Warning: Dark fic. Probably the darkest I've ever written. Non-con, dub-con, BDSM, prostitution, drug use, throwing up, abuse. And probably more in the future. Be warned.

A/N: Named for the song by Slipknot.

Part 1

"How much?"

The voice was a whisper against Jesse's ear. He could smell the alcohol, could almost hear it, somehow. It burnt.

He knew it would hurt. He was past caring.

Mr. White had been proven right; when Jesse hadn't gotten the five million, he'd burnt the rest of his money on junk and speed. He couldn't sleep, otherwise, couldn't wake up. He'd cordoned off a certain amount of money to support the house, and for Andrea's rent, but besides that, he was broke.

So he'd been reduced to this. Sitting in an ally on this cold Albuquerque night, offering himself up for money, for a hit.

Mr. White would spit on him if he knew, or maybe he'd just laugh. Or maybe he'd kill him. At this point, Jesse would just let him; Saul would make sure Andrea kept getting the money.

Jesse stroked his hand down the opposite arm, tracing the blackened trails and swallowing nervously.

"Twenty bucks." His voice was low. The look in the man's eyes… he didn't like it. Maybe he'd be one of the men Wendy had confessed her fear of, the ones who'd strangle you and leave you in a ditch just because they could, because it was fun for them.

"Thirty," the man replied, "If I can rough you up a little."

"Thirty," Jesse echoed. His voice was hollow. "Where's your car?"

"I'd rather we do this right here."

Jesse felt hands on his head, forcing him down before he could catch his breath. His face was in the dirt, and then it was up again, and he was choking, hands flailing, his slowed-down system panicking. He couldn't breathe and couldn't get away. There was no air to use to beg or plead, and he'd agreed to this, hadn't he?

Not this. When he finally got a chance to breathe, he came up coughing and sputtering, eyes wide with terror.

"Take a hike." The voice came out of nowhere and, at first, Jesse thought he'd imagined it. Then it came again. "Take a hike. Or I'll blow a hole in your back."

Jesse slumped into the dirt, slowly looking up. The man in front of him disappeared, scattered, and from behind him emerged a man he thought he'd never see again.

Mr. White.

Jesse pictured a scene. He hadn't spent a lot of time paying attention in church as a kid, but he pictured Mr. White leaning down and lifting Jesse up, telling him to sin no more and sending him safely on his way.

Christ-like wasn't exactly Mr. White's M.O., however, and that hadn't changed.

"Get up." The voice was tinged with disgust, with contempt. "Unless you'd rather stay here in filth, Jesse."

Jesse moved his palms, lifted himself as he felt jagged edges dig against his hands. He got to his feet but hung his head in front of Mr. White.

"I doubt that this is what you want."

Jesse shook his head. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was what he was. He was nothing. He was dirt. What was Mr. White doing here, anyway?

"I can help you."

He attached his hand to Jesse's hoodie and yanked, like it was a leash and Jesse was a dog.

Jesse followed.

"Take off your shoes. You'll track mud on the floor," Mr. White directed as Jesse entered the condo. Jesse did. It hurt to bend down. Every muscle ached. He must be coming down; the fuzzy cotton sleepy feeling was giving way to sharp pinprick pains along his arms, legs and stomach. "Living here, you'll learn," Mr. White was saying, and Jesse gave him a confused look. Mr. White's gaze was exasperated, disappointed. "If you're good, you'll get privileges. If you're bad, you get punished."

Jesse's eyes opened wide, frightened.

"What kind of punishments?"

Mr. White smiled.

"Let's try not to find out. Why don't we go have some dinner?"

"Mr. White, I can't eat. I feel sick."

"Gee, wonder why that is." The older man reached out and yanked Jesse's arm without warning. He howled. "Hmmm, the idiot junkie has got infected track marks. Wonderful. Haven't you seen Requiem for a Dream? You want your arm to have to get cut off?" He yanked again for good measure, and Jesse's eyes filled with tears.

"Mr. White, stop! Please! Ow. Jeez."

The older man finally let go.

"Jesse, Jesse," he murmured, "I don't want to hurt you, but you see, that's the only way the message gets through your head." He tapped Jesse's forehead. "I just want you to live, and ot like this."

Jesse swallowed.

"Is my arm gonna be okay?"

"I think it'll be alright," Mr. White said after a moment. "But we'll have to keep an eye on it. You need to stop injecting. No questions asked. Otherwise you won't have an arm to inject into. You'd really be pathetic then, wouldn't you?"

Jesse whimpered.

"Eat."

"I'll throw up if I eat."

Mr. White shrugged.

"At least you'll be keeping some of it down. You're too skinny. You're going to eat. Unless you'd rather go back out on the street and let men rape you for money."

Jesse rolled his eyes and crossed his arms protectively.

"Not exactly rape if I get paid, is it?"

Mr. White's only reply to that was a derisive snort.

"Eat," he compelled again, a few moments later. Jesse found himself being shoved towards the table. His head lulled as he sat, and before long Mr. White was in front of him, holding a sandwich.

"I'm going to throw up," Jesse whimpered again, "Please. Mr. White. This is bullshit."

Mr. White gave him a look that stated in no uncertain terms that it wasn't a request. Jesse opened his mouth, chewed the bit of sandwich and swallowed it. It tasted like… like sawdust or something. His stomach rolled, but he forced down a few more bites.

Then his stomach turned like he'd had a knife forced in. He leaned over and threw up, lurched forward and slumped his head. Everything hurt. His head was pounding. He felt hot everywhere.

He could hear himself apologizing, pleading for Mr. White to not be angry with him. He was surprised to feel hands on his back, soothing him.

"It's all right, Jesse. It's all right. I'll clean it up and clean you up, too."

Jesse closed his eyes, let Mr. White do the work for him, let him wipe his lips and lead him into the bathroom, into the shower. His clothes were removed and tossed into a hamper.

He was in a daze through the shower; then he was vaguely conscious of being dressed again and led into a bed, a soft bed.

"I have to go," Mr. White told him.

Jesse raised his head desperately.

"Where?"

"Home. I'll be back in the morning."

He slumped back down and faintly heard Mr. White lock the door. He was trapped.