Characters: Gaara
Summary: Look at me.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: This is written from the perspective of the Suna villagers.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
There's a child who wanders through the breadth of Sunagakure's desolate, dusty streets. The crowds part for him; the villagers give him a wide berth. Where he goes, emptiness and silence follows.
He's a very delicate looking boy. His skin is pale, his hair the color of fresh, warm blood. His eyes, with no pupils but just smooth, unconquered iris, are the color of green sea glass that hangs in the windows of stores and glitters from wind chimes. He seems so harmless.
But they all know he's a monster. He never sleeps, and if they're not careful, he'll feast on his flesh when they're not looking. He, or more accurately the spirit inside of him, thirsts for fresh blood. His mother found this out in practical experience, dying as her son fed on her.
But they flee from the sight of his green eyes for another reason.
They fear they might feel sympathy for the creature if they see the empty, desolate look in his eyes.
He can almost be a child when he wanders the streets, looking for someone to play with. He clutches his bear, his only friend, to his chest, smiling tremulously when he sees other children but his face with its delicate features crumpling when they hear him creeping up from behind, and flee to save their own lives. He may just want to play, but they can't take that chance.
He can barely control himself as it is.
It's almost pitiable, the desperately lonely look plastered on the outer layers of his skin and seeping down deeper into his bones and his very soul (If he even has one).
And there's an eerie voice that echoes about the walls made empty by the people who flee in droves from him. It's a silent voice, one without words, but it can be heard. Heard, but never listened to.
Otousama, oneesan, oniisan, everyone.
Love me, hate me. I don't care which.
Don't deny me. I know you know I'm there. Don't deny my existence. Don't blot me out.
The voice is never heeded. Just an echo on the rocks, they tell themselves. Just an echo of something long dead.
Just look at me.
Please, look at me.