(no subject)
There was no way to explain it, to understand it, hell, to even comprehend it. Shooter had beat him at every turn, Mort didn't know how, he couldn't even fathom how, but somehow that lunatic had squeezed him into a corner so tight he wasn't sure there was anyway for him to ever get back out. It was nauseatingly confusing, his mind was dazed and in disarray and on top of it all, he simply didn't understand how that hick had managed to tear out the story. There was no way. None. And on top of that? Fuck, he was arguing with himself, literally. Details? What details, there was nothing to notice except he was completely screwed over by some psycho who just happened to also be a genius. Pilgrim, Shooter's Bay, they didn't mean anything. Anything at all. John Shooter was real, he had to be.
"There is no John Shooter," his conscience said calmly, though insisting, staring at him, trying to make eye contact. Mort couldn't listen, he couldn't listen to these words because it couldn't be true, he knew in his heart that it couldn't be true, there had to be a John Shooter. He'd seen him, he'd spoken to him, good God he's even fought him. Felt him. Smelt him. He had to be real. He turned and stared across the room, his thoughts trembling within his mind, his mouth and jaw working, trying to make a sound to block the voice out, to make it stop. The only noise he managed, a desperate "Raa…raa," was what he clung to, trying to make that sound tune out the words he didn't want to hear.
"There never was. You invented him." The voice said earnestly, sympathetically, trying to break in and make him see what he refused to see. It could not be true, it couldn't be, John Shooter killed Tom Greenleaf, he killed people, he killed his dog, he set fire to his house in New York.
"Listen to me, not to him. Before it's too late" The voice coached, trying to get in to the breaking mind within the man, the thoughts shaking and falling to pieces, the heart hammering, the palms sweating, the knees trembling the very man threatening to crumble apart on that very spot as the thoughts swirled and tore, shredding like paper in turbulent waters.
"Leave me alone!" Mort suddenly screamed, reaching to a nearby table and hefting a large paperweight, a random item Amy had once pulled from a garage sale, and threw it with all his might, a throw so hard he felt the muscles in his arm and shoulder tense and strain from the sheer force of it. The wall shook too, when the paperweight hit it, breaking it even, and knocking the nearby lamp to the floor. Mort stared, heart pounding and breath heaving, frozen and not comprehending. His conscience had been right there, standing inches from him, but now…
"You are alone." The voice said, not coming into his ear, not even a whisper or a taunt from another room, but from within his own tattered mind. There was a creaking, a crack, and Mort stared, growing and mounting confusion and terror, as the broken part of wall seemed to heave, and suddenly, slowly, then rapidly, an enormous crack began to break upwards, the wall and house tearing in half as his mind seized and tried to comprehend, but failed to do so. The malicious crack, showing taunting glimpses of light, showing him the truth, dangling it before his eyes like a bit of meat before a dog, and as the crack reached the other side, the voices began, and he saw the mirror.
Fleeting whispers, teasing and soft in his mind, telling him truths and lies, but all that mattered was that mirror. That mirror that made no sense, because it in, he did see his reflection, his shabby clothes and tangled hair, but it was showing his back. A mirror didn't show a person from behind, and steadily, softly he approached, the voices in his mind and his eyes on the shining surface, not understanding, not comprehending, but knowing that the break had come, and had done it's job.
"What is happening to me?" He whispered to the room, and he knew, even as he stared at his backwards reflection, that he would get a response.
"Oh, I think you know, I think you have a real good idea" A southern drawl said, and Mort stared helplessly in that mirror, and he did know. There was no John Shooter, the break, the crackling the tearing of his mind had shown the truth. There was no John Shooter.
"You don't exist." He said, helpless to what he now knew, his mind still swirling, like in a daze as his thoughts hurt and his throat tightened.
"Who me? I exist, Mr. Rainey. I exist, because you made me." And Mort knew it was true. The hat, he knew that hat. He knew why that hat fit. He'd found that hat at an old country store, he'd picked it out with Amy himself. "You thought me up, gave me my name, told me everything you wanted me to do." And Mort knew this as well, as he could suddenly remember, he could see himself setting the house in New York aflame, wearing Shooter's hat himself. "I did them things so you wouldn't have to," Shooter's drawl said, growing closer, closer to Mort and closer than ever before in his breaking mind. He could see it, he could see Tom Greenleaf, Ken Karsch, he could see himself killing them. "Didn't have the stomach to do it yourself, but you knew I did. Are we done yet, have we got things all cleaned up around here? What's the real reason I come for?"
"Fix the story," Mort said in a hush, suddenly understanding. He needed to fix the ending, fix what Todd Downey was supposed to do in the story. What Todd Downey was supposed to do to his wife. "Fix the ending, gotta fix the ending."
"And how do you suppose we oughta do that?" John Shooter asked, and suddenly, Mort knew exactly what he must do. Except there was one problem.
The mirror had disappeared some time ago, and for some time now Mort had been speaking to an unfamiliar wall. He did not recognize this wall, know this wall, or know anything about this wall, but since when did he really know anything anymore? Shooter had work he wanted to do, and Mort Rainey had a story he needed to fix, but in his mind, the confusion swirled, the thoughts shredded and tore apart, and John Shooter raged and schemed. Something was wrong, but at the same time, all was right.
Mort put the hat on.
"Let's see what we need to do, pilgrim." He muttered to himself, finally tearing fixed glassy eyes from the space of wall and staring down the corridor.
"There is no John Shooter," his conscience said calmly, though insisting, staring at him, trying to make eye contact. Mort couldn't listen, he couldn't listen to these words because it couldn't be true, he knew in his heart that it couldn't be true, there had to be a John Shooter. He'd seen him, he'd spoken to him, good God he's even fought him. Felt him. Smelt him. He had to be real. He turned and stared across the room, his thoughts trembling within his mind, his mouth and jaw working, trying to make a sound to block the voice out, to make it stop. The only noise he managed, a desperate "Raa…raa," was what he clung to, trying to make that sound tune out the words he didn't want to hear.
"There never was. You invented him." The voice said earnestly, sympathetically, trying to break in and make him see what he refused to see. It could not be true, it couldn't be, John Shooter killed Tom Greenleaf, he killed people, he killed his dog, he set fire to his house in New York.
"Listen to me, not to him. Before it's too late" The voice coached, trying to get in to the breaking mind within the man, the thoughts shaking and falling to pieces, the heart hammering, the palms sweating, the knees trembling the very man threatening to crumble apart on that very spot as the thoughts swirled and tore, shredding like paper in turbulent waters.
"Leave me alone!" Mort suddenly screamed, reaching to a nearby table and hefting a large paperweight, a random item Amy had once pulled from a garage sale, and threw it with all his might, a throw so hard he felt the muscles in his arm and shoulder tense and strain from the sheer force of it. The wall shook too, when the paperweight hit it, breaking it even, and knocking the nearby lamp to the floor. Mort stared, heart pounding and breath heaving, frozen and not comprehending. His conscience had been right there, standing inches from him, but now…
"You are alone." The voice said, not coming into his ear, not even a whisper or a taunt from another room, but from within his own tattered mind. There was a creaking, a crack, and Mort stared, growing and mounting confusion and terror, as the broken part of wall seemed to heave, and suddenly, slowly, then rapidly, an enormous crack began to break upwards, the wall and house tearing in half as his mind seized and tried to comprehend, but failed to do so. The malicious crack, showing taunting glimpses of light, showing him the truth, dangling it before his eyes like a bit of meat before a dog, and as the crack reached the other side, the voices began, and he saw the mirror.
Fleeting whispers, teasing and soft in his mind, telling him truths and lies, but all that mattered was that mirror. That mirror that made no sense, because it in, he did see his reflection, his shabby clothes and tangled hair, but it was showing his back. A mirror didn't show a person from behind, and steadily, softly he approached, the voices in his mind and his eyes on the shining surface, not understanding, not comprehending, but knowing that the break had come, and had done it's job.
"What is happening to me?" He whispered to the room, and he knew, even as he stared at his backwards reflection, that he would get a response.
"Oh, I think you know, I think you have a real good idea" A southern drawl said, and Mort stared helplessly in that mirror, and he did know. There was no John Shooter, the break, the crackling the tearing of his mind had shown the truth. There was no John Shooter.
"You don't exist." He said, helpless to what he now knew, his mind still swirling, like in a daze as his thoughts hurt and his throat tightened.
"Who me? I exist, Mr. Rainey. I exist, because you made me." And Mort knew it was true. The hat, he knew that hat. He knew why that hat fit. He'd found that hat at an old country store, he'd picked it out with Amy himself. "You thought me up, gave me my name, told me everything you wanted me to do." And Mort knew this as well, as he could suddenly remember, he could see himself setting the house in New York aflame, wearing Shooter's hat himself. "I did them things so you wouldn't have to," Shooter's drawl said, growing closer, closer to Mort and closer than ever before in his breaking mind. He could see it, he could see Tom Greenleaf, Ken Karsch, he could see himself killing them. "Didn't have the stomach to do it yourself, but you knew I did. Are we done yet, have we got things all cleaned up around here? What's the real reason I come for?"
"Fix the story," Mort said in a hush, suddenly understanding. He needed to fix the ending, fix what Todd Downey was supposed to do in the story. What Todd Downey was supposed to do to his wife. "Fix the ending, gotta fix the ending."
"And how do you suppose we oughta do that?" John Shooter asked, and suddenly, Mort knew exactly what he must do. Except there was one problem.
The mirror had disappeared some time ago, and for some time now Mort had been speaking to an unfamiliar wall. He did not recognize this wall, know this wall, or know anything about this wall, but since when did he really know anything anymore? Shooter had work he wanted to do, and Mort Rainey had a story he needed to fix, but in his mind, the confusion swirled, the thoughts shredded and tore apart, and John Shooter raged and schemed. Something was wrong, but at the same time, all was right.
Mort put the hat on.
"Let's see what we need to do, pilgrim." He muttered to himself, finally tearing fixed glassy eyes from the space of wall and staring down the corridor.