Chapter Text
Everything hurt; he couldn't even remember the last time he felt completely happy. Ever since Mr. White came to his place and told him to cook meth with him, Jesse Pinkman's life has been absolute, unadulterated shit.
That was around a year ago now -- around a year ago since that bastard Walt started working with him. Since Jane choked to death on her own vomit after overdosing right next to him. Since he had the fuck beat out of him by none other than Walt's brother-in-law -- Agent Hank Schrader. Sometimes his partner's words hit harder than his fists when the two would get in those terrible physical altercations with each other. Sometimes it got so bad that Jesse just wished he could be killed. The thought scared him. The fear comforted him.
He can't even tell what day or time or anything it is anymore. It's all been a fucking blur since he was captured by Todd's stupid nazi uncles and put handcuffed in that pit near the place they hung out. Starved, beaten, raped, humiliated.
When those pricks found out that Jesse was a transgender man, it just got worse and worse. They would strip him bare and make those nasty comments on his more feminine features; catcalling him, misgendering him, and sometimes when those nazi fucks were just having a shitty day, or they just felt like it, they would take Jesse and rape him until he couldn't, and at that point they'd just beat him, usually until he passed out.
The past few times Todd has come to his pit, he takes Jesse out and forces the man to cook meth for them, as Walter refuses, and Todd cannot cook for the life of him. When he's in the lab, he's tied to a rope that slides in a straight line on the ceiling. It's like the ropes that some of those climbing places had, but this one was unthinkably hard to get to move. It was, without a doubt, an absolute hell.
He didn't understand what he did so wrong to deserve this; all he's ever done is follow orders and help. Sure, he was a junkie, and of course, a multitude of other things. Still, nothing he’s ever done should constitute this amount of torture. Then a thought struck his mind: maybe he did deserve this. For killing Gale, for killing Jane and making her relapse, for killing Krazy 8 (?) and dissolving his body in acid, for letting Todd shoot that poor little boy without a second thought, for letting that son of a bitch Walter poison Brock, just to get him to hate Gus by framing him. He knew it was his fault. His fault was that all those poor people were just dead. It's his fault that no one has ever come into contact with him to live a normal life, or even live at all again. He wishes he was just killed when Jack had kidnapped him. That's all he deserves. Death. Just like he forced upon so many people in unthinkable ways.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, but what was the point? No one would hear, and if someone did, all they’d do is beat and rape him for being too loud. He felt the slop that was his breakfast threatening to resurface, but he knew he had to keep it down. If he contaminated the workspace and, therefore, the product, he would be reprimanded. Todd never got reprimanded, even when he couldn't break 50% purity. Todd was just congratulated. Now that Jesse was here, it had to be back up to above 90% for him. Above 90%, or they would hurt him. So instead of screaming, or crying, or vomiting, he succumbed to the torture and cooked. The only thing he was good at. The only reason they kept him alive. The only part of him that was worth even a penny.
The hours flew by as he slaved away in the lab. Well, they dragged on, but Jesse was barely even there. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, his own mind demoted to not think, not feel, but to work. It was like laughing gas, being inside the lab when you’ve finally gotten your mind to go away. You’re almost there in the moment, and by god is it the longest moment of your life, but as soon as that moment starts, it's over, and what's happened even a second ago is lost to the void of the mind.
He worked and worked. Didn't think. Didn't feel. Just worked. After what was probably a very large amount of hours just mindlessly cooking, Jack eventually came in to assess his progress and send him back to the pit where he lay every night and some days when Todd or Jack or whoever couldn't be bothered to even come and feed him.
Jesse thought it was odd that Jack was coming to get him, not Todd. Todd was at least somewhat (for lack of a better word) kind to Jesse, but Jesse knew that whenever Jack was the one coming to get him (usually from the pit), he was about to be beaten or raped or whatever those sick fucks wanted to do with him that day. It was usually both the latter and the former.
“Hey, hey, you’re coming with me now. Get up, you bitch,” Jack snarled as he walked over to Jesse’s barely conscious form. All Jesse could do as Jack tore the rope off of him and beat him when the metal cord was being difficult was stand there with his mouth half open and his brain doing whatever it could to just not be there. Where Jack was. Fuck.
“Walk, let's walk you slut!” Jack yelled once he finished getting Jesse unhooked. He kicked him when he didn’t walk, which caused Jesse to fall over, and in turn caused Jack to start yelling, “You weak-ass bitch! Get the fuck up off the ground and walk, Marien!”
Fuck. That wasn't his name. That wasn't his fucking name! His name was Jesse! Jesse, not fucking Marien, not anymore!
“That’s not m’name…” Jesse managed to slur. He felt sick. That wasn’t his fucking name.
Jesse felt the sharp kick of a boot almost immediately after saying that, and he heard a sharp scream. His sharp scream.
“You fucking retard! You don’t even know your own name?! Your name is Marien, you fucking idiot!” Jack continued kicking him until Jesse tasted blood. Until his side hurt so bad that he couldn’t breathe, and the pain was to a point of severity where it radiated throughout his entire body.
Jesse didn’t have the strength to get up as Jack continued to scream at him, so Jack just grabbed him by the head and dragged him across the cold, rough concrete floor, the chains on his cuffs jingling as he was scraped across the ground.
Jesse tried to pass out as he was dragged to the house where Jack and his buddies lived, but he hurt so much that he couldn't even succumb to his exhaustion. His face hurt. It stung. So did everywhere else on his body. His knees and legs were scraped up, as well as his stomach and arms, and everywhere on his body, covered by thin cloth or not.
When they reached the house, Jack pulled him up by the neck until he was suspended on his knees, then kicked him onto the carpeted floor face-first, soaking blood into the coarse fabric, which he would of course be punished for later.
“You dirty fuckin’ slut, gettin’ my carpet all dirty,” Jack spat while he dug his foot into Jesse’s already-tattered belly. All Jesse could do was gargle up even more blood onto the carpet. He couldn't even cry; he hurt so bad. He could only hope he would pass out soon, or that Jack would finally finish the job and put him out of his misery. He just wanted to be put out of his misery. Why the fuck was this happening to him?
He could barely even register the clinking sound of Jack’s belt falling, or when he was kicked over onto his back and had his pants tugged down. He couldn't even fight back. It was horrid.
He barely registered when Jack started calling him a slut or a whore as he rubbed his disgusting cock while standing over a barely conscious Jesse. At some point, he started to kick in between Jesse’s legs. The pain was sharp and nauseating. He felt himself gag as he continued getting kicked. It hurt like getting kicked in the gut, but somehow worse. Like a stinging bat being reigned down upon every single nerve ending in his body, concentrated into just one fucking concentrated spot. He was only aware that he vomited when he felt a kick to his skull and heard Jack screaming at him about how disgusting he was. His face stung with tears and blood.
The taste of the bile started to cement into his mouth, and by god was it horrid. He retched again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up, only gut-wrenching screams as he cried out in pain. He wished that he could just succumb to his injuries right then and there, but he knew that the gods, if they even existed, wouldn't let him get such an easy out. He had to be tortured.
Jack stopped kicking him and crouched down onto Jesse. He knew what was gonna happen. Jack was gonna stick his gross fucking dick into Jesse and rape him until Jack got tired of doing it. That usually took forever.
Jesse wanted to scream, he really did, but his voice was broken. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He retched again to no avail. It felt like his insides were being ripped out of him and then impounded back in. Even though this happened so much, it still hurt with the force of a mother’s disappointment.
Jesse screamed as much as he could, and when he couldn’t, the noise coming out of his throat was a cracked whisper roaring in the shadow of a scream. His ears were ringing so loud, he could barely hear Jack screaming at him and calling him such a slut and a whore and a girl over the piercing tone overcoming his head.
Just fall asleep, just fall asleep, just fall asleep, just fall asleep–
Jesse’s train of thought was knocked out of his mind when Jack punched him, knocking a tooth out as well. The tears were falling all over his cuts and bruises, the pain of the salty liquid just causing him to cry even more. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep.
With one more blow to the head, Jesse was out cold. Jack still didn’t relent.
~*~
When Jesse woke up, he was in the pit again. The first thing he felt when he woke up on the cold, hard floor was pain. It hurt everywhere. His legs, his head, his hand, his ass. Anywhere he could get hurt, he was hurt. All he could do was cry and try to fall back asleep.
The tears dripped down his cheeks, stinging everywhere they touched, which was covered in wounds. As he sobbed, he rolled onto his side and curled into himself, lying in a fetal position as he squeezed his legs to the point where they would hurt even if he wasn't covered in bruises and scrapes. The sobbing became coughing eventually, and the tears shed turned into a headache that felt like a stabbing pain that got worse the more he cried.
That was all he could do; hiccup and cough and sob while he lay on the blood-stained ground in the dark and the cold. His cries turned to screams, and his screams turned to raspy growls of pain whose quiet spoke louder than the screams of the earth.
He vomited up blood before passing out again.