Fix Me, Fix You: A Jesse Pinkman Story

Chapter Ten

The sound of a gun being fired rang loudly in Jesse's ears. Though the bullet shot through a silencer, the noise was deafening. He glanced up from the bottom of his hole in the ground, in just enough time to watch as Andrea's limp body fell from the top. The smoke swirled around Todd, who smiled proudly as he held the gun.

The thud of Andrea's body hitting the ground made Jesse feel nauseous. He shut his eyes, unable to look at the dead girl. He somehow knew that Mr. White would be there soon to rescue him and kill the men holding him hostage, but WHY DIDN'T HE GET THERE SOONER? If he had arrived just a few minutes earlier, they could've saved Andrea.

A throaty sob escaped Jesse's lips as he finally looked at her lifeless body. Blood was seeping from her head, puddled into the ground, mixing with the dirt where he was forced to sleep every night. He screamed in pain. It was physically painful for him to see her like that. She was like that because of him. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he was the reason she died. In his mind, he was essentially the one who killed her.

"It's all my fault," Jesse cried as his legs collapsed beneath him. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. He couldn't catch his breath from his heavy sobs.

Another gunshot rang out. Much louder than the first. It sounded familiar, but why?

Jesse looked up again. His whole body was trembling. He couldn't stop crying. Another lifeless body was falling.

The body hit the ground silently. Jesse winced as a cloud of smoke rose from below him. He glanced down at his hands. He was holding a gun. His finger was on the trigger.

He looked at the body again, realizing he had pulled the trigger. He had killed the person lying motionless in front of him. He quickly realized...that person was Gale.

Jesse's eyes shot open, his heart pounded in his chest. Panic overcame him and he frantically sat up in bed. For a brief moment, he had no idea where he was. It was dark and hot; he was sweating profusely. He felt frightened and worried and overwhelmed. He tugged his t-shirt over his head, looking for relief from the heat as his eyes darted around the room.

He quickly realized he was in the Quinn guest room over the garage – his new room. But he was a murderer. He was a murderer, whether he was holding the gun or the cause of someone else dying. How could he stay in the Quinn's guest room when he was a murderer? They thought the world of him; how could he let them think so highly of him?

His chest quickly rose and fell as he heaved heavily. The walls seemed to move inward, closing in on him. He couldn't breathe. No air was getting into his lungs, but all of it was getting out.

He kicked the covers off of his body and rose to his feet. He darted for the door and hurried down the steps into the garage. He quickly pushed open the side door to the garage and was finally hit with fresh air.

He hunched over with his palms on his knees for support as relief washed over him almost instantly despite the fact that the September air was warm and humid, even at night. He felt his lungs refill with oxygen and his body temperature lowering back to normal.

He sighed deeply, frustrated with how he was feeling. It was the first time that he felt that level of anxiety since he had moved to Louisiana. It was the first time since he moved that he wished he had a joint to calm him down or even a teenth of meth to bring him to another world.

His head pounded from the sudden onslaught of anguish from his past.

"Are you okay?"

His head whipped up to see Jolie's beautiful face all wretched with worry as she stood on her porch. Ashes began to lengthen on the top of her lit cigarette as it perched between her fingers.