@maddkingpin
Seven minutes to midnight and each passing second felt excruciating, like glass beneath his skin. How long would he be able to wait here? Ten more minutes, tops? Desperation clung to him, as did the faint sheen of sweat that had left him feeling sick and clammy. The night air was cool enough for a spring night in Los Angeles--somewhere in the high sixties, probably--but hardly cool enough for the way Gabe felt. Somehow it seemed as though his body was burning itself from within, and yet he felt himself beginning to tremble so badly that he could hardly tell where the chills ended and the regular shakes began. Withdrawals were hell and if this guy didn’t show up soon he was absolutely positive that he would die right there on the sidewalk.
Another minute passed, the faint blue glow from his phone’s screen illuminating his face for the briefest moment before disappearing into the pocket of his dark hoodie. Frustration began to take hold of him, mingling with the anxiety that had constantly been whispering in his ear. This was a bad idea, he was stupid to go to someone new, someone he didn’t trust. But he couldn’t stand being in his own skin anymore and if he didn’t get relief soon--
No. He didn’t need to think about then. All he needed to worry about was now. A distraction, something to satisfy one of his other cravings, something to chase away even the faintest symptoms. The pack of cigarettes in his pocket was still mostly full at least, and lighting up would kill a couple of minutes. As long as this guy was punctual--and not some kind of psychopath--then everything would be fine.
Just fine.
