Author's note: In this universe, it is important to remember that Rick never wiped away any of Morty's memories.

Morty was tired.

He was tired of his parents' constant fighting. He was tired of the constant bullying at school. He was tired of letting his parents down with every bad grade he received. He was tired of being the stupid one of the family. He was tired of being the least favorite child. He was tired of always being the screw up. He was tired of hating himself.

Morty got some relief from the adventures he went on with Rick, but even then he had to put up with Rick's constant belittling, reminding him that he was an idiot. "As dumb as they come," Rick had said once. Morty scoffed. He knew he wasn't smart. Why did everyone have to keep reminding him of it?

Fully clothed, he settled into the steaming hot water of the bathtub. He drank a swig of hard liquor he'd stolen from Rick and set it next to him. He needed that liquid courage for what he was about to do.

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the tally marks of scars that ran up and down his arms; scars from the battles he had fought and lost. Some were bright, angry red, and some were dull white. He took another swig of liquor and grabbed his blade.

Nobody would miss him when he was gone. Rick would just head over to the citadel and find himself a new Morty so he could keep using those brain waves. He was replaceable, and he knew it.

Without hesitating, he dug the blade into his wrist as hard as he could. Blood pooled out, mixing with the bathwater. He dragged the blade up his arm a few inches, savoring the pain. He didn't make a sound, not wanting to be interrupted. As soon as he was done with his left arm, he switched hands and repeated the action on his right.

Once he had finished, he placed the bloody blade on the side of the tub and leaned back, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Now, all he had to do was wait.

To his annoyance, he heard a knocking on the locked door. "Morty," Rick's gruff voice pierced through the door. "Hurry up in there, ok?"

Morty sighed. It was just like Rick to have the worst timing ever. All he wanted to do was die in peace, and he couldn't even get that.

"M-m-morty, I know y-you're in there! At least answer me!"

The water was bright red by now, and Morty knew his short life would be coming to an end soon. "Morty?" Rick's voice sounded concerned. "Y-y-you okay in theEURGHre, bud?"

Morty heard no more as he blacked out.

Rick was done screwing around. If Morty wasn't answering, he had to be seriously hurt. He probably fell and hit his head on the counter. When he was met with nothing but silence, he pulled out his portal gun and portalled his way into the bathroom.

The sight that lay before him knocked the breath right out of him. Morty- his Morty, was laying in a bathtub full of his own blood, a razor and a bottle of Rick's liquor discarded on the floor. Rick's mouth hung open as his insides twisted inside him. It felt like somebody had stabbed him with a knife. "Morty!" he exclaimed.

He quickly made a portal to the best hospital in the universe. He lunged for Morty, scooping the small boy up in his arms. Despite the hot water, his skin was cold, and he was way too pale. Rick ran through the portal, grandson in arms. "Help!" he practically screamed. "My grandson's bleeding out!"

Within a few seconds, a stretcher was pulled up beside him. Rick gently set his grandson down while a nurse worked at bandaging his arms. She began to move him, and Rick followed her down the hall and into a tiny, white, cold room.

He sat down in a chair and watched as a doctor rushed in to stitch up Morty's wound. As he watched in horror, he saw the multitude of other scars littering his arm in the other direction. Just how long had Morty been cutting? Rick tried to think back to when Morty first started wearing long sleeves, but he couldn't remember. How had he missed the signs? God, he was so stupid.

A choked sob wrenched its way out of Rick's throat. He looked down at his hands, covered in Morty's blood. All he could think was why. Why had Morty done this? What had brought him to this point? And could Rick have done anything to prevent it?

He jumped when the doctor put a hand on his shoulder. "Your grandson's going to be fine," she said in a soothing voice that helped quell the storm in Rick's stomach. He wasn't going to lose Morty. "We'll have him admitted to the psych ward tomorrow. For now, he needs rest."

Rick nodded, unable to speak or tear his eyes away from the limp form of his grandson. "I can bring in a cot if you would like to stay the night," the doctor offered. Numbly, Rick nodded again, accepting the offer.

The doctor left and returned with a rolling cot with a blanket and pillow piled on top. Rick moved to sit down on the edge and stare at Morty. Color had returned to his face, and an IV was sending medicine into his bloodstream. Gently, he grabbed his grandson's hand and with one of his own, and with the other, he traced the scars on his arms. How had he not noticed Morty was in so much pain? How could he have been so blind?

Gently, he raised Morty's hand and placed a soft kiss on his knuckles. "Y-y-you're gonna be ok, M-morty," he reassured his unconscious grandson. "Grandpa's here now."