<div class="floatleft">(http://i45.tinypic.com/2eztcma.png)</div><strong>Name</strong>: Gabe Alvarez<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Random Alley, Apartment 2B & the Row<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Nette, Anyone<br/><strong>Date</strong>: July 28th<br/><strong>Time</strong>: 6:30AM onwards<br/><hr/><br/>Gabe grunts as a swift kick to the stomach bent him double and knocks him to the floor, there's another kick to the stomach that makes him cough and splutter out flecks of blood onto the grimy concrete. Before another hit can connect with his body, he's on his feet and he lands a blow straight into his attacker's face and he feels more than hears the sound of bone snapping and the scream that comes from the man as blood pours from his now-misaligned nose. The young man grins, teeth coated in blood showing as he turns his back from the other man who's on his knees clutching at his face.<br/><br/>"You don't get to pick the prices, pig, I do," he spits out at the man before limping slightly down the alleyway.<br/><br/>The sun is barely coming up over the horizon as Gabe Alvarez, professional rent boy, heads back to the Row, shaking slightly from the come down he's just starting to feel. A long night of relentless, creepy and just plain pathetic clients had ended in a displeasing occurrence when the client he'd just broken the nose of insists that eighty bucks was too much for a fuck and only offered him a fifty and then promptly started beating the shit out of him after Gabe kicked him in the balls for being so cheap. He slips a hand, wincing at the bruised and possibly broken knuckles, into his pocket and wraps it round the night's takings - needing to reassure himself that it is still there, that it will stay there. The cash is his ticket to a belt round his arm and a needle filled with browned, heated liquid releasing in his veins and that ticket is what Gabe cannot, will not lose. He can't remember the time back when the smack used to be a want and not a need; it's too long ago, too far back in his warped memory.<br/><br/>Rummaging in his other pocket, he pulls out a lighter and a cigarette - Pall Mall, his loved and trusted old friend - and sticks it between his lips, has to stop to light it with shaking hands and takes a long, desperate inhale before stumbling on, rounding the corner and turning right. A slow exhale that sounds more like a sigh of relief is cut short when Gabe has to stop, cough and hack and spit out blood. He groans in annoyance, hoping none of his injuries will warrant a trip to the clinic because he just can't afford to spend money on stitches today. Gabe clears his throat and continues on, taking slow drags from his cigarettes and tries to suck all the pleasure he can from it, trying to ignore that steadily growing itch, pretending the sweats aren't there, acting like the nausea is simply from the repeated kicks to his abdomen. But he can't kid himself, he never has been able to; his mind just won't let himself accept anything but the truth and this is one of many things he hates about himself. One of many things that make him turn to the sweet release of smack.<br/><br/>This is why he hurries once he reaches the Row, limping as fast as he can and ignoring the soft gasps or calls of his name when his friends, his family see the state he's in. Gabe waves away young Kyla who follows by his side, tugging at his sleeve and asking what happened. He just shakes his head and wipes the blood from his lips with his sleeve, insisting its nothing as he heads into what once was the lobby of the old apartment complex. Nowadays, its used as the drug production line for Desolation Row.<br/><br/>A few heads turn in Gabe's direction, some of the kid's who've known him longer nod a greeting and take no notice of the already forming black eye, split lip, bloody knuckles and various other cuts and bruises. This is no surprise for them, the one's who've known him since he was a young boy; Gabe always did have a tendency to get into a fight, when the mood struck him, he just couldn't help himself. Violence was almost like another drug to him sometimes, it felt good to get the crap beat out of him and it felt good to throw back those punches even harder. Masochistic, sadistic, plain old psychotic; Gabe didn't care, he just knew fighting felt right when he hit that mood, that need to feel pain and deal pain. It was like toying with control, losing it and gaining it back and losing it all over again in a matter of seconds, in the moment's when the other guy had the upper hand. The rush was just what he needed. But now, it's another rush he craves; a different kind, a slow kind.<br/><br/>He seats himself in front of his usual dealer, sitting slightly awkwardly given the stabbing pain in his ribs and stomach, and the ache in his ass from the 7 foot black dude who loves to slam his ten inch length straight up Gabe with no lube whatsoever. He waits for what seems like an eon, staring vacantly, hungrily as the twitchy little speed addict weighs him out a gram of drone and two of the skag. Then he quickly hands him the cash, grabs the wrap and the baggie and leaves a little too fast for his shaking legs to carry him, which shows when he falters, stumbles and crashes to his knees. He's back on his feet too fast for too many people to notice and he staggers the rest of the way back to the room he shares with Nette and the rest of his family, slipping down the wall to sit and gasping for breath while he peers out the open doorway to see if Nette is coming yet. The Latino gives a sigh of relief before climbing painfully to his feet and slipping into the room he shared with Nette, yelling out in surprise at seeing her laying on the stained, thin mattress and stumbling backwards, hitting the wall and groaning, a trembling hand wrapping round his throbbing ribs as he slips to the floor, attempting to sit as comfortably as possible.<br/><br/>Grunting, he moves a wooden board that's been shoved into a tight fit of a cover over a hole in the wall. Once the board is removed, Gabe sticks his hand in the wall and pats around, his hand searching for familiar shapes and wrapping around a slip of leather, pulling it out from the hole and then pulling out a cloth package which sets carefully on the floor. With great care, he gently unwraps the cloth and lays the baggie with the heroin next to a needle, a slightly bent spoon, small bottle of water, a few cotton balls and an old, fraying, fake leather belt. Gabe pulls the lighter out of his pocket, glancing up to make sure Nette is still sleeping and wrapping the belt round his right arm when he assures himself she is. He pulls the belt tight and holds it taut between his teeth while he oh-so-carefully spoons out a tiny portion of the golden brown slightly tar-like substance and puts a few drops of water on the spoon before holding the lighter under the spoon and sparking it up, gritting his teeth around the belt and trying to tense all his muscles to stop his hands from shaking so much. His eyes drift up to Nette's sleeping form and feeling something strange stir in his heart when his eyes find the bruises and welts on her exposed skin. They were going to have words later, no matter how beat up Gabe was. It wasn't important when it was him but Nette...she had to stop getting herself so battered.<br/><br/>Only a few minutes later the smack had mixed well with the water and Gabe carefully put a cotton ball into the liquid, watching at it was soaked up, acting as a perfect filter. His heart beat wildly, breaths coming out fast and heavy as he drew up the sun-textured liquid into the barrel of the needle, staring intensely, a desperate ravenous need reaching its peak within him. He dropped the emptied spoon to the floor and positioned the needle next to a nice vein that had been surfaced from the belt and groaned as he slipped the little piece of sharp metal into the soft blue of the vein. Gabe gave himself a moment to collect himself, drawing in a shaky breath before he pushed the plunger down and moaned indiscriminately, slipping further down the wall, practically horizontal with the floor as his eyes roll back for several moments, the sharp, pointed bones of his hips rolling upwards as his body moved with the flow of the pleasure, gasping in a breath of stale air as his eyes snapped back open and he sat up, a loud exhale leaving his lungs while a gentle, lackadaisical smile spread over his hollow, pale cheeks.<br/><br/>With his craving fulfilled, Gabe swiftly packed away his materials, the smile never leaving his face as he hummed a mellifluous tune under his breath, occasionally mouthing lyrics to the old song. Wrapping up the baggie into the cloth with the other utensils and slipping the lighter back into his pocket then pulling the belt off his arm and stuffing it back into the hole in the wall, followed by the cloth and then forcefully shoving the wooden board back into the hole. Once the contraband was hidden away, he slipped the paper wrap of drone from his pocket and carefully unfolded it, using a razorblade he always kept in his current pack of cigarettes and slowly cut out a lazy, slightly messy line on the back of his hand then bringing it up to his nose and snorting it up quick sharp. A childish giggle escaped his mouth while he licks a fingertip, dips it into the white powder then slips the finger into his mouth, rubbing the drug over his gums. He wraps up the drone again, sliding it into his back pocket and gets to his feet, leaving Nette to sleep just a while longer. His humming slowly turns into full on singing as he wanders in a dazed, swerving path out of the apartment and around the Row in a seemingly random pattern.<br/><br/>"<em>Never a frown, with golden brown,</em>" he sings softly, slipping another Pall Mall between his lips and lighting it as he watches the world around him, watches his home change and move and flow with the people residing in it.