jesse pinkman was six and flinched as his father brought a wooden spoon down on his palm. it didn't sting immediately. initially, the sound had been enough to freak jesse out, but after his fingers began to tingle, somewhere after the third hit, he realized how badly he'd messed up. he was sent to bed early with no supper, and tears streaming down his face.
they did not tell him what he had done wrong.
they did not speak to him for the rest of the day.
mostly though, jesse blamed his mom who had let his dad use her wooden spoons in the first place, and who'd turned a blind eye when a wooden spoon turned into his father's right hand.
-
jesse pinkman was twelve when he was first caught smoking cigarettes outside on the old playset that had been in their backyard since they'd moved in.
he braced himself.
and yet, nothing happened. his dad just told him to go to his room.
they did not tell him what he had done wrong.
they did not speak to him for the rest of the day.
jesse pinkman did not get a wink of sleep, too wary of what his parents were planning.
the next morning at breakfast, they invited him to sit.
it was a peculiar sort of fear. sort of an anxiety stewing in your throat and in your stomach at the same time. the pervasive inability to look anyone in the eye lingered with jesse, and swallowing a dry, dry mouth, he sat.
he was grounded for a month, and his parents told him they'd expected better from him. cigarettes? really? they said if jesse got sick, got cancer, anything, it was his fault. he'd be in charge of paying for his own medical expenses, and god knew they weren't cheap. he'd seen his aunt, hadn't he? how could he do something so stupid? his parents had given him everything. why would he want to smoke cigarettes? how could he be so stupid? then again, if this was the life path he wanted to choose, the front door was right there. he could leave whenever he wanted.
tears slid down his cheeks and they were hot, and guilty, and he felt horrible. like a rat was gnawing through his stomach up through his ribcage and wriggling around in his heart. he sobbed and shook at the breakfast table at nine in the morning. his dad just stared at him and said, "man up. if you can smoke cigarettes without telling us, you can stop crying like the sissy you're being right now".
-
jesse pinkman was eighteen and had just broken an antique lamp that belonged to badger's grandmother, and almost immediately, the rat was back in his ribcage, screaming and biting to get out.
he'd been staying the weekend at badger's house, and they'd gotten stoned- something jesse had recently found he enjoyed quite a bit. stumbling around, looking for snacks, he'd bumped quite heavily into a cabinet, and watched as a lamp with a glass shade dove to the ground.
the clattering of the glass spreading itself across the floor snapped jesse out of his stupor and he felt his heart leap into his throat.
"what was that?" badger said, sitting up on the couch, yawning. jesse was frozen on the spot, staring at the scene like he'd just murdered someone. "man are you good?"
"im so sorry." jesse mumbled, looking over to his friend.
"what happened?"
"i wasn't looking where i was going- i- im sorry- i bumped into the lamp- i mean the cabinet-"
"hey don't worry about it. my abuela has like a million of those things."
"yeah but it was glass, we should clean up, maybe she won't notice." jesse said, breathlessly.
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Misc.
قصص عامةalas! a wild virtual junk drawer! what heinous social commentaries will he write? what sad self inserts will be created? literally dont take anything in here seriously, half of this shit is the aftermath of my preteen angst
