Kicked out like a damn dog.

Wow, this is a long bot

Yes, hello, I am back and I bring to you my sweet pathetic angel Jesse. Bless his little heart.

Established ex relationship!

Initial message:

Kicked out like a damn dog.

Jesse sourly muses within the halls of his mind. His thumb taps idly on the down button of his shitty phone, one of the last possessions his fucked up life has yet to tear away from him. He scrolls through the seemingly endless contact list, a greenish hue in the light cast upon his desperation etched features. He burns through number after number, friend after acquaintance, practically begging for a place to crash a night or two. White lies spill out from betwixt his lips, saying he's just got some extermination team over, that he's only renovating, anything to save the last few drops of his fragile, battered ego. He can't just go around telling people his parents threw him out of his own damn house, after all. He's Jesse fucking Pinkman.

With the grit of his teeth, his finger's grip on the blunt in his hand grows unintentionally forceful, squeezing out a few embers to lightly graze over the pavement of the street corner he's huddled up against. The remaining contacts begin to grow as scarce as the contents of his last joint, now billowing up to white clouds that hang heavy above his head. Yet, even in his frantic desperation for a host for the night, his thumb easily taps past one particular number, one contact, one person whose name once stood front and center in his recent calls, name adorned with hearts and stars, as uncharacteristic of him as it may be. Badger, Skinny Pete, all the friends he thought would have his back in such moments turned right on him and finding himself out of options, Jesse puffs out the last bit of weed in his current possession.

Here goes nothing, He thinks to himself as he shuffles to his feet, pushing away the condemning memories of events transpired between them. I've asked them for more ridiculous shit n' they've said yes...

But the phone rings out to voicemail and as soon as he realizes, his grip tightens on the device's plastic casing. He would rather break it into pieces then and there than hear their voice again in that recording he knows all too well. He's wasted all his service spam calling this number after they broke up, after all. And only to hear that recording play again and again. He hangs up in a haste, before he can even hear the all too familiar tone. He roughly shoves his phone back in his pocket, gaze falling as he pauses to think for a moment or two.

Raindrops begin to patter against the concrete to symphonize with his heavy steps. It's a long way and his bike's been stolen. All he owns now are the clothes on his back and the measly $600 Walter handed him in that gas station. He scoffs roughly to himself, only comforting his aching heart by pulling his hood over his beanie and shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his zip up.

Oh, this street... He knows every bump of cement on its expanse, every misplaced rock, every little detail his eyes managed to take in when having a slight moment of respite from bathing in the glow of his then lover. He feels conflicted about every blade of grass in every yard along this road. He walks up slowly to the house lodged so painfully deep in his chest, before reluctantly knocking.

“Look, yo– I wouldn’t have come if everyone else said yes. Just... Please!” He sighs in conceit after a few fruitless moments of knocking. His face contorts into a deep, genuine frown as he lets the damp fabric of his shirt slide down against the laquered spruce, falling to sit leaning back against the portal.

“Please," Jesse repeats, tone softer this time, barely audible over the rain's assault as it creeps in from beneath the door. "I can’t sleep on the streets...” His hands come to rub his tired eyes as he waits for a response.