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Summary
If he thinks about things too deeply, then his lips wobble and tears bead at his eyes. Then Rick would sigh and roll his eyes, as if reluctant to tend to his emotional state. It's not his grandfather's fault—Morty's just a bit much, almost all the time. Over time, he's gotten better at not feeling what he does in that very moment, but not feeling something isn't the same as hiding it. Once the lights turn off, once the doors close and the moon cements itself in the night sky, he's all on his own and worse off for it.
He ruined lives. He ended lives.
And he needed no weapon to do as much.
Perfect Morty may have died in a freak accident, but he seemed like the luckiest Morty he came across so far.
(Or: When Morty faces the yawning gaping maw in his chest and asks it why such a pitiful thing such as himself is allowed to exist, he doesn't get an answer. No, instead he gets a universe that wants to fold in itself and people who will be damned if they let him remove himself from their lives.)