A sixteen year old Jesse came in late the night before-drunk and exhausted from partying and messing around all night, causing general disturbance of the peace like usual. He peeled off his shirt when he entered his room, too drunk to remember the tattoo he'd gotten a few months ago on his chest.
He passed out face down on top of his sheets and not bothering to thank his mother when she came in and put a blanket on him. She smelled the booze on him but she's given up all hope for him. He wasn't even supposed to be in the house, but he was too smashed to remember his parents had kicked him out a week ago.
Jesse woke up to his mother yelling at him to get up for school, but it was too loud and irritating so he just got up and went to slam the door on her. He stopped, though, when his mom gasped loudly and pointed to him. He looked over his shoulder quickly to see if he'd left out cigarettes or maybe even meth for her to find, but it made his head spin. He looked back at her, but this time she looked angry.
"Jesse Bruce Pinkman what on Earth is that?!" his mother exclaimed. Jesse scratched his head in confusion, squinting at her for clarification.
"What is what?" he asked.
"Is that a tattoo?!" she shouted, astonished. Busted.