Working in a lab isn't quite the same as slinging on the streets, and even then--his customers had primarily been the 'high functioning addict' types. He didn't bother going into the grimy slums or the crack houses to peddle his wares, and maybe telling himself those places weren't safe to deal at was a subconscious way of protecting him from seeing firsthand what his practices were doing to people. It smacked him right in the face once, though.
When he'd been sent to recover stolen product from a couple of junkies who'd gotten the upper hand on one of his street-level dealers, Skinny Pete. He'd been sent by Mr. White to "handle it", and he'd figured that meant with a gun. So he got high and showed up tweaking, gun quaking in his hand that he barely knew how to use. But, when he entered the dilapidated abode, he wasn't greeted by two junkies. They were out, of course--trying to score more, like always.
What he was greeted with, however, was a kid. Their kid. Scrawny and malnourished, too old to be in a diaper yet still wearing one, with no pants and a shirt on, cheeks smudged with dirt and nose snotty. The kid didn't even question a complete stranger being in the house--simply clambered up onto the couch next to him and began watching the only channel they could get on the TV--some infomercial selling knives. It was then that the repercussions of what he did to earn money really stared him in the face and made him think twice. It didn't stop him, but it sure made him think.
At the end of the day, he called the authorities, wiped his prints off the phone, and wrapped the kid on the front porch in a blanket, wishing him a 'good rest of your life, kid'. It was risky, but it was right.
"Some people just hold it in. Yeah." Jesse nods, knowing the type. Sometimes he tries to hold back what he's feeling, but he's rarely, if ever, successful at it. Jesse's the type who wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or worse. He follows Kim's advice, though, taking slow breaths, feeling the cool air fill his lungs and letting it all out slowly. It works, and his heart rate gently comes down, an uneasy peace settling over him.
"Anyway...I started workin' at the lab a while after Jane died. Went to rehab first--got my shit right and my head on straight. A little after I got out I got into an altercation with this DEA agent. It's why--" Jesse trails off, gesturing to his face--the fading bruises and cuts, the still-apparent swelling over one cheekbone. A healing gash through his lip. "The guy got pissed, showed up at my house and just beat me into the ground. He didn't have anything on me--just lost it. Saul, uh, Jimmy came to me in the hospital. Said he'd represent me. But I dropped the charges eventually. Seeing as it was, uh...well, the guy's my business partner's brother-in-law." Jesse sighs up at the sky, baring his throat as he tips his head back, almost like he's wondering how he ever got wrapped up in this entire mess.
sorry this is so long there was a lot of introspection/narrative. don't feel pressured to match!
When he'd been sent to recover stolen product from a couple of junkies who'd gotten the upper hand on one of his street-level dealers, Skinny Pete. He'd been sent by Mr. White to "handle it", and he'd figured that meant with a gun. So he got high and showed up tweaking, gun quaking in his hand that he barely knew how to use. But, when he entered the dilapidated abode, he wasn't greeted by two junkies. They were out, of course--trying to score more, like always.
What he was greeted with, however, was a kid. Their kid. Scrawny and malnourished, too old to be in a diaper yet still wearing one, with no pants and a shirt on, cheeks smudged with dirt and nose snotty. The kid didn't even question a complete stranger being in the house--simply clambered up onto the couch next to him and began watching the only channel they could get on the TV--some infomercial selling knives. It was then that the repercussions of what he did to earn money really stared him in the face and made him think twice. It didn't stop him, but it sure made him think.
At the end of the day, he called the authorities, wiped his prints off the phone, and wrapped the kid on the front porch in a blanket, wishing him a 'good rest of your life, kid'. It was risky, but it was right.
"Some people just hold it in. Yeah." Jesse nods, knowing the type. Sometimes he tries to hold back what he's feeling, but he's rarely, if ever, successful at it. Jesse's the type who wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or worse. He follows Kim's advice, though, taking slow breaths, feeling the cool air fill his lungs and letting it all out slowly. It works, and his heart rate gently comes down, an uneasy peace settling over him.
"Anyway...I started workin' at the lab a while after Jane died. Went to rehab first--got my shit right and my head on straight. A little after I got out I got into an altercation with this DEA agent. It's why--" Jesse trails off, gesturing to his face--the fading bruises and cuts, the still-apparent swelling over one cheekbone. A healing gash through his lip. "The guy got pissed, showed up at my house and just beat me into the ground. He didn't have anything on me--just lost it. Saul, uh, Jimmy came to me in the hospital. Said he'd represent me. But I dropped the charges eventually. Seeing as it was, uh...well, the guy's my business partner's brother-in-law." Jesse sighs up at the sky, baring his throat as he tips his head back, almost like he's wondering how he ever got wrapped up in this entire mess.