Morty Smith was an artist.

It was a secret hobby that he would often partake in. He was the only one privy to his artwork: not that anyone cared enough to know what he did behind closed doors in the first place. Inspiration came easy to him, too easily truth be told, his mind giving him new ideas on how to carve himself up. Even if he tried not to listen. His body was his very own canvas, and he repeatedly drew onto it with his favorite silver stencil, watching as the red paint dripped down slowly. But he always cleaned up his workspace after he was done, keeping it surprisingly clean for such a messy job. His stencil was always spotless, not a drop of paint, and no evidence was left of his artwork when he was done.

Yet his skin remained stained, no amount of scrubbing was able to rinse away what he had drawn into his skin. A myriad of pinkish white streaks, scattered around his waist, thighs, hips, any piece of skin he could reach. Except for his arms. They were being saved for his most spectacular masterpiece yet.

Morty Smith was an artist. Unfortunately, every artist's career must come to an end eventually.

He was eight when he found out he could be an artist. And everything fell into place for him, even though he was just a stupid little kid. He finally had the power to be able to do something right for once, being able to have some sort of control over his life.

School was always a no-go. He tried, he really did, but numbers were unsolvable puzzle pieces, and words only swam on his pages. Science was the only subject he liked and was somewhat good at, but his test scores told a different story. The principal's office was like a second home to him and his mother, a supposed 'safe place' where he was constantly belittled and put down for something out of his control. He focused on the anti-bullying poster as the principal went on about how he was 'falling behind' and 'needed to be put in special classes'. Words he heard but tried to block out.

Beth would smile and nod, completely agreeing with everything that was said, promising she would get to the bottom of the problem before making any rash decisions. As soon as they got home, she wouldn't immediately start yelling at him.

"Why can't you just be normal for once, Morty? Do know what people say behind my back, saying I'm not a good mother because my son can't pay attention in school and can't do anything by himself. Because it's apparently my fault for not raising you right. Honestly, why I decided to keep you is a mystery, especially if I would have known this is how you turned out. Even Summer is an honor roll student, and she barely has to work for it."

Morty just blinked in response. It was the same thing day after day, and he knew exactly what his mother would say by heart. It was a mantra he would repeat to himself in the dead of night. It was best to ignore and not initiate an argument. It was never a good idea to talk back, no one could see mental scars, but bruises were harder to hide.

As Beth continued to go off, he decided to start setting out supper dishes for when his sister and father got home. Unfortunately, his shaking hands had to screw everything up for him, a plate shattered on the floor after just seconds of grabbing it.

Everything went quiet and panic began to set in as he reached to pick up the shards without thinking. He hissed in pain as the sharp ceramic sliced his palm, and he held it to his chest. He dared to look at his mother, starting to shake, her face set in stone. That was the bad face. That face meant something bad was about to happen to him.

"Go to your room. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice, locking the door behind him once he was in the safety of his room. Only then did he remember the gaping wound on his hand. He looked at it in wonder, opening and closing it, finding a sick pleasure in the way it burned, finally a feeling other than numbness. It was exhilarating. He wanted more of it. He scrambled around his room until he found what he was looking for; one of his pencil sharpeners. He took it apart, carefully taking out the blade, before pressing it to the back of his hand. After a moment's hesitation, he dragged it across the soft tissue, making a shallow cut.

He flinched back at the pain, a sharp contrast to the dull pain coming from his palm. He watched as small droplets of blood bubbled up.

That was the first time he drew on himself.

Rick was an enigma in his monotonous life. The scientist was witty, sarcastic, an alcoholic asshole, but somehow the smartest man in the entire universe. Morty was entranced right away. Because finally he was being recognized as someone, even if it was only for his brain waves. No one had ever given him the time of day before, and suddenly this man appeared in his life giving him the attention he so desperately wanted. Needed. He knew Rick would never know how he had saved Morty from himself.

And maybe the insults hurt a little too much, a knife twisting into his heart as every word Rick threw at him (he guessed that's where his mother got it from along with her love for alcohol), but no mattered how many times he tried to leave he always came back. Their relationship was the definition of toxic, but he couldn't seem to find the strength to let it go.

There were a few perks to being with Rick, though. Going on these so-called adventures, seeing faraway places that he could have only dreamed of his love for space once again bubbling to the surface. And even with the constant threat of danger he could never stay mad at his grandfather. He had never felt so alive. He laughed again, he smiled again. For a short time, he almost forgot about his aspirations to be an artist.

Until that day in the tavern bathroom.

Hands pulling at his hair, a slimy tongue sliding down his face, pain that he had never experienced before, unable to escape the nightmare that he had stumbled into.

His canvas was calling to him again, reminding him of how much he missed working on his art. It had been months; he couldn't let his skills go rusty after all.

That night he once again pulled out his stencil, slicing into his skin. Bleeding out the disgusting toxins inside him, digging into the delicate scar tissue that ran along his body. He didn't know how long he continued to carve into himself, words that were whispered into his ears as he was used, but he stopped when he noticed spots of red soaking into the carpet. A manic laugh erupted from him, and he curled into himself, the laugh turning into loud sobs that he had to muffle with his hands. He just wanted to scream and destroy everything, because he was so fucking STUPID. A stupid little whore who messed everything up because he couldn't do anything right. His meticulous workspace was completely ruined because he couldn't pay attention to the simplest of tasks. Didn't he realize how hard it was to get paint out of a carpet?

Adventures weren't the same after that, the atmosphere changed and he was always on edge, jumping at the slightest of sounds, body coiled up to run away as soon as he needed to. He was always doing something wrong, adding to the new ways that he could hate himself, more scars beginning to tally up. Rick became more ruthless than usual as he noticed Morty's strange behavior, tearing the boy apart with his words. Never stopping to think about how much his words affected him and his fragile mental state.

"Fucking useless piece of shit."

Slowly, any irrational hope that Morty held onto that Rick cared about him fell apart. Yet, it was never fully able to go away.

Because whenever he thought he had figured Rick out, the man did something that threw everything off balance.

The pills that he had stashed under his mattress were gone one day when he got home from school. The panic that set in was almost too much to handle, thoughts of his mother and father finding them and how they would react. The rest of the afternoon was spent staring at the wall until he was called for dinner. He had bumped into Rick at the top of the staircase, and they both froze, a palpable tension in the air. It was at thar moment that Morty knew. But before he could come up with an excuse, the old man placed a gentle hand on top of his head making him go completely quiet.

"You really are an idiot, aren't you kid?"

Rick then brushed past him, ignoring his half-hearted protests.

He hated how perspective Rick was, how he noticed every little thing that made him tick. He would watch Morty during meals with narrowed eyes and a small frown. It wasn't Morty's fault he wanted nothing to do with sickening food that made him throw up whatever he forced himself to swallow. The rumbling in his stomach had been ignored for a long time. Besides, he could do with losing some weight, running around on adventures would be easier and he wouldn't be such a burden to Rick.

But of course, Rick had to butt in like he did with everything else, scraping food from his plate onto Morty's when no one was looking, or getting Beth to serve extra dessert for her dear old dad just so he could give all of it to Morty. And then, much to Morty's annoyance and anger, would hog the bathroom for almost an hour after dinner.

And then there were the days when he couldn't even get out of bed, and Rick would sit beside him running his fingers through his curls, whispering words in Spanish softly in his ear when he thought he was asleep. It was times like this he was glad Rick was saved from the knowledge of his painting sessions.

But good things never lasted for Morty. He had almost forgotten that until Rick left him again. For two crows.

Ha.

"If you've ever been sick of him, you've been evil too."

Cold green eyes bore into him, mirror images of his own. A chill went up his spine at the implication, words hitting too close to home. He hated this Morty who knew exactly how to make him doubt himself. He shook his head to clear away the thoughts. They might share the same appearance, but that's where the similarities ended.

"Rick, did you really leave the crows for me? Or did you come back because they dumped you?"

The pained expression on Rick's face was all the answer he needed. And it hurt, more than anything had ever hurt before. He'd done so much for Rick. He killed for him; lost every shred of innocence he had left for him. How could he have been so stupid as to think any of those tender moments between him and his grandfather really meant anything. The other Morty's lip curled up, a knowing look on his face.

"There you go kid, now you're evil Morty too."

Maybe he was right.

Every artist should have at least one masterpiece worth remembering. And Morty had his planned for a very long time, he was just never sure when to present it. He decided it was finally time.

He lowered himself into the warm water of the bathtub. The feel of wet clothes against his skin was uncomfortable, but he wouldn't have to worry about that soon enough. He grabbed his favorite stencil, his only friend throughout the years, and placed it into the pristine canvas of his arm, before digging it in and dragging it down vertically. The pain wasn't unexpected, but it was worse than usual. He wasn't going to back down now. The water was turning a dark pink, and he smiled at the pretty watercolors he created.

Then the banging started, cursed coming from the other side. Morty sighed in annoyance. Of course, Rick had to show up and ruin the most important painting session of his life.

"MORTY! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

The boy chuckled, repeating the process on his other arm. He looked down admiring his work one last time, before leaning back and closing his eyes with a contented sigh. Finally, he was going to be able to be free. Free of his awful life and not having to hurt anyone ever again.

The door broke open, he watched through half-opened lids as his grandfather stood frozen to the spot, pale and shaking at the sight before him. He felt himself being pulled out of his watercolors and into Rick's tight embrace. He could only catch snippets of what was being said, but it sounded like Rick was angry at him. As usual.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK-"

"What the fuck were you thinking-"

"Don't close your eyes, damn you-"

Then the words became what Morty knew was his mind playing tricks on him, having him hear what he wished Rick would say to him.

"Don't do this to me kid-"

"I can't-"

"-ove yo-"

"Please-"

"Morty!"

As his eyes closed for the final time, he smiled.

Rick was never one to appreciate art.