Chapter Text
Dust settled on open wounds as milky water laced with an abundance of salt glazed over Morty’s blood shot eyes. He trembled on the floor, quiet, reserved. Hushed were the thoughts trying to emerge from the fog in his head, the only thing keeping him semi grounded being pain.
Everything dying will be dead soon enough.
He could feel the life slip past his wrist, his heart strings plucking their last tender tune. The watch he wore counted down the cyclical seconds, hiding the red marks that tested his true time left here.
It hurt.
“Let me die.” The boy thought, blandly, though his words held weight to them.
He could faintly hear Beth pleading behind the door, voices sounding far away, even though they were only a few feet apart. Tones were raised before the sound of a slap silenced the scene. Liquid leaked from Morty’s permanently opened eyes, his soft exhales shuddering.
He wished that Rick was here.
Each time he was in this situation he had that thought, but brushed it off over and over. The old man already had enough to worry about, he didn’t need his stupid teenage angst. It really wasn’t a big deal in his mind. Well, what was happening to him, of course.
Morty stayed up crying every night over his mom. The only sleep he got was intertwined with night terrors and cold sweat, convulsions and mumbling in tongues. Glassy eyes meeting a pitch black ceiling as the jotun outside made up of stars decay fed off the loveless darkness he felt within.
But eventually, the wall would morph into gentle colors, Morty aching to meet the dawn of a new day. He was tired of the restless nights, praying to any god that would listen for unconsciousness to corrupt him. The boy never wanted to wake up.
Morty would wake up crying, whimpering nonsense as panic seized his sweet heart. The only way he’d go back to sleep half the time is from passing out caused by over exhaustion, his body caving in as his mind collapsed like cracking pillars. His own Samson in the world of Delilah.
But instead of plucking out his eyes, terror kept them wide open.
Morty’s breath was shallow as he heard his knob turn. He could hear Beth plead for her boyfriend not to enter, to not hurt her son, but words fell static on purposely deaf ears. The boy looked up slowly, meeting a sneer that permanently molded the man’s facial features.
“Look at you.” He spat, disdain seeping into his sour words.
“Clean up after yourself, freak. I don’t want blood to ruin this nice carpet.” The man kicked Morty’s stomach, who in return wheezed loudly.
“Filthy cutter.” He bent down, grasping the boy by the collar as he hauled him up eye to dead eye.
“You are nothing.” The man shoved Morty into the wall behind him.
He knew at this point that there was no use in pleading, and it would only make his mom more grievous over the troubling situation to hear his broken voice beg. Rhett was a fucking huge dude. His build was tall and strong, whereas Morty’s was small and frail. He could easily choke the kid out with one hand.
Morty’s eyes fluttered shut as he clenched his jaw, waiting for the prophesied punch that never failed to meet its destiny.
And it came.
Morty moaned in pain, his left cheek throbbing before he was met with a knee in his stomach. He started to collapse to the ground, but the man held him up by the throat to steady him. Morty could faintly hear Beth screaming, but his ears were ringing, blood rushing to his hanging head as the man loosened his grip.
“Freak.” He repeated before he turned and left.
Everything dying will be dead soon enough. It’s the sense that ego death is the messiah of this hearse masquerading as a house.
He needed Rick to come and rescue him. He needed someone to be gentle with him. He needed his grandpa.
And his grandpa needed him.