Jesse stares ahead at the white space before him. To anyone else, the space is a canvas in which to put art on, but it's so much more than that for him; it's less of a masterpiece waiting to be created and more of a battle cry, of a tremendous amount of ache begging to be let loose. Shopping for the supplies alone felt like a test, but he knew that it needed to happen as soon as Mr. White returned by his side in the form of a haunting apparition, whispering words of disparagement and causing a sickening, sinking feeling in his gut. He knew that he needed some way to let out everything that's been bugging him for months since his escape from that godforsaken hole in the ground. He knows now that it has to happen.
"Do you really think you have what it takes to move on from this, Pinkman?" Mr. White's words are close to Jesse's ear, like the man is leaning over Jesse's shoulder as a disapproving chemistry teacher would. "What makes you think you'll ever be as good at this as you were with cooking methamphetamine?" It's angering, and it's nerve wracking, the way that even in his hallucinatory state, the man completely ignores Jesse's progress. It's infuriating, how even though Jesse's fled New Mexico and given himself a restart, even though he's changed his name to Jake (a homage to a dear brother he'd never forget and always miss) to both avoid the law and to start anew, and even though he's healed the majority of his physical wounds - well, Mr. White couldn't care any less, could he?
Jesse doesn't speak back to Walter. That bastard isn't worth the time of day, even while dead. Instead, Jesse looks over the line of paint tubes sitting upon his lap. There's nearly every color of the rainbow, and anything he can't find there can be easily mixed into something new, given a push toward change as he too had. Marred, scarred-up fingers run over the paint tubes, feeling the metal texture of the tube that's gone cold with the rest of the Alaskan air. The workshop surrounding him could use some warmth, and he contemplates to himself as to whether he should add more tinder to the fire. Yet, part of that just feels like a cop-out, an easy way to avoid getting started on a painting he so desperately needs to make.
He always has loved art. From the moment little Jesse Pinkman was able to pick up crayon and put it to paper, he knew that was where his heart belonged. He'd been drawing before he even consciously knew what drawing was. Maybe he'd even made his parents proud back then, maybe they'd put it up on the fridge with proud smiles, in the days where their standards weren't unreasonably high due to his budding youth. (Couldn't expect much from a little kid, could you? Couldn't be disappointed in a child learning to exist in the world. If they ever had been proud of him at some point in the past, it hadn't lasted long, of course.) As Jesse grew, his artistic talent was more and more discouraged. Not that it stopped him from doodling in class and making hilarious, parodied drawings of his chemistry teacher, or scribbling for fun, though it never got as far as he would've wished.
Now is his opportunity, though, isn't it? He's free. No longer are his wrists bound and shackled, no longer is he forced to cook methamphetamine, neither by Walter's manipulation nor by Todd and his uncle forcing him into slavery. There's not anything holding Jesse back - well, save for his trauma, and his nightmares, and the hesitation that comes with heaps of anxiety. Jesse picks out the red tube of paint and squeezes some out onto his palette. Red always has been his favorite color, so why not get back into his favorite hobby with a color he loves above all?
His strokes begin on the canvas, slow and shaky at first. As he paints, his hand trembles, mostly from anxiety, though it's not unlike how he's shaken from withdrawals. (Being completely sober hasn't been easy.) Still, he paints onward, bringing the canvas to life with vibrant red hues that reflect ichor once splattered on the ground, once his own blood, once laying on the concrete ground and heaving in pain. The thoughts in his head are deafening and persistent, refusing to go unheard, begging for release. Jesse is alone. He's so, so, alone, and all he can do to fill his time - in a way that doesn't involve getting so high that he ceases to breathe - is to paint, to create once again.
The painting blurs after too long, and it's then that Jesse realizes it's only because his eyes have flooded so heavily with tears. Still, he paints onward, throwing black into the painting.
He's free, and he's alive, but it's not enough. When the painting's said and done, Jesse stands hesitantly, looking back to the canvas. No longer blank, a red background gives way to deep, anxiously painted black strokes making up bars of a cage. It's shown from the perspective of one that might be locked in it, locked away from the rest of the world. Instead of a locked cage, however, the door to it's been left open. Up above, painted between the bars in the far distance of a sky two birds fly together.
Jesse sets his paintbrush down, his eyes shifting to look at the clock. It's been hours and he hadn't even realized. B this point, it's gotten dark outside, the sun just barely peeking through the windows in the faintest manner as it makes its descent into night. His hand has stopped shaking nearly as much as it did when he began. Taking a deep breath, he stares at what he created. It's not exactly a positive or cheerful creation, but it's his, isn't it? He's started something anew, brought himself toward progress he hadn't been making before. He's created.
He leaves the painting without a second thought, moving to grab some kindle for the fireplace. It comes to life with a brilliant burst of orange and yellow, sparks flying through the air and just barely missing skin already scarred from previous burns. Then, turning around to face his new creation, Jesse takes one last long look before he leaves it be.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he finally gets some decent sleep.