Misc.

breaking bad 3

every time joel walked into the lab he swore the stench of victor's dissolving corpse was still lingering in the air. it had been weeks since the young man had ruthlessly bled out on the floors, weeks since joel had watched the three men clean up the body from the top landing, watching the door to make sure no one came in. he didn't sleep for a while after that, and his hands didn't stop shaking for two days. he would fall into a fitful temporary rest on his couch, his face buried into his pet dog's fur, only to wake both him and the dog with a startle, screaming and crying fitfully for some dark vaguely gus shaped entity to get off of him. 

after victor died, joel silently "moved up the ranks". or at least, that's what he called it, unsure of what else it could be. gus has asked him to watch the guys cook full time, rather than just on days when victor and tyrus were unavailable. pressure lay heavy on his shoulders and the hazy indirect threat of death loomed behind him at all times. to walter, joel was just another watchdog sitting on precious privacy that had been robbed of him a far greater deal than walter had anticipated. to jesse, he was just another guard. jesse didn't even exactly have much time to form a strong opinion on the young man, with mike taking him out on field trips so often. ultimately, both men thought he was more docile than either of the previous scouts. he simply sat on the landing and read a book. they were old, classic things, moby dick, crime and punishment, the great gatsby, books that gave walter and jesse a headache at the thought of reading. however, joan would simply sit silently, letting the guys do what they needed to do. every so often he would stand and stretch, and walk a lap around the lab. he would make sure all was in order and he would trek back up the stairs, back to his book. he double checked the scales when he needed to, and he made sure everything stayed in order, but other than that, he was the gentlest guard in existence. 

it was a monday, joel knew that much. he woke up and struggled to steady himself upon standing. the world swam around him, his feet looked like they were a million miles away. after the bedroom settled back down, he drank some water and took a handful of breaths. his dog sniffed at his feet and he grounded himself in the feeling of her fur between his fingers. she was fed, and walked and by the time joel left the house, the spell of dizziness from that morning seemed like just a minor inconvenience. 

today he was reading 1984 by george orwell. the irony was not lost on him. jesse was there today and gave a half-hearted rather sardonic bark at the sight of the book. 

"you think you're funny." jesse said sarcastically. joel just shrugged.

"at least it's not the los pollos hermanos  employee handbook." he bantered back. 

jesse shook his head and went down the staircase to where the lockers were. 

-

two hours later, joel's head took a dive once more and everything felt off-kilter and out of balance once more. nausea churned in his stomach and he put the book down, pinching his brow and rubbing his eyes, praying whatever was happening would stop. he drank some water and clenched his fists, trying to catch his breath. 

awful. this was awful. 

time ticked by, but slow, like a drop of cold honey sliding down a sheet of aluminum foil.

the worst part was when he had to put on the respirator. he was stifled by his own breath, trapped, and he couldn't get out of it. he wanted nothing more, nothing more at all than to leave for a few minutes and get some air, but the last thing he wanted was to end up like victor, for whatever reason victor had ended up the way he did. the thought of swimming in a barrell of acid didn't help his case and he felt himself gripping onto the cold metal railing for support even though he was sitting down. it took every single cell in his body not to throw up. don't throw up. don't leave. just stay calm, stay sitting and whatever you do, don't. throw. up.