You're awake."
Bain was shifting in the chair, straightening, moving slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten Mort. I guess it's too late to pretend I'm not. He nodded.
"How do you feel?"
Confused. Scared. Sick to my stomach.
"Can I get something for you? Tea? Water? Something to eat?"
"Mountain Dew."
"It is done."
He tried to sit up while Bain was gone, but the effort was too much. The best he could do was free an arm from the covers and roll onto his back. Still hurts, there, there, there. Better, though. Just...so fucking weak.
"Here." Bain was back, holding a glass filled with crushed ice and soda. "Let me help you." He seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm beneath Mort's shoulders, lifting to allow Mort to sip at the liquid.
Tastes good.
"A little more?" Bain tilted the glass again, but Mort shook his head, refusing. "Is there anything else?"
"Tell me why."
Bain froze. "Why I hurt you."
"Yes."
"Ah." Bain eased Mort back onto the pillows and set the drink aside. "That is very difficult to explain, my friend. Even with all your imagination, I do not think you could understand what it is like to be..." He gestured helplessly. "Possessed by someone else inside your head."
"Try me."
The words startled Mort almost as much as they did Bain. Where the fuck did that come from? Did I just offer him a chance to explain? Explain why he held me prisoner and tied me up and raped me and beat me and...Jesus, he almost killed me!
"Oh he's right, Mr. Rainey. You couldn't never understand a thing like that, now could you?"
Mort's head jerked sideways. Shooter was standing by the bed again, looking down at him with an amused smile on his face. "No, sir, you wouldn't know nothin' 'bout havin' an evil somebody inside your head takin' over and doin' all your dirty work for you."
Mort flinched, involuntarily pressing his body closer to Bain's for protection. "No."
Bain glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back. "What is it? What is wrong?"
"Don't you see...?" Mort looked up at Bain, then back at Shooter.
"See what? Tell me."
Bain doesn't see him. He fucking doesn't see him! Just like Tom Greenleaf didn't see him, that day on the road.
The memory of the nightmare came back. "You're not real." "I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was."
"Now you're beginnin' to catch on." Shooter nodded and touched the brim of his hat. "Looks like I'm done here for now. I'd best be gettin' on back."
Gone. He's just...gone. Vanished into thin air. How...
"Mort?"
Bain didn't see him. He isn't real. But...if he isn't real...that means....
"Mort?"
That means there isn't a John Shooter. It means I killed Ken and Tom. It means...it means that maybe Dave Newsome was right about me all along. Maybe Amy and Ted are dead. Maybe I did kill them. Maybe I'm a murderer, just like Bain. Maybe...
He began to giggle.
Maybe I'm crazy too.