Well I'm not sure how I came up with this idea, but I've got like... The last half of this story planned out. The beginning half... not so much. So that's the reason why this beginning isn't the best...But, it'll get... deeper. and more dramatic. After all I'm writing a fanfiction about Secret Window. Mort's half crazy (and good-looking), that's always an interesting thing.
Disclaimer: I do not own Secret Window. I do not own Mort Rainey. I do not own Johnny Depp... Sigh
Well here... Read on, then review!
"M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E, mickey mouse, mickey mouse-"
Mort Rainey sang under his breath, staring at the white, blank screen of his laptop. He put his fingers on the keys, thinking of an idea for a story. Morten quickly pulled his fingers back. No. It was a stupid idea. Besides, he wasn't any good at love stories. He wasn't even good at love in real life. The ugly, stupid, hag of a bitch Amy ran off with ugly, stupid, rubbernecker Ted. At least he didn't have to worry about them anymore.
They were out of his mind. For most of the time. Out of the sane part. But now, he was regaining control of that back-woods, country red-necked hick Shooter. He would mumble a word in Mort's ear though, every now and then.
Taking a deep breath, Mort wiped his hands on the grungy pants that he had on the day before, and had slept in. He wiped his fingertips clean of the Doritos. For a few moments, he held his breath, tapping his fingers on the space bar of the keyboard.
"Damn it! Damn it all to hell!" Mort yelled suddenly. He just had to become a writer, didn't he? That's the way he made a living. Thinking of good ideas, and writing stories on them. If he had no ideas, there would be no stories, if there were no stories, there'd be no money. Yes, currently he had enough money that he could live... decently for a few more months, but if he didn't write another story soon, he'd go bankrupted.
Mort's eyes glanced to the small window that looked down upon the garden. The corn was growing fully, tall, fresh, very green. "Damned farmers have all the luck." He muttered to himself, scowling.
He took a cigarette from a drawer of the desk and a lighter that was laying next to it. He held the cigarette's end over the small flame. Seeing that it was lit, Mort smirked, "There. No one here to tell me when and when not to smoke." His housekeeper had quit three weeks before, after Mort's paychecks to her... became late. "Oh-well." He breathed, watching the puff of smoke float into the air, "She was a witch anyway."
Mort licked his lips and looked to the Mountain Dew can which was sitting on the desk. Good, he was getting thirsty. Mort picked it up, but it was empty. "Damn Mountain Dew, too!" Mort stared at the empty can for a moment. His eye's flickered up to the ceiling and he shook his head "I didn't mean it...Why do you hate me, God? I thought you were suppose to be... Forgiving? I know! A deal! I'll forgive you for not forgiving me if you let me write a good story. A good one." Mort opened his arms up, still gazing up to the ceiling, waiting for a story idea to pop into his head.
"Fine. I guess you didn't hear." He grumbled as he stood up.
Mort walked down his staircase, nearly tripping on clothes that littered the steps. Lazily, he walked into the kitchen and opened up the fridge. It was nearly empty. He'd have to go to town soon. Or send someone to town for him, according to the Sheriff. That backwoods, jackass Sheriff who was the Sheriff of this god awful town because he wasn't good enough to make it as a real cop.
He was two steps from the fridge when there was a knock on the door. Mort didn't move. They'd go away eventually, right?
Another knock. Then another. Mort rolled his eyes with a scold and quickly turned around, briskly walking to his door. Mort whipped the door opened, "Yes?"
There stood a girl who liked to be eighteen, or nineteen. Her skin was tan, but naturally. No... it was a beautiful olive color. She had large, not freakishly large, but amazing dark emerald green eyes. Her silky hair was a very deep, dark shade of chocolate brown. It rested on her shoulders in waves. "Mort Rainey?" She asked in a shy tone. The girl adjusted her weight to the other foot, 'forcing' Mort to look at her curves.
"Yes." He said, his eyes snapping back to her face.
"I'm here for the job."
"What?"
"House keeping. Your still looking for someone, aren't you?"
"Oh. Yes... You're hired."
"Don't you need to interview me?"
"Can you pick up clothes and whatever else? Keep my house looking decent?"
"Yes."
"Are you're le-" Mort stopped himself from saying 'legal', "Are you eighteen?"
The girl seemed to take notice of the almost 'legal' comment. "Yes, sir. Nineteen in three and a half months."
"Good." Mort smiled, "You're hired."