:Zero Tolerance for Insomnia
:mIRAKURU rEIN
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A/N: A result of staying up late for many days in a row, out of necessity. (It's called APs, man.)
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chapter 1: brandywine
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"Don't drink too much."
He lowers the kid's glass down a little, forcing the liquid to sway from his lips.
"You'll get liver problems, and we all know you don't want that."
The kid gives him a disgusted look. "Che." He slams the glass down against the counter, wiping his mouth. "You just have no tolerance for alcohol, you lazy jackass."
"What happened to giving elders utmost respect?" he responds with a quirked smile. "Whatever. Don't stay out too long, now. Get some sleep. You're not attractive as a zombie."
The kid has circles under his eyes, but he scoffs. They're permanent, part of his features, and he would loathe to have them gone.
He kicks the sand, which turns into snow, which falls and in turn transforms back to sand.
He shakes his head empty. He must be seeing things. Must be the alcohol.
He can't go home tonight. Home screams bloody murder, home is the place where hell brews its anger, home is the place he lives with two people who don't know who he is. Home is his prison, home is his jail. He was released tonight and he sure as hell doesn't want to go back.
The kid decides to take one last glance up at his city before he hides in the shadows of the back alleys. It's a sandy city, covered in sand, buildings broken down with erosion, sadness hanging in the air and destitution licking the bones of every soul. That's enough. He's seen enough. That's why he keeps his head down while he's walking.
He looks down as his feet, trudging against the soft sand that rose up in the air and fell like snow. This would make a lovely picture, he decides. After all, he is an artist, so why not make this into a lovely pic—
Pain stabs deep into his left shoulder.
He is bewildered at first, stares at it dumbly like it is merely a shallow entity that would flicker away without a moment's notice. Then he realizes that kunai are not supposed to be lodged within his shoulder blade and looks to his left – then up.
It is raining kunai.
He runs. Common sense tells him that the sky does not randomly rain kunai for a reason. Unless this is some fucked-up dream he would rather not be in, common sense tells him another thing – someone is after his life.
Shadows fade in and out of the alleys, something like a horror movie, where the monster knows where you are but you have no idea where or what it is. The kid's seen enough of those movies to know – get out of the alley or you're fucked as shit.
He turns momentarily in the alleyway but slips – his leg slides out enough so that it is bending the wrong way, and if that isn't enough, two kunai suddenly pierce his back like stakes. He almost screams – all the air in his lungs are pushing towards his mouth, but somehow he tumbles into the wall closest him and starts running in a decidedly hazy, drunken manner.
His hands, without warning, ram into a wall. There is no way out. He stops and stares at the dead end. In his (almost) screaming pain, he had taken the wrong turn.
He looks up and almost excepts to see the Grim Reaper smiling broadly in his face. Oh God, no, please God, I'll do anything, just as long as I don't die, I'll draw pictures of saints, I'll draw pictures of the sky, just please don't –
Two kunai pierce the front of his shirt, and he briefly wonders if blood is supposed to feel so warm.
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He is not dead.
He confirms this when he jolts awake and finds himself bandaged, chained to a less-than-comfortable bed. The walls are white. The air smells pristine with chemicals.
Oh fuck no.
He can't believe this. What in God's name had he done to make people think he is clinically insane? Okay, sure, he is an artist, but it is plain discrimination to say that all artists are nutcases.
Needless to say, there is nothing much he can do to remedy the situation in current state, so he dozes off. Later off, he would say this was one of the worst things he's ever done in his entire life.
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The next time he wakes up, it is because someone slaps him in the face and throws (presumably) a bucket of water in his face.
The kid coughs on the liquid that travelled up his nose. Would it be safe to say the stupidest form of death is drowning by throwing water in your face?
"Sabaku no Gaara."
He jumps at the sound of his name.
"You are…Sabaku no Gaara, yes?"
The kid looks up, and he sees the most horrific man he's ever seen in his life.
The man has not aged gracefully, or naturally. Premature wrinkles criss-crossed, scars doppled his face like freckles. Deep scars, at that, caused by either knives or blunt objects used hard enough to break skin. He is bald; the top of his head reveals bullet hole wounds – somehow, the man had been able to survive. The rest of his body is covered by a black trench coat, but all the kid can see is scars, scars, scars, and years of damage.
"Sabaku no…Gaara." The kid repeats his name like it is unfamiliar to him and he is trying to learn it. In a way he is – no one has called him that in years. His sole companion who tells him not to drink has called him "kid" all his life, because he knew the kid hated his name, or merely because he hadn't bothered learning it.
"Sabaku no Gaara. I am going to tell you one thing, and then you will be forced to tell me the rest of the things I want to hear. Understand?"
The kid's neck must be broken, because he nods once like a rusty door hinge.
"You are here tonight because this woman was found brutally murdered in her apartment two nights ago."
He held a grotesque picture up to the kid's face. The image was of a blond woman, her head and appendages severed from her body, heart torn out, and opened eyes looking in different directions. The kid bit his tongue.
"Would you mind telling me how you killed her, Sabaku no Gaara?"
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His mind couldn't put two and two together. Why am I…what is he…isn't that…
His eyes widened in horror, brain braked at eternal shock. "Temari."
"Yes, and what relation is Temari to you, Sabaku Gaara?"
The kid wished he'd stop throwing his name around like a toy, and he wished he'd stop asking him questions for which answers he already knew.
"She's my…surrogate sister."
"And what are you?"
"I…am an orphan."
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"She was your legal guardian, yes?"
"Yes."
"Did you two get along well?"
"Very well."
"Did you ever hold a grudge against her?"
"For what reasons?"
"She had a family and you didn't. She didn't look after you like she should have."
"No."
"So what were you doing two nights ago?"
"Two nights ago being the day your police force cut me down?"
"Yes."
"I was out drinking."
"Were you now."
"Yes, I was."
"Why."
"Because."
"Your sister was murdered at 3 AM."
"Really."
"What were you doing then?"
"Taking a walk."
"Really."
"Yes."
"Why is this?"
"I'm an insomniac. You're telling me a guy who doesn't sleep can't go out for a walk?"
"Do you have documentation of this condition?"
"You can ask her relatives. They all know."
"I heard you don't come home some nights."
"I don't. I don't like going home. She's never there."
"Did you love her?"
"…no."
"Did you hate her?"
"…I didn't want her to die, if that's what you mean."
"You are participating at one hundred percent cooperation, correct?"
"Yes."
"Good. Otherwise…"
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The interrogation went on for two hours. The kid's mouth moved listlessly without any precursory emotion. All that he knew was his brain was going on fire: Temari, oh God no, why Temari, what am I ever going to tell…?
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At last he was taken out of the interrogation room and thrown unceremoniously into a jail cell. The iron doors close with a small squeak.
Ironic, isn't it, that the night he stepped out of his own jail cell he stumbled quite quickly into another one.
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If you cough too much, my dear, you'll cough your heart out. (I think it's a little too late for that.)
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The first wrong thing the kid notices is that he starts coughing up blood.
The second wrong thing the kid notices is that he is not the only one in the room.
He would run, but confined to the limits of a jail cell, he would just be a masochistic hamster that would start looking tasty once it had gotten properly fatigued.
The kid's first thought: I am in a small space with a very large fox (with lots of tails, at that), and it is going to eat me.
Oh holy motherfucking son of a God.
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tbc
chapter 2: pacing
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A/N: Please review. :D Loveliness is accepted everywhere, although flames are taken in and nurtured as well.