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Morty knew when Rick was lying.
He knew that Rick was lying when he said he'd never killed anyone who didn't deserve it.
He knew that Rick was lying when he turned and grinned with a feral smile and said that everything was under control.
He knew that Rick was lying when he swore on his heart to stop selling guns to murderers.
It was a shame Morty didn't care.
He needed Rick. Rick was awful, Rick was terrible, Rick had killed billions of people, and Morty needed him.
When Morty thought too deeply about the things he'd done, Rick was there to distract him. When Morty looked at the backyard for too long, Rick dragged him off for another adventure. When Morty was falling apart, Rick was there with the tape and the glue to piece him back together.
Such a shame.
--
"What are you most afraid of?" the teacher asked. She wrote the question on the whiteboard in red marker.
Morty knew what he was most afraid of.
He jotted down the word "myself."
When the other kids stood up and said things like "clowns" or "heights," he erased the word and replaced it with "knives."
--
Morty had counted, had kept track, had scratched each new one into the wall of his closet with a pocket knife. 1,497.
One thousand four hundred ninety seven.
Fourteen year olds didn't have body counts.
He didn't feel fourteen.
--
When he climbed up to the roof, he would occasionally be followed by Summer. The stars glittered above every night. They took his breath away.
"So," Summer said one night as he stared at the night sky, spread eagle on the roof. "What do you regret the most?"
Codependency, Morty thought. One thousand four hundred ninety seven.
"I don't.... I don't know," he said aloud. "P-probably starting this shit in the first place."
"Mm. Cigarette?"
Morty didn't know where she'd gotten them. Morty didn't care.
Smoke drifted among their soft talking until the sun rose on the horizon.
--
He pulled the trigger.
One thousand four hundred ninety eight.
"Knives," he said to Rick as they leaped through the portal. The gun shook in his hand.
"W-whatever you say, Morty," Rick replied. There was alcohol dribbling on his chin.
The ringing in Morty's ears didn't stop until he copped another cigarette from Summer.
--
He could be on the track team, the gym teacher insisted, if he applied himself.
Morty always kept it in, but he wanted to laugh. He could be a lot of things if he applied himself.
He could be free from Rick if he applied himself.
He could be a murderous monster if he applied himself.
He could be a lot of things if he applied himself.
"Alright," he'd told her. He'd left.
He'd seen the disappointment in her eyes.
She'd be a lot more disappointed if she knew why he wasn't applying himself.
And she'd be scared.
He could ruin them all.
He could be a lot of things if he applied himself.
--
Rick had taken him to a universe where nobody had regrets once. It was quite eye opening.
It was quite eye opening because it made him realize that Rick was a fucking asshole, but it also made Morty realize that he was no better.
Morals didn't apply in space.
He thought of the gaseous form he'd killed hundreds for, who he had murdered in the end regardless. He thought of the Purge planet, he thought of the corpses in his backyard, and he thought of Rick.
"What are you most afraid of?" the teacher asked him the next day with a fake smile.
He stared at his jaded classmates.
One thousand four hundred ninety eight.
"Myself," he said. "And knives."
The class roared with laughter. His face lit up a scarlet red, and he sat down.
The teacher smiled, her eyes showing how much she detested her job. "Very... Good, Morty."
"One thousand four hundred ninety eight," he whispered to himself as another kid stood up and described their fear of chickens.
--
"You know, Morty," said his counselor, with his starched baby blue shirt wrinkling as he moved, "if you applied yourself-"
"I don't w-want to apply myself, sir."
The counselor frowned. "What was that?"
"I said that I don't want to app-apply myself. Can I leave?"
"No, Morty. Sit down." He hadn't even noticed that he'd begun to stand.
"Why not?"
"If you would just think about your future-"
"One thousand four hundred ninety eight."
"I beg your pardon?"
But he was already out the door.