Morty stared at the sleek black casket, still dumbfounded. He knew what happened. Why couldn't he face it? Just say it, he yelled at himself.
"Rick's dead." Morty said out loud, but softly enough so that no one else heard him. He felt his throat getting tight from held back tears he wouldn't dare let fall. He could already hear the mocking he would get from his grandfather in his head. As if he was still there.
Morty walked in a zombie like fashion from the backyard to the bathroom in the house. He passed by Jerry comforting a crying Beth, his sister, who just looked plain sad, and even people who came from other universes to mourn, meaning Squanchy and Unity in one of her hive minds' bodies.
Once he got to the bathroom, he turned on the silver faucet and felt the cold stream quickly turn warm under his hands, splashed the water in his face, flicked off the faucet, and looked at himself in the mirror.
Morty's tired reflection reminded him of the past few days.
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"Oh my God! Rick! Rick, wake up!" Morty shouted, shaking his grandfather in an attempt to revive him.
While he was shaking him, his hand slid down to Rick's torso, where Morty felt a warm liquid on his hand. He pulled it back to discover it soaked in scarlet blood.
Morty checked for a pulse, first on the neck, then on the wrist. Nothing on both.
The teen fumbled for his phone in his pocket to first call 911, then his parents.
Everything after that was a blur. The ride to the hospital, the death pronunciation, the memorial service, everything. Arranging the funeral was too painful, since next to no one else outside of family would probably show up, so Morty's parents decided to have a private memorial in the backyard.
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Morty snapped out of his daze. The tears threatening to fall earlier did, their salty streams cutting through his face. He put his head in his hands and softly sobbed. His only friend was gone.
After his cry, he adjusted his black tie and forged back outside.