The Wolf at the Door.

[physiognomy]

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name: Gabriel Childe
better known as: Wolf
age: too old for games and too young for love.
occupation: freelance photographer; musician.

The once dread-haired, renegade musician was changing. Following in Devon's footsteps, he tried to drop heroin as much as he could -- the relapses were continuous and none too pretty, but he got an A for effort. The dreads were chopped off (no, hot the dreads!) and replaced with his shaggy blond hair, somewhat thick with the smell of cigarettes from clubs.


But today was perhaps a different story for him. He was tangled in the sheets of an empty bed in Devon's home, awake, but not coherent. His eyes were glazed and non-cooperative, his inner arm grazed with red marks over the veins; he bore them without hiding. Devon was watching him with only a slight sense of disappointment -- really, he'd been tempted himself since coming back from rehab, he was lucky to have Sanka. Wolf wasn't so lucky. "How you hanging?"


Wolf stirred, but didn't quite look at Devon, chuckling hoarsely. "M'alive, yeh?" Whether this was good news or bad he had yet to decide.


Devon snorted and stalked inside the room, arms crossed over his chest. "Barely, man. You went fucking nuts last night, from what I heard. I cancelled the recording session for today. Take it easy."


Wolf's shoulders sloped in relief and he gave a grateful glance up at the guitarist. Devon just gave a punkass grin. "Yeah, yeah. You can make it up by walking the mutt. Me'n Sanka are going out. Behave yourself, you bastard."


"Fuck th'dog.." Sleepily cursing, Wolf stumbled out of bed as Devon crossed the room and left, and not too long after, he heard the front door open and shut again. "Hnn." Naked (since no one was home anyway), he prowled out of the guestroom and downstairs, squinting as he looked around the house.


This could have been his house.


Maybe if he had gone with Devon to rehab those months back. Cleaned himself up completely. Maybe he would have turned himself a new leaf and Elizabeth wouldn't have broken up with him and he wouldn't be so stoned and fucking out of it all the time. He knew Devon would never get angry at him. Devon had gone through the same thing -- if not worse. Someday, though, someday it would be him laying down in the hospital bed and the doctor hovering over him, talking about the complications of his heart. And who would be in the other room, worrying over him?


No one.

[physiognomy]

It is estimated that there are 294,708,570 is the U.S. with a birth every eight seconds and one death every thirteen seconds. Looking at last year alone, 4,751 people died of heroin. That's less then one percent. I know this -- I know all the statistics backwards and forwards. You could quote me on the percetage of teenage heroin users, and some people do. Fuck. If you're going to do something, you might as well know exactly what you're going into, right?


I know exactly what symptons of withdrawl I'm going from and when the next will occur. I think that's what scares me the most, that I know exactly what's going to happen.


I haven't had a hit in awhile. A little over twelve hours. I can't sleep. I keep throwing up even though there's nothing to throw up anymore, so I've given up staying anywhere else besides the bathtub. My head hurts. Everything hurts so much.


I just want one hit. One little hit to hold me over. I could go to Devon's house. I already tore apart the apartment looking for something, anything. I found some pot, but I couldn't smoke it, I was shaking too hard.


People can die from withdrawl. More people die during withdrawl then during actual drug use. I could die, right now. Either the smell would get to the neighbors and they'd come bang on my door or Devon would find me. I hate this. Can't I just have one hit? Why does it matter?


Just a little bit. just a few milligrams. That's all i need.


pleasepleaseplease? i won't ask for anything for christmas


i've been a good boy this year, santa, a real good boy

ill make you proud i promise

[physiognomy]

Her real name was Mira Chapell. She was jewish. I didn't know her religion until the day of the funeral. I never asked her name, I always called her Red. She saw my tattoo, so she always called me Wolf. We never asked eachother about our real names. When I met her, I was in rehab for three months that time. I met her in the first week. She was a spitfire little thing. Red hair. All bold and guts. Fierce too -- she was probably the strongest woman I ever met.


I don't think I was in love with her. But we were close -- real close. We were suffering together. We'd battle the cravings together. She held me when the withdrawals were more then I could bare, and I did the same with her. After two months of hell, I was starting to pick up again. She wasn't. She was bad. The pain even got worse, until she wouldn't even come out of her room, she just stayed curled on the bed.


Then one morning I went to her room. She wasn't in her bed. She was hanging from the small window by the ceiling. Her feet weren't touching the ground. Her lips were fat and purple and her eyes were bulging. She didn't look so firey anymore. I screamed, I threw up, I cried. I hung onto her cold legs. I waited for het to wake up, I waited until they had to drag me out of that room. I went crazy after that -- or at least, that's what they told me. They wanted to keep me there for three more months, but Devon sprung me loose.


Two days later, I was pumping myself up with heroin again. It was all mindless. I didn't care about anything, and you know what? I do now, but I still don't care what happens to me. I can die. We all die. Even the strong ones die.

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[physiognomy]

Wolf was smoking a cigarette and talking to himself. He hadn't meant to pick up the habit, but hanging around gypsies brought strange results. Tapping the cig, he crouched down as he murmured. "Y'been on his ass awhile, mama. Y'know that boy's breakin'. Fuck yeh, he's already broken. I dunno if I can fix him, but I gotta try. He saved my ass."


He paused, inhaling deeply and exhaling in gray again. "I'll make a deal with ya. Y'keep those voices outta his fuckin' head for a week, and I'll stay offa heroin. F'good. Promise, on my word as a cajun, woman."


Now the question was, would this actually work? Who knows. But karma (and the devil) owed Wolf a thing or two, and the bassist planned on pulling the strings.

[physiognomy]

Eventfulness turned into chaos in the most unexpected of ways. When he came home from visiting Devon he saw the flashing blue lights from the sidewalk; he saw the plastic baggy with a syringe hanging from the cop's hand. Wolf walked forward without fear, dreaded hair slithering along his jaw. "I really hope y'boys, y'know.. have a fuckin' warrant." The bassist gave his classic wolfish smile; the cop did not seem amused.

"Gabriel Childe?"

"Yeh."

"We are placing you under arrest for evidence against you regarding the assault of Devon Croy and for the possession of heroin."

Wolf blinked incredulously and broke out into a howling laughter. The cops, who had already thought the bassist to be slightly insane, took a step back. Grinning like a madman, Gabriel Childe stuck his hands out. "Cuff me, boys. Cuff 'em right up. Gimmie a wild fuckin' ride, you hear me? Gimmie it all."

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[physiognomy]

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I had your number quite some time ago
Back when we were young
But I had to grow
Ten thousand years I've searched it seems and now
Gotta get to you
Won't you tell me how
Call me call me
Let me know you are there
Call me call me
I wanna know you still care
Come on now won't you
Ease my mind
Reasons for me to find you
Peace of mind
What can I do
To get me to you