A/N: This character is not mine.
I do not own anything relating to Breaking Bad.
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I don't think I'll ever understand what I wanted from Mr. White.
Maybe I wanted him to be proud of me.
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Nah.
I scratch my bottom lip with my thumbnail.
Maybe I wanted him to tell me I should stop fuckin around.
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Nah.
My hand won't stop shaking.
I light my cigarette.
Inhale.
Breathe.
For a long time, I thought that what I wanted was to get his approval, but…
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Nah.
I don't give a shit about that.
I move my foot. Gravel crunches under it.
I guess I just wanted him to care.
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About me.
And not some offhanded reach around to better his own fuckin situation.
If he did, he would have just let me do my thing.
Maybe if I had killed enough people or was exhausted enough he would've left me alone.
That's what I tell myself these days, at least.
Guess it took torture for him to realize what the fuck he'd done.
Selfish prick.
He didn't, in the end. Get it.
Not really.
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And I knew that.
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Didn't stop me from wanting him to, though.
A decent fucking person would have just let it go.
Fought with me. Pushed me to be more.
To reach my potential or whatever.
I guess I didn't really want decent, though.
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I get that now.
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Took me a while.
I hear a bell jangle as the shitty diner door opens and then shuts.
I don't really pay that much attention to it.
My parents never pushed me.
They loved me until they were fucking blue in the face, sure, but… I dunno.
They never cockdived into my bullshit with a fucking rage boner like Mr. White did.
Why else would I listen?
Because him and I sang kumbaya and made smores together?
Fuck no.
Nah. He met my bullshit with his bullshit, dude, and I rocked his fucking ass.
I don't know why I let myself need him so much.
yes i do
My bottom lip still itches. I keep scratching it with my thumb, cigarette between both fingers.
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I wish I could tell you that my life was sunshine and butterflies after I left that final meth lab. I wish I could tell you that everything I went through had some point. But it didn't. People died because of me. That's the only thing that I can grasp onto anymore. I replay Andrea dying in my head over and over and over. She didn't deserve that. Neither did Drew. I didn't feel like a person after that. I didn't even feel like a dog. I didn't feel like anything. But that was the point, you know. Maybe it was then that Mr. White understood what he'd done when I was dragged inside that fucking clubhouse. He gave me the one thing I wanted way too late in the game. Even then he asked too much. He knew what I wanted the whole time. I just wanted him to let me go and tell me that I deserved some fucking normalcy. But even at my wit's end the fucking dick had the audacity to force my hand to shoot him. Nah. Fuck that. Beg, bitch. Grovel at my feet like you made me do for so fucking long and then I'll piss on what you want like you pissed on me the entire fucking time, you goddamn coward.
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I inhale smoke into my lungs again.
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I never wanted anyone to die.
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I just wanted to be loved, man.
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Every time he'd come back, in my head I was like well…
maybe this time will be different.
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(It never was.)
I look through the cloud of smoke. I focus on the gravel parking lot.
It's lit by a streetlamp infront of the food joint.
I bring my hand down.
It collides with the side of my leg.
Then I lift my gaze towards the grey street.
It's pretty desolate.
Cars filter through, driving by.
Mine idles infront of me.
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Wyoming's cool.
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I guess.
