What is a demon? A killer? A maniac? A rapist?

No.

A demon is one that cares only for itself, an entity that rejects the social structure of the world either by choice or necessity. They are they ones who see the world for what it is, past what people try to pretend it is. Demons are hated, but the hatred directed at them can never match the hatred that is reflected back.

How do such beings come to be? They are not born but rather created. A demon is made through pain, much like a baptism of fire. And who does the baptizing? Why, the people around the demon of course. The ones who hate it for what they made it into.

Such is the nature of man.

Tale est.

"My sister gave you your name. 'This child's name is Gaara. A demon that loves only itself. Love only yourself, and fight only for yourself. By doing so you can continue to exist. . .' your name carries those wishes. But my sister did not give you the name because she loved you or cared for you; she gave you that name so that you could continue to exist. . . because she hated and cursed this village as she died, and she wanted her deep hatred. . . to continue to exist. . . to let others know of it."

"You were not loved."

"This is it. Please die."

The bombs went off, but Gaara remained unharmed. The sand had protected him, not out of his mothers love, but rather out of a demon's will to survive. There was a moment of silence before a scream rent the silence. Sand flew through the air before carving a red symbol onto the forehead of it's user.

Love only yourself, and fight only for yourself.

'That is what Gaara is. . . me. I finally understand. I'm alone. I won't believe in anyone or love anyone. I'm alone. Yes, I am alone.'

With that though his world faded into darkness as a sensation unlike any he had ever felt overtook him.

Gaara woke several hours later. 'I. . . woke?' Was his first thought. He had never slept since the moment he had been born, whenever he was about to sleep he would get a bad feeling, no, a terrible feeling.

'I feel, refreshed,' he though slowly, 'But. . . what happened?'

He cast his mind back and came upon the memories of what had transpired. His expression hardened as he stood.

'I see.'

So annoying, so very annoying. It was the same villager every time. They all looked at him like a monster, but this week there was one in particular. The villagers, he hated them all, but that one he hated more than the rest. Wandering down the street he spotted the very same man, unfortunately for him.

Using his sand he killed the man before he could even register a threat. It was Gaara's first kill, and normally it would have been traumatic. Normally. What Gaara had already experienced was far worse, though, and he felt nothing. He never felt anything.

In between Yashamaru's betrayal and becoming an ninja his father tried to have him assassinated five more times, but each time Gaara survived. The would be assassins weren't so lucky. At his first day at the Academy he sat in the middle of the room, and everyone else sat against the walls leaving at least ten feet between themselves and him. Throughout the day they would head to the bathroom in ones and twos and they never seemed to make it back. By the time the day was out Gaara was sitting in an empty room with a chunnin teacher who was sweating bullets.

He stood, slowly, and stared at the man. What he saw on his face made Gaara smile slightly, but the smile was far from sane. 'He doesn't hate me, no, he fears me.'

Gaara didn't bother going back to the Academy after that, instead he would wander into the desert. He would stay there for days on end, simply being as one with nature. It was the closest to sleep he ever got, the closest to peace. Before he had realized the nature of the world, before Yashamaru, he had struggled with the lack of sleep. He had managed to get about five hours of sleep in the first five years of his life and he was averring about the same at the moment, but he couldn't feel the difference now. Then again, he couldn't feel anything. Not the wind on his skin, not the dried blood that covered some of his clothes, not even the warmth of the desert. All was cold.

For those years Gaara turned within himself, he sequestered himself in isolation, and that was how he liked it. He developed a passion for reading, it allowed him escape. For the period of a few hours a book let him leave his miserable life and go elsewhere. There were books on chakra, history, fairy tales, everything. After reading he would experience a sense of calm, but that feeling never lasted. Once it faded, perhaps in a few hours, he would feel the need again. The need to prove that he existed. Someone would die, and the cycle would repeat.

Eventually Gaara's habit of reading became more. Since he had no use for sleep, he read through the night. He didn't particularly need food either, the demon would give him that. He had learned about the biju within him, and now he knew the screams that he had heard from as far back as he could remember for what they were. He could ignore them now, and what a sweet relief it was.

Needing neither sleep nor sustenance, he retreated even further into himself. He once wandered into the desert with a stack of books and returned seven days later, each book fully read no less than twice. Of course, the villagers were more concerned with not being the target of his after-reading murder to care about the literary knowledge of a eight year old.

The years passed like that, each one the same as the last. The pattern continued until the tenth year of his life when he was told by his father that he would be a shinobi. He was put on a team with two people, one of which had blonde hair and the other brown, should you manage to see it under his hood. He was certain he knew the two in some way, but he soon gave up thinking about it. It was only several months later that he realized that they were his brother and sister. It was understandable, really. He had stopped living with his family at the age of six in preference of wandering the desert.

It was the only constant in his life, the desert. The waves of sand had a calming effect on him that could only be matched by a good book. When he read one such book in the desert he always got a special feeling. He couldn't describe it, it was too faint to fully feel, but for feelings didn't come easily to him and so even the faintest was welcome. Well, most feelings didn't come easily to him. One did.

Hatred.