morty midler | nine | fin

He never had many friends. Not without reason; he liked to think he was better off alone but it wasn't really the case. Truth was, he was abrasive. That's what Aunt Stella said in the nicest possible way, before covering it up with a quick, "it's part of your charm." He said whatever was on his mind, good or bad. If it made him abrasive, fine. If it made him an asshole, fine. But he valued truth and honesty above all. If being real also made him the bad guy, he was okay with it. Villains were often the most memorable characters, anyway.

He never had any friends, but he also didn't ever really try to change it. He was content with solitude, taking the quiet night to himself. He'd pluck wild flowers from the edge of the district, go down to the graveyard and set them over someone's grave. A different person's every time. Whichever name sounded the most interesting to him at the time. Or, he would find one of the many old, abandoned buildings in District Nine. The ones with brick walls long ago overtaken by ivies and vines as big around as his wrist, and he'd climb up as high as he could. When he made it to the top, he'd kick his feet off the edge, light up a cigarette and wait for life to resume once the sun yawned against the horizon. He never had friends, but he never felt like he needed them.

He never had any friends, but he had a good enough imagination to handle the quiet. He'd close his eyes and pretend to have grandparents who came over for dinner every Tuesday, a mother who loved to bake, a father who taught him how to use a barbecue grill, an older brother who taught him how to climb trees, a little sister who liked to race him everywhere they went. Nothing was wrong, but it wasn't true. It was safe in his head, but it was never a reality.

The reality was Aunt Stella, who was great. Too young to have had Morty steeped on her shoulders, but it was either her or the foster care system, and she always said that wasn't an option. Morty's dad hadn't ever been in the picture, and his mother had died when he was seven. Aunt Stella was only eighteen, overworking for an underpaying job. Alone, like Morty, and willing to give up everything to give him what little structure she could.

He never had any friends, but he had Aunt Stella. He didn't have to make that up when people wondered. She never asked any questions when he came in late, she hounded him about keeping his room clean, she demanded that he cook at least once a week, and, like Morty himself, she was deathly allergic to strawberries. When he was with her, his defenses were down, and he wasn't a damaged kid raised by another kid. He was Morty.

He'd been young when his mother was diagnosed: too young to fully grasp what it meant. He'd cried for her when he missed her, hell, he still kept a picture of her folded into his wallet. He looked at it when he felt the need to. It was hard losing her, and it had happened so quickly that he didn't really get to react until she was gone. But when Aunt Stella got the same diagnosis, something in him shattered.

Hers was the first grave he'd ever given wildflowers to: tiny little buttercups, blooming along the sidewalks among the daffodils and clover. He spent hours, hunched over, picking every one he could find, and by the time he'd finished covering her grave with them, the entire plot shined yellow in the afternoon sun. He took a step back and observed his work, and he realized how barren and sad the other graves looked in comparison. So, when he came back, he brought flowers for someone else. And then someone else. And someone else after that.

He was freshly eighteen when she died, the same age she'd been when she took him in. Just old enough to keep the house, just old enough to get a job after school so he could afford to keep it. Not old enough to handle it, but old enough to be expected to.

The day after her death, he swore he saw her in the corner of his vision, passing by his bedroom door. A week after, he thought he smelled her perfume when he was washing dishes. Two weeks after, he thought he heard someone climbing the stairs. Each time he looked, though, there was nothing. Just him and the house, and the pictures on the wall.

A month after her death, he dreamed of her. He thinks. He had to have, because anything else wouldn't have made sense. He dreamed that he was asleep in his bed, and that he woke to find her sitting there, right on the edge of his bed, smiling down at him.

"I can't stay too long," she whispered. Neither of them moved.

"I just wanted you to know that I'm okay now. I'm not in pain. And you shouldn't be, either. Go get yourself some friends, okay?"

She stood to walk toward the door, and Morty didn't think to follow her. Or maybe he knew it would've been pointless.

"And be nice. You can be rather abrasive, you know."

She stopped in the doorway, resting a hand on the frame as she turned to look back at him one last time.

"but not too nice. It's part of your charm."

He never had any friends, but until then, when she turned and disappeared, he'd never felt so alone in the world. He was like the night he loved so much: quiet, sleepy, all alone in the dark. He made a decision right then, right there. Like so many times before, he'd wait for the world to resume, just as soon as the sun yawned against the horizon.