Chapter Text
Morty Smith laid on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. A stray tear slipped from the corner of his eye as he allowed himself to dive into his thoughts. He hated school, he hated his ‘normal teenage life’, he hated constantly pretending like he was happy. He was only half way through his senior year and desperately wanted the cruel pain of living to end.
He missed Rick. He missed adventuring, he missed centring his whole world around the genius who had shown him things beyond his wildest dreams. He didn’t want a life on Earth, he wanted to follow his grandpa to the edges of the universe.
The worst part about missing Rick was that he never even left. He simply stopped taking the boy on adventures. Their last adventure was thrilling, death-defying even, and Morty was blissfully unaware it would be the last time he set foot through a portal. The next day, it was like Rick had been replaced with an alternate version of himself. One that didn’t need nor want Morty around.
They barely talked from that point. Morty had tried to strike up conversations with his grandpa about their ‘next adventure’ for months to no avail. Rick would usually say something short like, “Dunno, Morty,” or just shrug and excuse himself to the garage. Utterly heartbroken at his grandpa’s dismissal of him, Morty had given up trying to reclaim his ‘number 1 number 2’ position.
Morty blamed himself. Did he talk back too much? Was he too slow? Was he too dumb? Countless questions had gnawed away at his adolescent brain for two years, making him second guess every aspect of himself. Morty spent most nights crying into his pillow and ruminating, trying to figure out where he fucked up.
Morty hated sleeping. Most nights he had dreadful, vivid nightmares. The teen would wake up in sweat soaked sheets, gasping for air as if someone had been holding him underwater. The first time he cried out into the quiet of night, Beth Smith burst into Morty’s room with frantic eyes and shaking hands. She soothed him, lulled him back to sleep. As the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, the family grew accustomed to Morty’s midnight wails and willed themselves to sleep through the night. Morty didn’t blame them.
He could never find restful sleep after a nightmare, so Morty had spent many nights writing in his journal, detailing the dreams in red ink on the page. Now and again, the boy would sketch the monsters haunting his slumber.
Some nights, Morty had dreams about what his life might have looked like if he and Rick had continued to adventure together. He dreamt of himself to be strong, confident, healthy – all the things Morty knew he never would be. In his dreams, the partners were comfortable and happy in each other’s company and put complete trust in one another. Rick respected him. Rick loved him.
Morty hated waking up from those dreams.
Morty had never attempted suicide, but the thought that started as a whisper grew louder every day.
Would anyone care?
Would anyone try to stop me?
Morty was crippled with immense guilt at the thought of his parents finding out just how much he hated himself, his life. They had given him a roof over his head, food on the table and clothes on his back. He was grateful for that, though he didn’t truly believe he deserved it. Beth and Jerry Smith thought their son was doing well now that he was ‘free of Rick’s grasp’, but they were never the most emotionally attentive caregivers.
Morty didn’t blame them, he simply didn’t want to burden them with the truth.
When Summer visited between college semesters, she gave him looks of pity. She knew he wasn’t doing great but didn’t ever press it further. Morty felt like she was walking on eggshells around him, like saying Rick’s name or asking him too many questions about his life would reduce him to a blubbering mess right there at the dinner table.
Morty understood why she acted the way she did; he was too emotional. He didn’t blame her.
With a great sigh, Morty sat up in his bed, using his hand to wipe away the tear that had escaped his eye. He was truly exhausted.
It’s time.
The teen pulled back the covers, exposing his slim body. Bones protruded from one too many skipped meals but Morty didn’t care.
Lightly trembling, Morty left behind the comfort of his blankets and moved toward the door, trying his hardest to silently twist the knob. If he was going to do it tonight, it had to be with one of Rick’s laser guns. If the scientist wasn’t in the garage, Morty had an idea of where he might be able to find one.
He hadn’t exactly been planning for this. He never took pen to paper and detailed how, when and where he would do it, but he always carried the knowledge that there was a way if the time was right.
Morty took a deep breath and peered out into the hall. He was met with complete darkness, a sure sign that everybody in the house was asleep. The boy briefly wondered what the time was, but didn’t turn back to check the small digital clock beside his bed. He needed to do this now, he needed to keep moving forward.
Each step that Morty took toward the garage felt like a brick being removed from the castle of depression crushing his chest. He was becoming increasingly confident in his decision, he almost felt weightless as approached the door to the garage.
Morty knew Rick had stopped locking the garage door. The man used to religiously lock and unlock the door each time he left the room unattended after one too many incidents involving his tech and the family. Morty hadn’t heard the jingle of the lock in at least a year. He always wondered why the man stopped locking the door but was glad that it worked out in his favour.
He walked into the darkness of the garage and closed the door behind him, switching the light on only after he had closed the door. The boy’s breath hitched in his throat as he took in the sight of Rick’s lab. He had spent so much time in here at some point in his adolescence, but he hadn’t set foot into the room in over two years.
Rick’s inventions were scattered across the garage, in what Morty assumed was some kind of organised chaos. Alcohol cans and bottles lined the floor, the work bench and every other surface he laid eyes on. Tools were spread out across the floor, amongst the empty cans. The empty toolbox lay only inches away, on its side.
Essentially, the room looked like a bomb hit in.
Damn, is Rick okay?
Morty shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He had to be quick. In and out.
An in and out adventure.
Morty smiled at the memory of Rick’s words to him, regardless of fact that the ‘quick’ adventure had turned into 6 days of terror and barely escaping with their lives. He wanted to think about their adventures in his last moments, they were best memories he had.
Morty kicked a few cans out of the way before his eyes settled on the small black spot on the concrete. To anyone else, it would seem like a spot of grease or oil, if it was noticed at all. Morty knew this was one of Rick’s secret weapon compartments, just in case he was ever attacked in his own lab.
Morty pressed his finger into the black spot, which disappeared into the concrete floor. He hooked his finger inwards and pressed the internal button that opened the compartment. He wasn’t sure why he remembered this, he had only ever watched Rick do it once. He didn’t dwell on it too much, though. It came in handy in the end.
Morty watched the floor open up, revealing the laser gun that he had counted on being there. It was still in the exact same place, like it hadn’t been touched. Morty guessed that was a good thing, considering the gun was only there for emergencies.
Morty stared at the weapon for a moment, taking in the intricate details of the work that Rick had put into making the gun. Morty found the irony of dying by one of Rick’s weapons rather poetic, though he hoped it wouldn’t lead the man to feeling guilty. Morty hesitantly reached his shaking hands around the metal gun, enjoying the way it felt to be in his hands again. It would be the best way to go, there was very little chance he could fuck this up.
Should I write a note?
Morty contemplated for a moment. He supposed he would have liked to at least tell his family not to blame themselves, not to wear the burden of grief cause by his absence. He would tell them that he was truly at peace with the decision he made, that he simply could not continue to live in turmoil any longer. He would plead that they continue on with their lives as normal, for him.
Alas, Morty didn’t bring paper nor a pen.
A small subconscious voice told him to go back to bed, to try again tomorrow, anything to get him out of that garage. He assumed this was a biological survival instinct, his brain screaming that he was about to do something he couldn’t take back… but then again, what did he know about things?
He couldn’t put the laser gun back and try again tomorrow. Rick would know it had been touched. Rick always knew when his things weren’t the way he left them.
Morty stood to his feet, tunnel vision keeping him focused on the gun and the task at hand. He didn’t need to leave a note, he knew deep down it wasn’t for his own peace of mind, anyway.
He wanted to do it. He wanted to do it right there, in the garage, with the gun Rick had crafted.
He had made his mind up.
So he sat. Not in Rick’s chair, though. He didn’t want his grandpa to have to clean blood out of the chair. That would have been very annoying. He sat on the floor, amongst the empty cans and bottles, and thought about how in some way he felt like one of them. Something that once filled him and gave him purpose now gone.
The teen faced the workbench, running his eyes over Rick’s genius inventions. This was for the best, it had to be done.
Morty held his finger to the trigger of the gun, bringing the orange head of the gun to his temple. He decided to reminisce on one of his favourite moments and when his memory finished playing in his head, he would pull the trigger.
Sounds like a solid plan.
Morty closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh, allowing himself to relax. He was ready.
Morty felt a hand collide hard with his own from behind, sending the ray gun falling to the floor with a clatter. His stomach dropped. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, his breathing was shallow, his eyes wide. He was sure he was about to have a panic attack.
“Morty, what the fuck are you doing?”