Rick picks at his band-aids. One would think he'd be fucking used to this goddamned shit by now, but it's driving him crazy. He digs his dirty, slightly over-grown nails into the skin around it, trying to tame the itch.
He takes another drink to soften the urge. he doesn't know what's in the bottle he found in back of his daughter's cabinet under her sink. He doesn't care. He can't taste it anymore anyway.
Stealing alcohol from his daughter; a new fucking low. But even he can tell he's too drunk to drive himself anywhere. Or portal anywhere. God, it's been a while since he got this plastered. He laughs at that. Ok, maybe a good solid week, tops.
Of course, he's apparently not drunk enough that the goddamned itching hasn't fucking stopped. He slams his arm against the wall a couple of times. Oh...he almost felt something that time...but it's not...the sensation...he's looking for...
Oh c'mon...I-I th-thought we agreed w-we weren't fucking doing this shit anymore...
Rick scoffs at his own thoughts. I-I think w-we all-all knew that was a f-fucking p-pipe dream, asshole...
He's picking at the bandages again. He pushes up his sleeve and attacks one further up his arm. He peels it off and winces a little, but the feeling's rather distant. He peels off another. And another. He digs his nails in until the little scabbed-up wounds are a nice raw pink again.
But it's not good enough. He needs to see his own blood.
He groans. Oh god this is so fucking stupid...He takes another drink. Ok, it feels a little less stupid. Another. Ok, now it feels almost like a mediocre idea.
G-Good e-enough for me.
Rick crawls over to the bottom drawer of his desk and digs around in it. Fuck, did he leave them in one of the other drawers? Maybe he won't do it if he has to stand...
Ah, nope, here they are. He pulls out one of the razors. There's already a bit of blood on it. He checks his fingers. Wow, he didn't even feel that. Maybe it won't even be fun...
He already rolling up his sleeve all the way. Doesn't matter. Gotta do it. Make the itching in his arm go away... Make the itching in his head...shut up for a bit...
He takes another drink before setting the bottle aside. He admires the bandages, various sizes and colors and types, decorating his arm like a twisted little modgepodge art piece. He runs his fingers across the scars already there. They're pretty. Pretty ugly... He thinks and barks a hollow laugh.
But he likes the look of them. he feels some regret, like a quick sharp stab to the heart. Some pride, swelling in his lungs. Some hunger, growing thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He wants more...
Rick sighs. He always thought he'd quit a long, long time ago. Like, when he hit 20 maybe. He never thought he'd still be doing this at 63. But he guesses it makes sense...somehow...he never outgrew the curdling anger that lives somewhere deep inside of him, or the need to see his own blood kiss the air...
God, what a f-fucking l-little b-bitch. He draws his nails across his arm, first lightly, then much harder. He scratches until he breaks skin. Again, it's not the sensation he's craving. Not his poison of choice...
He sighs again, staring at the blade. He always hesitates. He never could figure out why. He isn't fond enough of himself to care about hurting himself. He's done stupider. He's done worse.
But he always has to goad himself into it. So he does.
W-whats-samatter? S-scared? he laughs again. O-oh yeah, I-I'm so scared of a f-fucking t-tinyass sanitized r-razor blade. Fuck off, b-bitch.
O-oh yeah? 'C-cause I think y-ya are.
Sh-shut the fuck up.
heh, y-you know w-what i think?
W-what.
I-i think y-you're a fu-fucking g-goddamned weak, u-u-useless, pathetic, s-selfish...
Oh r-really lay-ying it on th-thick aren't ya...
...w-waste of s-space wh-who no one wants ar-round.
oh, you-you're cutting me deep, R-rick...
We're not. Th-that's the goddamned p-problem. bu-but honestly th-though, i-it's not just th-that. The u-universe w-would be an i-infinitely b-better place without y-you in it.
He laughs. Y-you need to think about s-stepping up your insult game. Thi-is is so fucking s-sad-
Your own f-family would be better off w-without you.
Heh, yeah th-they would.
And a-all your friends would, too, i-if they weren't a-all f-fucking dead...
His upper lip curls. W-watch your fucking mouth.
Oh, r-really? Y-you don't wanna go there? 'C-cause I do...
Go f-f-fuck yourself.
Maybe l-later. B-but first...let's talk about h-how you get e-everyon-ne around you k-killed, huh? Th-that seems like an i-interesting conversation-n t-topic...
E-everyone except you a-apparently...
Y-yeah, and th-that's the problem. Y-you're dragging everyone d-down with you. You n-never change. Y-you j-just destroy e-everything y-you come i-in contact with. Y-you r-ruin everything you touch.
Boo-f-fucking-hoo.
They-they probably all w-wish you were dead.
Shut up.
M-morty probably w-wishes you were f-fucking d-
SH-SHUT UP.
Then why-y d-d-don't you s-stop f-fucking a-around and DO IT
He runs the blade across his skin. Some blood wells up around the cut. he lets out a little noise, some cross between a sigh and a moan. Gross.
Y-you're getting off on th-this? Ew...
But it's not like that. Things feel clearer for a minute. The tension he holds in every inch of his body relaxes for a moment. He feels right. Things feel right.
He does it again.
You're f-fucking hesit-tating, l-like the f-fucking l-little pussy-ass-s bi-btch you f-fucking are.
Sh-shut up.
You're a s-stupidass piece of sh-shit th-that's drowning any s-semblance of use w-with alcohol and f-fucking dr-rivng razors i-into your fucking arms, y-your brain is a c-completely m-malfunctioning wa-waste that should h-have n-never been f-formed...
Rick growls, and drags the blade across his skin again. Who cares how useful i am, huh?
Wh-what's the p-poi-oint of y-your only s-selling point at a-all b-being that f-fucking w-worthless br-rain of yours if it d-does absolutely n-nothing b-but sh-shoot you-you in the fucking f-foot?
He scowls and digs the blade deeper into his flesh, almost deep enough to really feel this time.
Oh and by the w-way, n-no one loves you. L-like at all.
I-i don't c-care about that, l-like at all.
yeah y-ya do.
N-nope.
Th-then why i-is this m-making y-you so damn a-angry?
Rick switches to the other arm. He's not satisfied with the first, but he just...
Y-you want a d-distraction, huh? F-from the truth? A-are you r-ready for the truth, R-rick?
He slashes wildly with the razor.
Ok w-well here it goes-e-everyone's just wating f-for you to fucking die
oh r-really?
Yep. N-n-no one actually c-cares about you. Th-they're just t-tolerating you until y-you draw your last f-fucking pathetic br-breath.
Rick turns back to the other arm, slashing, and slashing...
Y-you shoulda blown-n your own h-head off years a-ago...
he snarls, a bit of drool rolling off his bottom lip.
Y-y-you're a f-fuck-king d-dumbass piece of f-fucking shit who doesn't d-deserve the air you draw in. You-you're so h-horrible, y-you make actively make the u-universe a worse place by existing. I th-think it's about t-time you di-id this r-reality a real f-fucking favor and FINISHED THE F-FUCKING JOB
He screams and tosses the razor. he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a lighter, and holds it to his skin.
Th-there we go..th-that's i-it..f-finally g-giving yourself a t-taste of w-what you dese-erve...
His skin gets hot and feels like its burning right off. He keeps the flame there. He closes his eyes and lets himself go numb. It lasts about 10 whole seconds. He drops the lighter and yelps.
He cradles it, then prods it. He digs his nails in until it feels nice and numb.
F-feel b-better?
M-much. Th-thanks. You c-cunt.
He laughs and sighs. he doesn't feel good, but...something. it's something. And it's lighter. And easier.
He lays his arms on his knees, only to realize how bad of idea that is. he looks down. His coat and pants are splattered with blood.
Fuck.
He blinks slowly. He's too tired to do anything about this now...ugh...
He digs into the bottom drawer again and pulls out some cotton and gauze. It's a cotton and gauze sort of day.
He wraps his arms in that shit and manages to clip it down. Miraculously.
He's too tired to do anything else, so he sits there, staring at the wall.
All in all, a good trade-off. Keeps holding everything nice and fucking together.