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The sound of breaking glass was a recurring memory for Rick Sanchez. First, the sound had come from a vodka bottle being smashed over his head when he was 5, to the more recent one of a shot glass slipping from his own hand when he passed out last Friday. The worried looks he received from his grandchildren never ceased to annoy him. He was a grown man, god damn it. He could take care of himself. No matter how much the ache in his chest told him otherwise.
The alarm clock next to his cot flashed 2 over and over, not letting him have his peace. He rose slowly, his had grabbing a bottle on his way up. The cool glass touched his lips, and the cheap alcohol burned on its way down. Heaving himself up, Rick had to grab the wall repeatedly so he didn't fall straight back down. He swayed as he made his way through the Smith family's home, catching his reflection off of one of the picture frames out of the corner of his eye.
He jumped.
Stumbling back to get a better look, he stared at the sad, balding old man that stood before him. He ran his hand down his face, watching his aged skin bunch up as it slid down. Rick's eyes could seem to leave the reflection's, at times he swore he saw the face in the mirror smirk.
He felt bile rise in the back of his throat.
Rick gripped the handrail on the hallway stairs and slowly dragged his body up. The first door on the right was Summer's room.
He swung the door open, mindful of the creak he made sure every door in the house had. Swathed in her pink sheets in her pink room, for a moment the sleeping form appeared to be that of your average teenage girl. That was until you saw the deep frown on her face. Her expression soured further the longer she slept, her body tossing and turning in restlessness. She kicked repeatedly at some unseen foe, sweat beading at her brow.
Rick took a swig from the bottle in hand and continued on his way.
Beth's room was next.
Rick's daughter too slept fitfully, unconsciously throwing her husband's arms away from her middle while they slept. On the bedside table stood a bottle of one of Beth's favorite brands of wine.
The door creaked closed behind Rick as he left.
Finally, he came to his grandson's room. He could hear Morty thrashing even before he opened the door.
The boy's sheets had long been abandoned on the floor, kicked of due to their resemblance to netting. Hands fisted in his sheets, teeth clenched together in pain, it almost looked like the boy was being tortured. Rick slumped down next to Morty's bed, his head leading against the lumpy mattress. Rick reached out and slowly ran his hand through the boy's curled hair. Half way through his second stroke, a small wisp of a hand clenched his wrist in an iron grip. The hand shook and squeezed, almost as if it were fighting for dear life.
Slowly, Rick extracted his hand from the grip, then stood, gathering the boy's sheets as he went. Sloppily, he threw the covers over the writhing body, only to watch with a frown as they fell to the floor once more.
Rick wiped away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes before he made his way out of the room. He rose the bottle to his lips again, only to be disappointed by several pathetic stinging drops of booze that ran out of the bottle neck.
He needed another bottle.