Disclaimer: I don't own Secret Window. And please, if you decide to review, be somewhat nice about it. Constructive Criticism is helpful, flaming is not. So don't do it. Also, this takes place before Shooter comes into the picture.
His sorrow haunted his every motion, every toss, every turn he made upon the battered couch, it followed the blood encrusted conjurations of his mind, taunting every move crafted. Everything Mort Rainey had believed himself to have known had broken into pieces, scattered around his feet. Confusion lurked within the shadows, gleefully tripping him with her misfit ways.
He had tried to leave, he wanted to be gone of the burden of her memory, wanted it thrown in the closet, lost among the anonymous clutter he no longer cared for. But he couldn't find the heart to leave, for the log cabin was his only solace for the moment, his only refuge from the rest of mankind.
But his thoughts were stubborn; they refused to let him believe in this excuse. You're afraid, because you still love her. Yes, if forced to admit, Mort would say he still loved his wife, adored her wicked beauty, looking through her acerbic betrayal. But it was fear that kept him, buried within his despondence. He was afraid because he still loved her.
It was cruel of Cupid to keep him pawning this long for the lost that could never be found. Mort reluctantly pushed away, but her portraits were painted forever in his mind. He yearned for love to abandon him, as she had done to him, but it seemed too stubborn to let go.
Mort wished she was the one to leave, the one to pack up her belongings and move out of his heart, his every waking minute. He knew he could never evict her; countless times he had tried, only to have her coming back, even in sleep.
Truly, he wished on tempting stars that her kisses would be swept away with the incoming tide, but little did he know the stars themselves were bleeding with injuries unseen. He had thrown his faith into the bushes, left it trapped between gossiping thorns. And perhaps it was that coming back to him, karma so to speak.
But was it his fault that the phantasm of their love still haunted him? Was it punishment that her memory could not be put to rest? He was questioning, digging through his anguish, searching for one smudge of serenity. But no, her influence forbid it.
And with the incoming sunshine came the thunder, the infidelity she could not hide. Her lightning had struck him, so unexpected in the calm of the summer eve. He had been auspicious to remain standing; the burns of her betrayal would forever scar their love.
She put on the appearance of a loving wife, a façade so brilliantly portrayed. Even as their love grew bitter, branched off into coldness, she seemed to have managed to maintain some affection in her grasp. Her truths in time revealed themselves insecure; they could not keep within the shallow dimples of her smile. They chuckled at Morts stupidity, they echoed within his reality. He had stumbled, but it was inevitable that the weeds would be pulled from the garden.
He had been caught within what seemed the eye of the storm, only to have been tossed into the winds embroiled in war. His life blew away out of his grasp; he was helpless to prevent it. Within a single moment, truth had turned her face to him, revealing her gruesome knowledge. He was forced to look into the mirror, to interpret the reflections as they really were. Within a single moment, hurt had taken him as company, forever companions.
Of the impressions Mort had collected of her, treachery had managed to evade his tender search. So sudden was her choice, it left him suffocating in the aftermath. He had given her bouquets of compassion when they had suffered the loss of birth, inspirited her caught underneath the moons darkest hours. He bestowed upon her felicity, he had thought it to be enough.
His reminiscence strolled back to one of her many phone calls; they always held the same message: you've changed. Denial wasn't one to comply with him; he knew her accusation rang true. But couldn't she understand that change was inevitable? Did she not grasp the fact that everyone, at one point in their lives was bound for it? Or could she simply not let her gaze past Morts passion for literature, his love for the quirky imagination?
But perhaps she blamed him somehow, for the loss of their child. Perhaps she had been tired of the disappointment; perchance she grew weary of his worn touch, blossoming cold towards his tattered kisses. Either way, Mort knew he wasn't the only patch of soil in which the seeds of change nestled.
Mort let a smile peer out from the shadows of his musing as he allowed new thoughts to awaken among the dusty shelves of his mentality. He let loose the firm hold he had upon his mind, permitting it to travel back to the earliest times of their relationship. So different both of them had been, grown now from the humble buds they once were.
He became enthralled, spellbound by the pasts enticing fog. He expanded his smile with the stars of yesterday, feeling them tug at his hollow spirit. It was the past he followed down the beaten path; times gone by when they would just escape into the woods empathetic embrace, basking in the trivial nothingness of it all. Back then, inside jokes kept warm wrapped around their hands, perfect puzzle pieces, just right for one another. It was back in that day he could spill his dreams, uncaring as to what she thought of the mess. And it was ages ago when her fidelity remained loyal, a merry puppy walking along, its tail dancing in the wind.
History was called so for a reason; it stayed for but one moment, it kept secret its time of departure. And once it had left, it lived only within memories, in reality it was dead. But it was something easy to hold onto; for some it was their security blanket. For Mort, the past was somewhat of a fetish; he discovered he did not want it to toss him aside, further confirmation of the funeral of his love. And so he clung to it, running from the present that had outcast his very being.
But ages past weren't strong enough to exorcise her influence from him; Mort was bedridden, disabled to fight against her manipulation, of which she was performing subconsciously. Or maybe she knew of the agony she put him through. To this knowledge he was ignorant. All that he could be sure of was her presence, never yielding to interrupt his story, never relenting in the hunting of his imaginings.
Mort led himself back to a time when comfort laid beside him, back when he ran from sleep, his fatigue lusting for his work. It was a time when he could lose sight of the gruesome reality he woke up to every morning. He cherished what he could from that era, his grasp snug around the tendrils of its edges.
He chased sleep, for nowadays it was his addiction. It seemed as though every blink tossed him into frozen unconsciousness, and that every moment awake became erased. Perhaps he lived in his dreams because it was her realm, the mirror he could peer into and distinguish her shadows from the night. It was obsession ailing into psychosis; he was helpless to the harmony of her sayings taking flight from their perch in which his folly had believed to have laid their life to death.
Assurance was of little help to Mort. The one thing it agreed with him on was that he was slowly letting his control burn to ashes, the wood to carnivorous embers. Alcohol did little to drown the garish wildfire, allowing it to spread to other meadows of his life, its bittersweet liquor too thick of recklessness. But he failed to see the false hope cradled in Jack's smirk, the futile moisture only temporarily quenching his desires.
His burdens remained tattooed upon his scars, the hurt they wrought bending over backwards to insure his misery as he reached for the solution nearby. Mort had found refuge in the numb drowning of his sobriety many times before, but never had his need for it been as strong as it was that moment, the only light willing to guide his way.
What drew his anger and tampered the serene heat of its slumber was the wall that had come down upon his imagination, cadging his ideas because she was always within his psyche. She, and the portrait he had come to find her painted within, eclipsed the words from him.
His will summoned such thoughts of her, shamefully stripped beneath the sheets, entwined with another man. Though still bound by Matrimony, the couple had been in the process of evolving separation.
Mort felt his grip freeze midway in motion, the thought of the other man was bitterly arctic in temperature. Ted was his name, plain, not a name to attract much attention. Maybe it was the envy influencing Morts mind, or just simple observation. Whatever the origin, this thought seemed to him somewhat brutish, primitive in a way, the exact words he saw most fitting of Ted.
Mort found some solace from the situation, within the embrace of his hatred for Ted; it was therapy for him, letting insults murmur their fantasies into an abyss unheard.
Reluctance held his hurt, the hurt Ted had inspired. Morts pride prohibited him from revealing any damage Ted was responsible for. And so he had buried the wounds, leaving them in unmarked graves. But on his own, he aroused them from eternal sleep, knowing their spirits would never leave him alone.
Mort had drained his drink, desperation guiding his thirst towards sleep. He wanted to numb the throbbing pulse of his memories, quiet their resounding heartbeat. For the moment, there was nothing more desirable than the murder of his musings, to expunge the blood stained upon his mind.
And yet his drunken state did nothing to relieve him, marooning him among the miscellaneous nothings pooled around his contemplations. It seemed he was immune to the sweet poison hidden within the bottle.
As he tried to shove his thoughts off the cliff, he found them fighting back, manipulating his pain, his suffering a twisted knife gouged through his heart.
It wouldn't go away, it wouldn't leave him be. He was bound by his agony, still enticed with the saccharine ashes of her wake. At this point, there was no reasonable elucidation, save the fact that she might have the makings of a witch, the enchanter who held him spellbound by her charms.
Mort managed to find some amusement with the image of his wife with warts and mounted upon a broomstick; something he thought lost, cluttered beside crumpled newspaper.
He let it fall, another article to clutter his floor, as he stood, stretching slightly, freeing his still form from its resting place. He cringed as he rose, the world blurred around him, teasing his senses, mocking his disheveled condition as he walked away from the only arms willing to receive him.
The kitchen greeted him with her dreary humming. It tugged at the raw tendrils of Mort's patience, irking his mulling disposition as he made his way towards the refrigerator.
Time halted her extravagant dance, startled by the rugged clash of glass and tile. Again her absence echoed in the fragile air, so close to collapsing upon him. His breath was shattered upon impact with the realization he had attempted to run from; her story could never be erased.
No matter he was drowning in the waters of his isolation, she would forever be the rope to his salvation, always out of his reach. He would stay the wanderer; the one who took refuge within his anonymity. Amy would never come back.
The only thing Mort was left with was her memory, a rose whose thorns would exist, forever immortal. He had no proper place to put this flower of supreme elegance; he could only keep it naked in his grasp, watching as it stole his blood, mourning for his undying solitude.