"Do you have any children?"
Gaara stared past the man's shoulder, half-heartedly eying a crack in the street. No, he didn't have any children.
"Pets, then! Or maybe you throw the occasional party? The cause is irrelevant! We all know our carpets can get pretty dirty sometimes. Dirt stains, coffee, wine, food—it can all be eliminated in mere minutes with only a dab of Amazo-clean!"
It was drizzling outside. The air was impossibly humid and somehow sticky. Gaara hated wet weather. "I don't need any cleaner."
"Oh, but this isn't just any cleaner!" beamed the salesman at his door. Suddenly he had a sample carpet square in one hand and a damp rag in the other. The carpet square was sullied with something brown. Gaara blinked at it. "You see, just a small amount of Amazo-clean on this ordinary dish rag is all it takes to remove even the worst caked-in mud spots." The man started vigorously scrubbing the mud. "And there you have it!"
The stain was still faintly visible. Gaara could see it. He chose not to mention this, and instead studied the salesperson with the barest of interest.
"Would you like me to give you an in-home demonstration?" the man asked. He sounded hopeful. Briefly, Gaara wondered what such a demonstration would entail. Would the man grind coffee grounds into his floor and then try to clean it? He shook his head.
"I don't have any carpets."
"O-oh." The man's shoulders dropped. "Why didn't you mention that before?"
Gaara shrugged.
"Well," said the salesman, at a loss, "thank you for your time, anyway. Do you know anyone who might be interested?"
Another shrug.
"I see. If you… change your mind, here is our card. Please feel free to call any time between nine and five. My personal extension is one-one-six. I wrote it on there." He fished a card out of his pocket, balancing the rag and the carpet square against his hip. Gaara noticed that his belt was too big for him; it looked like he must have poked an extra hole in it with a screwdriver. The shirt was too big, too.
The card was held out with a smile.
"Have a nice day, sir."
Gaara took the card. He shut the door.
He looked down at the thing in his hand and wondered why the hell he opened the door in the first place. He hated salesmen. Vaguely angry with himself, he flicked the card onto his counter.
He could admit he might've wanted to see one more person before he ended things. That it happened to be a sleazy door-to-door scam artist was just an unfortunate happenstance. The guy had looked worse than his product— naïve, desperate, and poorly composed. Even if he'd needed carpet cleaner, Gaara wouldn't have bought any from him.
He just wanted to see one more person. Now that he had, Gaara had no more reason to delay.
Taking a final glance around his oversized loft, his sparse furnishings and bland walls, he sat down. There was a handgun on the table next to the lamp. He picked it up. The metal sat sleekly in his palm. Cold, and not as heavy as he'd thought. His hands were trembling.
Goodbye, Temari. Kankuro. They would surely maintain the company far better than he would have anyway. It was a testament to how terrible his life was that he could think of no one else to wish a farewell.
Shutting his eyes, he was distinctly aware of how his arm shifted until his hand was beside his head. He felt the sleeve of his long shirt pulling against his skin. Nothing felt real; he might as well have been watching a stranger. He felt his fingers curled around the—
Someone rang his doorbell.
Exasperated, Gaara put the gun down. What was this? Another solicitor?
He was entirely ready to die now, certain that humanity was a lost cause even without him there to ruin it for everyone. Shaking his head, he decided to just ignore the person. They would go away on their own.
He picked the gun back up and pressed it against his temple, teeth grit, and—
They were knocking now. Worse yet, it was in that annoying Shave and a Haircut tune that was too upbeat even on good days.
Gaara smacked the gun onto the table and went to the door. He peered impatiently through the peephole. It was the same salesman as before. Gaara opened it. "What?" he demanded.
"Forgive me for the nuisance, but I realized I forgot to introduce myself. I am Rock Lee. If you cannot reach me via the extension number, you may ask for me by name and someone will connect you to my personal phone," Rock Lee gushed. "I can't believe I made that mistake. It's my first day, you know!"
"Okay. Goodbye," Gaara said, and he slammed the door.
Perhaps he was more irritated than the situation necessarily called for. He didn't care. Forgoing the dramatics this time, Gaara stormed over to the gun, stuck it in his mouth, and—there was that knocking again. Polite to the point of madness.
Eyes wide, Gaara exchanged a silent dialogue with the ceiling. Why? he pondered. His tongue rolled over the muzzle of the gun and he noticed it tasted familiar, like a spoon. His finger was poised to pull the trigger. Just one good tug and that would be it. A single ephemeral movement would be all it took. Bang. Thud. Gaara was ready.
"Excuse me, sir!" muffled a voice from outside.
But this was happening. He slammed the gun down haphazardly.
"What now?" Gaara snapped, wrenching open the door.
"You dropped this," stated Rock Lee. Gaara looked at the thing he was being offered and was alarmed to see his own scant and hastily written suicide note, thankfully still folded. Lee, who continued to smile like a lunatic, passed it to him without pause.
"Thanks," clipped Gaara.
Somewhat uneasily, he wondered how he should respond. Lee was still standing there, looking friendly but saying nothing. "Leave now, please," Gaara tried, but as he moved to close the door for the last time, Lee reached out a hand and stopped him.
"Are you an officer of the law?"
The ridges between Gaara's eyes creased. "No."
"It's just that I noticed you have a gun on your table."
"So?"
"Is it part of a collection?"
"…Yes."
Lee's eyes brightened. "Oh! How youthful. I used to collect ankle weights myself, but I've had to sell many of them as of late."
This was becoming unusual. Gaara had no idea what social convention required of him at a time like this. Mostly, he just wanted this person to go away so he could get on with killing himself. He chose not to respond.
For a shockingly long time, neither Gaara nor the salesman said anything, and Lee didn't make an excuse to leave as people often did when Gaara became quiet. By the contrary, he seemed comfortable. "I'm going to go inside now," said Gaara.
"Yes, of course! Have a wonderful day. And don't forget to call me if you need anything!"
Startled, Gaara closed the door. He stared absently at the handgun across the room. It seemed suspiciously innocuous, the way it just sat there looking back at him. Gaara frowned, glancing down at the unread suicide note in his hand. His thumb slid over a crease.
With some force, he shoved it into a drawer.
He headed for the hallway to grab his keys and coat, absentmindedly running a thumb over the crinkle in his brow. Clearly he needed to go out and get some fresh air. He had a sudden and inexplicable desire to look into buying carpets.