A/N: Hi I'm obsessed with this show. Read this vent fic cuz reasons. have fun on this shitty ass roller coaster

(Ps i may have probably definitely fluctuated the narration from past to present and vice versa sooooo... That's a thing.)

It was a dark and stormy night. Okay no it was like evening and shit who knows what outside was like, Rick was in the garage for days.

It wasn't the first time Rick Sanchez has tried to die. Maybe the third or fourth time. What counts as a suicide attempt anyway like where is the Emo Manual TM circle C amirite.

He woke to unbearable nausea and vomited immediately. He fell to the floor beside the mess and lay there wanting nothing more than the world to stop spinning. He moaned, holding his head, staying as still as possible. Vomiting is not great.

"For fucks sake," He mumbled to himself. "Nothing ever works. How the hell is the human body so durable."

After what seemed like an hour, he slowly rose from the floor, ignoring the spinning room. Water. He needed water. He stumbles to the door to the house but falls into the shelf. "FUCK!" He watches his various half-completed contraptions crash to the floor. "Buh."

He flings open the door and nearly bumps into Morty who'd come rushing to see what happened. "Oh uh Rick what hap-"

Rick falls into Morty then pulls away, nearly falling over backwards.

"Ugh," Rick held his head and stumbled past Morty to the kitchen.

Morty followed. "Uh, Rick, are you okay?"

Rick sighed, picking a cup from the cupboard. "Look, Morty, I know you're tryin' to help." He turned to look at his grandson. "But I just need to go lie down. Uh, it's been a long day in the garage, y'know?"

Morty awkwardly reached a hand behind his head. "Well y'know, Rick, I haven't seen you around the past week. Uh, where've you been?"

Rick sighs and returns to getting non-poisonous fluids in him. "None of your business, Morty, now go spout your stupid ass nonsense somewhere else." He waves a dismissive hand.

"Okay, Rick," He resigns, walking away. "If you need something I'll be in my room."

The blue haired man took his glass to his room and searched for his flask. He found it and poured a splash in the water, then chugged it. Taking his sleeping pills, he went to sleep.

He woke with the symptoms greatly lessened, although a headache plagued his consciousness. More water. Thats what he needed.

He slowly (always slowly, the dizzies are a menace) stood and felt cold liquid at his feet. Looking down, he noted the glass on the floor. Ignoring it, he continued to the kitchen for more and maybe some shitty pantry food.

Trudging to the kitchen, he saw Morty's form in the dark, lying on the floor.

Mildly concerned, Rick walks over and looks down at the kid. "Uh, Morty, you're kinda blockin' the fridge so-" He stops when Morty looks up. His eyes are red and puffy. Crying?

"Sorry, Rick," Morty said, quietly standing up.

Rick acted on an impulse and pulled the kid into a firm hug. Morty stiffened then relaxes, about to return the embrace, when his grandpa let go.

"I don't know what the hell you were cryin' about but... I care about you, Morty. Just know that, okay, Morty?"

"Rick-"

The drunk sped off to his room.

Fuck I need to get out of here. Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it don't think-" He whispered repeatedly while pulling a handle out from under his cot.

With shaking hands, he chugged.

He'd gotten used to the foul taste long ago. No chaser needed.

His ex wife and the beatings and abandoning his daughter to escape and the neglect of his childhood and the bullying in school and all the people leaving and everyone leaves oh god.

He dropped a half-full bottle on the floor with a loud clank and quickly pulled it upwards. Thank god it didn't break.

If he existed.

Who knows.

But probably not with the shit he's seen.

He falls on his bed and curls in on himself.

Don't think about it.

The answer is don't think about it DON'T THINK

"Oh what the fuck's the use!" He squeaked. He knows what happened all those times. And he knows what he's done.

"Please let me go OH GOD!" He wheezes and pulls a box cutter from under his pillow.

He rakes his wrist over dozens of old scars and lies back with eyes closed, savoring the relief as the initial pain wanes. Opening his eyes, he watches the deep red blood soak his sheet. Now, solemnly, he drags the blade again. Then again. Then again. And again.

Suddenly, his heart jumps as a recurring thought pops into his otherwise blank consciousness; You know you're hopeless scum. He clenches his teeth and hugs himself tightly, holding back tears. He squeezes himself tighter and tighter, shaking, until finally he makes another decision.

Rick violently opens the dresser drawer nearby and grips a pill bottle. "Time for another round of russian roulette," He mutters, unscrewing the cap.

He takes them one by one with determination, washing it down with his dearest.

He falls back on the bed in his bloodied lab coat and closes his eyes once again.

And then nothing.