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Morty broke out of his trance when he realized the cut he had just made was not like any other he'd made before. Instead of swelling up with little red pearls of blood, or even gushing out in waves, it simply did not bleed. Morty squeezed it, hoping for sign of circulation to the wound, but the edges of the gap just compressed together, like some kind of morbid mouth.
This is the moment Morty began to worry. Too much bleeding was a bad sign, but no blood at all was a worse sign. Had he drained all the blood from his body? No, that couldn't be right, the other cuts were still bleeding. Then what had he done wrong? He started to tremble involuntarily, his panic rising and his vision becoming blurred at the edges. His breathing became labored as he attempted to make the wound do something, anything, anything but this. The more he examined it, the more he realized how large the cut was, how the edges spread wide, how his skin became a canyon that dove into a white and tan terrain that filled with potholes and pockmarks. Dropping the razor, he frantically searched around his room for a solution to the problem. He eventually finding scotch tape, which he decided would have to do for now. He pressed the wound closed and applied the tape, hoping that it would keep the wound closed long enough to make it heal properly. Deciding that his session was definitely over for the night, he frantically pulled on jeans and a jacket. The jeans rubbed against the cuts on his legs, making them sting, and he winced at the pain that he thought he would've grown used to by now. Tugging on his sneakers, he snuck downstairs and to the front door. Everyone in the house was asleep or in their room, and he had no trouble making it out the door and into the refreshingly cold night air. Although it did ease his panic somewhat, it was not enough, and so Morty kept walking into the night, too lost in his own thoughts to think about his surroundings.
At 1:17 AM, Morty finally noticed his surroundings. Although he had not been asleep, seemingly "waking up" to unfamiliar surroundings is still disorienting and frightening. Huddling in on himself, he hugged the walls of the buildings and tried to stay in the shadows, searching for someplace to hide and regroup. Spotting what looked like a small and empty alley, he hurried down it and sat next to the dumpster at the end, which was marked by an intimidating chain link fence. He pulled out his phone and opened the maps app, sighing with relief when he realized he wasn't too far from his home. He would just need to be ready for the long trek back. He was starting to calm down and ready himself when he heard a voice.
"Well what's this?"
Morty shot to his feet, blood rushing to his face and his heart leaping into his throat. Three figures stood before him, seemingly having appeared out of thin air. None of them he recognized, and they all seemed to be young adults. none of them looked friendly.
"I-I didn't wanna cause any trouble, I’m sorry for taking your spot, I’ll be on my-"
"Well we are looking for trouble, retard."
Morty’s tongue felt like cotton. He tried to think of something to say, but his brain was already veering off into a completely different direction, one where he was much smaller, much more afraid-
*Figures closing in on him. the chain link against his back, digging in painfully, signifying no escape.*
There is no escape, the three figures are far too close now. their grins-
*Their grins send a spark of fear shooting up Morty’s back. If only he had stayed by the teachers-*
If only he had stayed at home.
*He tries to duck through their arms, in between their legs-*
They do not retaliate, and they laugh at him.
*They just laugh at him. he begins to cry as they start punching and kicking him.*
As the first kick is thrown, Morty snaps.
The scene had shifted, time had passed for a brief moment that Morty somehow missed out on. The attackers were a couple steps back from him, one of them was holding their nose and groaning, the other two looked furious. Morty saw a knife in the pocket of the closest attacker, and he made a grab for it, Morty felt calm, he felt powerful, he felt-
A little more time had passed that Morty, once again, missed. A figure laid on the ground, Morty thought of the words sticky and hot. There were hands grabbing at him and enraged yelling, and he was no longer calm and collected.
Morty ran for his dear fucking life.
Every single building was closed, and doors that he got just enough time to try were all locked. He did not know where the knife he once had went, nor did he particularly want to know. His legs felt shaky, but he kept running anyway, feeling the two remaining attackers right on his heels, their insults and taunts echoing around his head and around the street. He could clearly hear his own pathetic whines as he gasped for breath, his feet slapping against the concrete much too loudly. All he could think of is balancing out speed with the art of not toppling over himself (which is much trickier than you might imagine). Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the assailants were a good distance away, but still passionately pursuing him. He made a sharp turn, and then abruptly turns again, and kept making turns until he saw a trash can. He dove behind it and huddled as close to himself as possible, holding his breath and hoping his ridiculous plan somehow worked. He heard them run right past his hiding spot, and waited until they turned another corner to pull out his cellphone. He dialed up the number the only person he thought could even possibly get him out of this mess: his grandfather. The sound of the phone ringing is far too loud, and Morty’s face flooded with blood as he worried about getting caught. Rick picked up on the third ring, and Morty’s voice is too loud and shrill for his own liking. "G-grandpa Rick please, you have to come get me r-r-right now please come get me right now I-"
Rick sounded far too relaxed, too uncaring. "Whoa whoa whoa sl-slow down Morty. What the hell is your problem?"
Morty in that moment hated his grandfather for his relaxed attitude and he hated himself for his damned stuttering problem. "Rick right now-"
"Found you, little rat."
Morty dropped the phone as the two assailants forcefully lifted him up by the neck and swung him into the wall. Rick’s voice, which was becoming increasingly more and more panicked, became distant static through the phones speaker. Morty felt foreign arms grip him still and braced himself. When a knife burrowed into his arm he screamed. He kept screaming until one of the attackers stuffed their fingers into his mouth, which was when he switched over to shrill sobbing and shrieking as tears rolled down his face, an embarrassing and maladaptive crying habit he never grew out of.
The attacker in front of him leered uncomfortably close to Morty’s face, their unhygienic teeth the only feature standing out to him despite everything. They pulled the knife out, which made a squelching sound that made Morty feel woozy and weak.
"Y'see, we were gonna make you feel good runt, but seeing how you had to go n' kill our friend an' all, it looks like we're left no choice but to make you feel bad." As they drawled the last word out, They swiftly stabbed the knife into Morty’s abdomen. Morty’s world was pain, fear, and screams, and his time seemed to slow to a crawl. As if in slow motion, the attacker comically turned their head to a noise they had heard somewhere near the street, and Morty watched helplessly as their head was hit by a ray of light. It exploded into flecks of flesh and blood and organs, parts of them splattering onto Morty’s face, causing him to abruptly stop screaming and to instead stare at the space the attackers head had been moments before. Seconds later he felt the other attacker’s arms go limp around him. Morty stared straight ahead, his face felt cold, and he could tell he was doing his "annoying" crying. His annoying crying, as his parents called it, consisted of long drawn out wails, countered by deep shuddering breaths in that tore up his throat. He was always embarrassed by it, but seemed to never be able to stop once he started, which made crying something to be done in secret. Holding his breath so that he could try and stop, he looked down at his abdomen, and saw the knife sticking out of it. He thought he might have heard someone's voice, Rick’s voice maybe, getting closer and closer, but he did not focus on that. All he could hear was the ocean in his ears, and his own head telling him: "Get it out."
He grabbed the hilt and took a deep breath, suddenly calm and quiet. A flash of his surroundings hit him, "Morty don't do that, leave it in-"
He tugged the knife out, and blood flowed.
Rick had wrapped his lab coat tightly around Morty’s waist and had helped walk him to the car. Morty was unsettlingly quiet and calm, and was staring lazily out the front window while Rick flew home as quickly as he felt safe doing (which was not so much "speeding" as much as "were lucky we've only hit a few things"). Rick knew he had to keep Morty awake, that's what you're supposed to do, right? "You're a scientist Rick, you're supposed to know these things." He grumbled to himself. He decides go for the first thing that comes to mind.
"Morty you fucking idiot, w-why would you ever think that was a good idea?" Rick glanced over at Morty in hopes that stupidly yelling at his grandson might somehow help. Morty didn't respond, he just kept looking out the window, his mouth slightly open. His eyes were staring to droop, and Rick was panicking. "Uh, earth to Morty, wake up buddy, you gotta stay awake." Rick was shakily reaching for his flask when Morty finally spoke.
"H-hey Rick, uhhh..." Rick bit back his sarcastic remark to let Morty finish. Talking would keep him awake, and that's all that mattered to Rick right then.
"Rick, why... W-w-... Why does everyone..."
Morty’s head lolled over loosely and he looked at rick. Rick felt a disgusting, unidentifiable feeling creeping up his stomach to his throat, washing him in cold nausea. Morty’s face was morbidly pale, and his eyes seemed to hold no emotion, nor did his voice when he spoke. "Why does everyone try to, like uh..." Morty waved his hand in the air violently for a moment before letting it fall back down harshly. "Rape me?" Morty laughed morbidly and without feeling, and Rick thought he might throw up.
Rick peeled his eyes away to maneuver into the garage, and when he looked back at Morty he was sound asleep.
Morty awoke to his grandpa shaking him with a worried look across his face. "Morty I don't wanna freak you out but, I gotta t-take off your pants Morty, there's something wrong with your thighs and I gotta see 'em, but you know, I wanted to be uh, a decent human being and let you know beforehand." Morty stared at him blankly for a couple seconds before it clicked. A sense of dread washed over him.
"R-Rick it's fine, my legs are fine! Don't worry about them, why are you worried about-"
"Morty your pants are soaked. and I don't mean like pee soaked like your sister."
Morty slowly looked down, dreading the worst, and saw dark splotches littering his jeans. One spot particularly stood out, being the largest and most soaked. "Oh, well I’m glad that one started bleeding at least." Morty murmured this to himself, his fatigue having ridden him of all filters.
"What?!" to Morty, Rick seemed upset , which he thought was almost laughable. Out of all the injuries to be upset over, he was most upset about those?
"Okay Morty now you’re wiggin’ me out, I don't care whether you want me to or not I’m taking off your pants I need to see-" Morty felt panic rising up again, he couldn't let his grandpa know. He grabbed Rick’s hands feebly, trying to hold them back. "No Rick it's fine, I-it's fine please don't, please don't-" Rick pulled Morty’s jeans off and threw them across the floor. Bth of their eyes were immediately glued to Morty’s thighs, which were littered with dozens upon dozens of cuts, along with twice as many scars. One in particular stood out, a grotesquely large cut with bloody, crumpled scotch tape sticking to either side of it feebly. Blood was flowing freely out of it. Morty stared at it, feeling his skin crawl. Bile sped up out of his throat, and too soon spewed out of his mouth uncontrollably. Morty, embarrassed and panicked, frantically covered his mouth with his hands, catching some of the vomit while most of it spilled out over his hands onto his lap and chest. He began to moan in pain, distressed heavily by the sight of the gore. He felt cold, and scared, and gross, as if he was being mutilated all over again. He glanced back at the cut and more bile rocketed out of his throat, this time making him choke and gasp for air that would not come to him. Trying to gasp for breath he choked on some of his own vomit, and he coughed, his eyes watering in pain and fear as he felt his body losing oxygen. Rick was doing something with his chest, he was punching him, holding him, Morty couldn't tell, what was he-
More vomit came out, and Morty kept vomiting until his body only allowed him to dry heave. Rick rubbed his back while Morty cried. He pushed out silent screams, his mouth in an ugly and wide grimace. After a good minute or two, Rick got up and grabbed few things, and started to patch up Morty’s legs.
Morty didn't look any more after that.
Morty had fallen asleep again, and to be honest, that was fine with Rick for now. Rick didn't want his grandson, his best friend, his own Morty to see him like this. as Morty slept peacefully in Rick’s cot, Rick finally let the emotions he’d been holding in, out. His began to shake with quiet sobs, and he covered his face with his hands, attempting to hide from eyes that weren't present. "He cuts himself you idiot. He fucking cuts himself, and it's all your fault." Rick curled up on himself, bending over his knees and grabbing his hair. Suddenly what Morty had asked him in the car popped back into his brain. "Why does everyone try to rape me, rick?"
It was Rick’s fault that Morty was in so much danger. It was Rick’s fault for exposing him to so many bad, evil people. Rick’s selfish actions had led his grandson to self-harm, to running away, and to god only knows what else.
"The boy’s parents don't help, either." He grumbled to himself. He remembered a couple times they had brought up Morty being "special", which Rick knew from experience was just a euphemism for being a fucking retard to people like them. Rick knew better though, he knew Morty was smart in ways other people couldn't dream of being, he was talented and driven and creative. He sure was special all right, just not the way others thought he was.
Morty didn't know that, though.
Rick peered through his fingers at his sleeping grandson, covered in bandages. He gently took Morty’s hand in his own and held it, as if it were a delicate artifact, one that would break with one misstep. Rick didn't ever want to let go of that hand.
When Morty woke up, Rick was at his work table, tinkering with one of his many gadgets. When Morty tried to adjust himself in the bed, rick looked up. "Hey, look who's finally awake." Morty tried to retaliate with some sort of snarky comment, perhaps something like "Yeah for once you're the one who's conscious", but nothing came out, and he ended up only pathetically rasping out a few guttural syllables. Rick stared at him in confusion for a couple seconds before mumbling, "Oh right, dehydration..." and getting up to get Morty a glass of water. Upon being handed the water, Morty attempted to frantically grab it and chug it down, but Rick held it away from him with reluctance. "B-bud you gotta, take it slow, with the water right now." Morty scowled at him, but tried to do as he said nonetheless.
Morty attempted to take in his surroundings, but realized his head was spinning, as if he had spun around in circles too fast and made himself dizzy, like he used to do when he was a kid. Staring at a dark corner of the room, he saw little sparks of light flying in front of his face. He Remembered hitting his head multiple times throughout the course of the night, but he didn't think any were bad enough for these kinds of effects. Rick’s voice brought him back into the present before he could start dwelling on his recent escapades.
"Morty, I know it’s not easy to talk about, but... well, we gotta talk about some things, buddy." Oh right, the whole cutting thing. Morty scowled to himself, he really would rather talk about anything else other than that with his grandfather. And what was with all these chummy nicknames? "Pass, Rick." Was that why he was being so nice to him? Over some little cuts? Rick gently took his hand and stared at his grandson sadly. "Morty you can't just hide-"
"W-w-what, hide like you Rick? You hide from your problems, why do- why can't I hide from mine, huh?" Morty violently pulled his hand to his chest and out of Rick’s grasp. "How about you fuck off, Rick." Morty felt anger growing in his chest, rushing up to his head, overtaking him, controlling him. "You're a- you're a g-good for nothing piece of shit, grandpa Rick!" Morty shoved at the old man’s chest, not doing much damage physically but still startling him. "What the fuck, the hell is wrong with you, Morty?" Morty didn't look at Rick, instead opting to try and stand. He got to his feet and was immediately hit by an intense head rush that caused his vision to go white, yet he kept raging. "You don't even care about me! You've never cared about me!" His vision came back, and he saw Rick’s shocked face. Morty felt laughter bubble up from his chest, finally he was breaking Rick down, piece by piece, a beautiful demolition. "Y-you're just a sad old man, Rick, a sad old man who doesn't care about anyone." It didn't matter to him that his insults were shallow, Morty felt powerful. Rick slowly got to his feet, and Morty felt his anger intensify in spades. "What're you gonna do, hit me? Hit me like everyone always does? Go ahead Rick, I dare you, I want you to hit me." Morty was shaking now, and he couldn't tell if it was from anger, fear, or elation.
"Morty, you don't mean that." Rick seemed too calm, and the more calm he became the more pissed off it made Morty.
"And-and-and you know what, Rick? You know that the irony is?" Morty sucked in a panicked breath, readying himself for the oncoming onslaught, "Nobody cares about you." Even as he said it, Morty instantly regretted the words. He didn't mean it of course, Rick was Morty’s best friend. Of course people cared about him, especially Morty, but he knew it was a sore subject for his grandpa. Remorse flooded his system, and the anger was washed away. Scared of seeing Rick’s reaction, Morty pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes with a dangerous amount of pressure and held his breathe, letting snot and tears stream down his face. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity, part of him afraid of Rick hurting him or yelling at him, and part of him afraid that Rick had left, and that the silence of the room was an empty one. Morty flinched when he felt spindly arms wrap around him tightly, protectively. Rick was shaking and his voice quavered, close to a complete breakdown. "Oh god Morty, what have I done to you?" Morty finally sucked in the breath he had been holding, his throat in pain. Morty began to sob in earnest, hugging his grandfather back tightly. Rick started to rub his back, letting out poorly hidden sniffles and hiccups while muttering, "It's okay Morty, we're gonna be okay.
"We're gonna be okay."