A/N: I've no idea. What…is…this. Well, it's terrible, that much I can say for certain…
Unhinged
By LawlietLennoxLove
We tore the skies apart yesterday, Mother and I.
They'd purged Hell together.
The mediocre, the sorry excuses for shinobi, the vermin that scuttled from him, cluttering the streets, watching him sideways (never in the eye, did they not dare, then, the great shinobi of Suna, the vile creatures?) from beady, judging eyes. It was only fitting that the very child that they had failed to destroy was their demise. All the more so that the last thing they saw, light dimming from frantic, dilated eyes – the eyes of prey; sometimes, under different circumstances, when it wasn't that lust for massacre blotting out everything but the voice of desperate, unsatiated insanity in his mind, he would revel in that look, the intoxicating lure of the raw terror (meat in front of his eyes, rip it down), and then, he would kill slowly, drop by drop, slice by slice, drinking in the delicious, heady taste of fear that leaked out, oh so slowly, delight in the sharp jarring bitterness in the copper tang – was an angel. The messenger of God, the bringer of peace, the symbol of justice…untainted crystal-green lakes blazing hatred, wanting nothing more than to drown them in their burning depths, eerily pale skin, Hell-fire in his hair. And though he didn't know it, deranged screeching in his ears.
The only one untouched in the midst of the carnage. He must be an angel.
The world shifts in and out of focus. No; the world was shifting from being in focus to being in even sharper focus. He and Shukaku – he and Mother – are the only ones to see it clearly. To feel the sour burn of contempt at the self-deluded who cling to life with such a hopeless gesture of tenacity, like so many limpets, like so many rats, traitors, and hypocrites, every one of them, to call them (Mother, Mother) a monster when they made him such…they wanted nothing more than to crush them, to grind them to the ground and kick the carcasses back into the gutter.
It's times like those that make Gaara realise just how truly lucky he is. To have guidance, to have the only company he needed, and for that company (so much more...Mother…) to teach him, instruct him. To make him what he is: is he not a predator, unlike those mindless, sentimental, treacherous masses polluting the very air? His prey; if a shinobi was weak enough to be overcome, then surely they didn't deserve to live. And after all, even though many – he's forgotten just how many (and what did it matter anyway? One pestering ant, a horde of ants; stamp, squish) – have come up against him, he is still alive.
He is alive, because his Mother has protected him. One more person to know that all this – the laughter that maddens him, the bright, vibrant colours that rake venom-spiked needles through his senses – all this was transitory. To know that the only shade (how he hated the flashing oranges, yellows, greens…) was the vermilion that rained down on them as they slashed open the skies.
Once a month, when the moon waxed full, a pure, shining orb that looked on, parting the thick, cloying fronds of the night to cast silvery light on the angel. One more person, and, Shukaku aside, the only person.
Last one standing, and not even a tear on his shirt to give testimony to it. He'd purified the streets, washed out the multitude, the plague, with their own filthy, filthy blood.
He'd locked his eyes onto one of the jounin's, snakeskin-emerald on stricken brown. Coco, chocolate, caramel…he saw a slithering mass of creatures. Murky. Turbid. And only when he saw the clawing horror (even more intense than the usual run-that-boy-is-a-monster, now that was hard to achieve) that he heard his Mother's approving chuckle, and he realised-
-the maniacal laughter ripping the darkness was his own.