Demoralize

Morty slowly creaked open the medicine cabinet, unsure of what he was doing and terrified of the repercussions. A package of Rick's shaving blades sat wedged behind some random beauty products, untouched and unopened. Morty numbly took out the package, brushing off the thin layer of dust on the cheap plastic. The blades glistened in the bright bathroom lights like sunrays on a choppy shoal, little white glints bouncing off the crinkles in the packaging. Morty's puffy and tired eyes welled with new tears. All of Rick's adventures were becoming too much too bear. He had tried talking about it to Rick, but he had been as insensitive and cold about it as he was everything else. Even when he tried to be straightforward and fun in his own adventure, things went terribly awry. His memories flooded back to him in a black gush of emotion, the dank breath of a stranger, the wet saliva dripping down his face, the fear. Oh god, the fear... Morty clenched his eyes shut as a cascade of hot tears slid down his cheeks and passed his pained scowl. He tore the plastic desperately. A few of the blades fell onto the marble countertop, making delicate unmethodical tinkling sounds like a broken antique music box. He held one of the fallen blades in a trembling hand. It was still shiny, a smiling friend with a trace of malice in his grin. There was no more hesitation. Morty slid the blade across his wrist, crimson bubbles of blood springing forth from the relatively shallow wound, scaring him enough to stop. It was the first time he had done this, he thought it would hurt more than it did; however, It was... almost liberating, like he was finally feeling something real after weeks upon weeks of dull nothingness. His skin sliced easily, like butter under a hot knife. A dull ache set in after the first five, but he didn't care. A bitter smile spread across Morty's face as skin turned more red than peach, the droplets turning to streams. He cut more rapidly down the side of his arm, relishing in the brief, quick movement and the bijou wells of ruby that followed. He stopped, staring at his handiwork and the now bloody razor. A rush of adrenaline shot through him as the blood slowly leaked from his injured arm, realising that he very well could bleed out on the bathroom floor. Morty grimaced as the cold water touched the newborn wounds, washing away the red. As Morty wrapped up his arm and replaced the remaining blades, it seemed that a wardrobe change was in order. He heaved on a long-sleeved thick hoodie. No one has to know.