Note: I do not own the television series "Breaking Bad". The series rightfully belongs to AMC and Vince Gilligan.
It was a tranquil 6 o'clock morning in the uneventful city of Albuquerque. The high skies were shrouded with gray scattered clouds, with a bright dashing line of orange bursting off the horizon and over the suburban houses.
Walter's eyes steadily fluttered open. He stayed relaxed on the cold concrete floor, facing up the ceiling of Jack's meth lab. His body and mind were idle—nothing to think about or to function for. He knew he was supposed to pass away in this lab at this very moment, but it came to his mind that it didn't. Walter still had not even a sliver of care in the world; though, he merely cared about his family, but they didn't care back—they had to move on from the devastating legacy that the ruthless Heisenberg left behind for them, and he couldn't blame them. To die here was the consequence he deserved, but it seems like… life gave him another try.
His hand wandered around the lower part of his torso, touching the dry wound that the M60 inflicted that night. He pressed his palm down on that part, but his body failed to register the pain. He straightened himself up steady, gripping on one of the lab equipment as he stood up. Step by step, he dragged himself to Jack's house, which was now enclosed with bright yellow crime scene tapes on every perimeter, along with the meth lab.
He crossed the first tape that covered the lab by going underneath and he ripped apart the second batch of tape which surrounded the house. Walter turned the doorknob and prodded the door, meeting the specks of fresh dust hovering within the dim, gloomy room, with the bodies taken away and walls covered by gaping bullet holes which caused the clutter of small wall fragments around the floor—he let out a hoarse cough; his lung cancer still hasn't taken a break.
Walter's eyes wandered to see a mirror, the other half untouched and the other half shattered; he faced the mirror with a dejected expression. The shattered half signified his previous self—the self that had led the empire business; the image that turned to crime; the guy who everyone looked down upon with sheer disrespect, a shadow that overcame his life filled with ridicule. He looked now on the unharmed side with his clearly visible head of hair and beard which grew with time, representing the man who had everything taken away from him as a result of his actions, a miserable man who tried to fix everything, but ended up destroying it all; he had nothing to lose anymore.
He decided to rummage through the clutter and reached out for the pack of cigarettes and lighter that Jack left. He was about to exit, but he thought it'd be okay to relieve himself with it for a while before doing so.
While Walter delighted himself with the cigarette, he heard blaring sirens rupture through the air. Finally, he thought; he wanted to be taken away and just rot away in prison, so this was good for him. He left the house to the front yard of the complex to surrender himself right in plain sight. Walter put his hands up without any second thought.
As the sirens roared and neared him, he closed his eyes. He kept it closed for a few minutes, he wondered what was taking too long. He opened his eyes expecting a swarm of officers to encircle him—it was far from that. The police cars drove past him instead, completely oblivious of his presence. While he was perplexed by it for a moment, he didn't think about it much. While he had the chance, he thought about saying another goodbye and checking what was going on with the family. He knew he'd be forced out anyway, but he thought it wouldn't hurt to do it. He found his car which was towed and parked outside of the complex, and he reached into his pocket for his car keys, opened the car door and started the engine.
He leaves his car parked on the other side of the street, facing the front of their new family home. Walter hid his gaping bruise as his foot stepped off the car. As he marches to cross the street, trying to cover it up, he witnesses a man and his dog just going out for a casual run, going opposite of his direction. Naturally, if you'd see someone gravely injured in public with such a crystal clear wound hanging out, you reach out to tend to them. But to his surprise again, this was not the case; he got ignored once again. This was gnawing on his mind now—was everyone beyond oblivious or blind? Or was he invisible? The thought now perturbed Walter as he approached the porch.
Walter patted his pocket in search of the wire he used that other time he got into Skyler's house without approval. He would execute it in such a perfect and calm manner and disposition that not even a fly would notice it. But ironically speaking, he probably didn't have to do that too as he felt like his presence wouldn't get acknowledged anyway. Little did he know, entering the house would be a naive decision.
He glanced at Junior who was early-prepared for the morning, sitting down on a chair with a contemplative countenance, head hanging low. Walter laid aside the silence by speaking up to him. "Good morning, Flynn," he uttered with a minute beam on his face. Junior, who was oblivious to the voice, didn't respond. "Hello? Flynn... Junior?" he called him by his two names, but still met with no available response. He was treated like a breeze of air, left completely ignored again. First, the police; second, the public; now the third, his family members? Seriously, what was happening here?
It was as if the whole world came together to plot a mundane joke on him, and Walter wasn't there for it. He neared towards Junior and sat down opposite of him, now staring one-on-one with each other. "Look, Junior," he hesitantly uttered. "I get that you're upset. I selfishly mentioned the money as I could've apologized at that time. Of course, I feel sorry for the many things I did too." Walter stated "I only came here to see you guys again. Truth is that I also made my way here yesterday to say goodbye to your mother and sister while you weren't here. And don't worry about this wound, though. I bet you think that I deserved it anyway." his excessive statements came to waste; Junior looked like he stared at the nothingness, with his plain and blank face still contemplating, fists on his chin.
The wrinkled, blank expression misled Walter into thinking that he'd had enough—a face that indicated that he had already slammed the door and no more. This finally struck Walter, his eyes letting free a few teardrops. "Junior, please, at least give me some response." he cried hoarsely in despair. His true fear manifested itself within reality, that fear in Walter's past where his father was passing out in the hospital as he witnessed his every last ticking second, only to hear the last words uttered by his father that he didn't recognize his child. During the phone call with Junior, it haunted him. But being paid no heed to right in front of Walter now made him feel like he was already experiencing hell.