I'm starting to hate the past.

I'd thought that I'd managed to push it away, but recently, it's been pushing its way back. There will be a word, a phrase, that will remind me of something from long ago. Or sometimes a name, a name that brings back too many memories.

One name in particular: Gaara.

-/-

My father's greatest skill in this world was infusing objects with his chakra. In fact, it was mostly his only skill, but he had many uses for it.

He tried to teach it to me, too. But his affinity was always for corporeal objects, solid objects. I could never force chakra into my shuriken or strengthen a katana with my energy. I never really had any skill with weapons at all, to be honest.

There was only one thing I could pour my chakra into: Sand.

-/-

"Here, look," I said apprehensively, holding my hand out to the suspicious redheaded boy with eyes of palest seafoam. In my outstretched palm rested a small hill of sand, not golden, but crimson with my own blood. Mother always got nervous when I cut my finger open—I was only five, after all—but it was the easiest way to bind my chakra to a substance. I never did it in front of her, though.

But now was important, I thought. I needed to have control.

"Look," I said again in a small voice. "I'm sort of like you, just a little."

To prove my point, I stared hard at the pile of crimson. After a few seconds, it twisted into a tiny funnel of gold-flecked scarlet, a miniature sandstorm.

The five-year-old in front of me took just one step, wary. He was unsure of my intentions, uncertain of whether or not I was tormenting him.

I didn't blame him. I saw the way the other children treated this boy, feared this boy.

I was a little scared myself, standing there. No, let's face it—I was terrified. My hand trembled violently as I tried to hold it in the air, and the tiny twister collapsed back into my palm.

But I had never seen any sign of the monster that was said to possess this child, so even though I was afraid, there I stood.

Hesitantly, I closed my nut brown eyes, wondering if it would soothe him at all that I couldn't see him. Again, I tried to raise the sand. It was harder with my eyes closed; I liked—needed, really—to be able to see it to concentrate.

A few bloody grains stirred feebly; I could feel them skid gently across the tops of the others. Then the whole conglomeration lifted into the air, and my eyes snapped open.

He stood close enough to touch my hand, if he just reached out, and my sand whirled around his body, dancing with his sand. I let my arm fall; the few grains left in my palm tumbled to the stone of the rooftop.

I struggled to call them back to me, but though infused with my blood, the sand obeyed him much more naturally than me. The stray particles rose to join his waltzing storm.

I opened my mouth then, to say I-don't-know-what, but my mother's desperate call interrupted.

"Sunako! Sunako!"

I could tell by the tone of her voice and the way that she stumbled across the rooftop that something was wrong. My mother was a calm, graceful woman, and even a five-year-old could see that this was not a normal state.

It seemed that she was so blinded by tears that she didn't even see that boy who stood, frozen like a culprit caught in the act, in front of me. If she had, there would surely have been fear in her voice as well.

"Mommy?" I called anxiously. "Mommy, what's—"

"It's your father," she interrupted in a trembling whisper. "Sunako, it's daddy. He—he—" Her voice caught in her throat as she sank down beside me.

Gaara had slipped away. He was no fool.

"Mommy, please—"

It was as if she couldn't even hear me talking, the way she kept cutting me off. "Caught in a sandstorm," she breathed, choking on tears. "Unnatural. Sunako—daddy's not coming back."

Sandstorm. Unnatural. Not coming back.

"Mommy—"

"Sunako, we're leaving. I can't stand this village now. I can't stand the desert. I hate this place. We'll go—we'll go to Konoha. Find the trees. There won't be this cursed barrenness." Her speech was disjointed, but I understood her words.

On the other hand, her reasons didn't make sense even to my childish mind. I was sharp; it made up a little for my lack of skill.

I knew she'd grown up in the desert. She didn't hate it; she was comfortable there. And it didn't make any sense to go into the open desert because she couldn't stand home, even if it was just to get to Konoha. Open desert was what she should have hated.

Unless she was trying to find my father, to make him come back. I understoodthat, and I latched onto the reason.

I wasn't so sharp as to see what was more likely: She was simply trying to join him.

-/-

It only took my mother a day to get prepare. I suppose that was what told me she was really ready to go; Mother knew the importance of being prepared in the desert. I remembered her rushing around, filling canteens and packing food and otherwise flitting about like a giant butterfly, then abruptly sitting down to examine another map.

But most of all, I remembered that I saw a child with crimson hair and eyes of palest seafoam, sheltered in the shadows of a building, watching us leave.

Konoha, I mouthed, but he just turned away.

-/-

A/N: Due to The Obsession's bad habit of trying to take over my life, this fic is currently on break until Obsession is over, because I tried writing this one and failed. However, because I really want to see where I can go with this, I WILL CONTINUE AT SOME POINT. Rest assured, I will. It will almost definitely be the next thing I work on.

Cleverly, I put this note at the END of the chapter, so if you really liked it, you add it to your alerts and wait. MWAHAHAHA.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the old one. :)