Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. I don't own many things. I do, however, own this story. Copy it, and you shall die. On with it now:

Being a loner is not about hate, but need: We need what others dread. We dread what others need. –ditto

Gravity

Everyday he swung on one of the two swings at recess.
The right one.
His mind was empty when he walked across the sand that added visual flavor to the ground, ignoring those around him. Interesting enough, considering a child his age would usually be curious, playful, atleast relieved from having to sit for the first few hours at the academy. His stride was certain, but not assertive, his eyes fixed on only one thing.
The swing.
The right one.
His eyes, rimmed with black, rarely looked anywhere else. He ignored the glances he was given, the trembling his peers were displaying. He showed no interest in the game with the ball he did not know, or the laughter that still sounded strange to his ears. Yes, he was going to the swing. Then everything would be all right.
They cleared the way for him; no one walked the path Gaara did. Only his footprints, worn away with wind and time, indented that stream of sand. It did not strike him odd this way, it has always been so. It was simply there; like gravity or the sky.
Or the swing.
The right one.
He didn't question it like most children do; no, it was there, and that was good enough for him. It wasn't as if someone would answer him, anyway.
His eyes didn't flicker with emotion as he became within a few yards from it. He still walked the same pace, never speeding up with uncontained anxiousness that most children held in their hearts when they saw a favorite play thing. He didn't slow to listen to the other's sounds as they played perhaps somewhat stupidly, or notice rain when clouds occasionally drew in.
Carefully, he sat down onto the wooden swing, gripping the chain absently. It had rust, he observed, as a simple passing thought. He watched, as the other children talked and interacted with other children, their mouths upturned and their faces lively. No one was with him. His mouth did not smile so.
It did not strike him as an odd thing, because it has always been so. His fellow students, they'll always be over there, away from him. It was as simple as that.
Gaara watched blankly as the ball was kicked around, a popular habit he had grown accustomed to seeing. A glimpse of gratefulness passed through his neutral mind; the swing gave him a seat. A resting place so he wouldn't have to sit in the sand.
He didn't like the sand very much.
His fingers rubbed themselves against the cold metal, roughened by brownish rust that invested itself upon it like a parasite. The swing was old, he decided, another fleeting thought that only lasted for about a second.
Of course, he did not wonder how old the swing actually was.
The right one.
He almost felt something when a girl cheered, having kicked the ball the farthest. It might've been Temari; she was blonde. He could almost twitch his mouth like hers.
Almost.
A kind of confusing gaping feeling took hold of him, as the distance between them and he seemed to make itself present. He reached his other hand and grabbed the other chain, so both hands were occupied. This side was smoother; it always was.
That girl, she jumped up and down with joy, whileas the ball kept bouncing. Gaara followed it on it's journey, bouncing and leaping, each new bounce led to a lesser one. A small boy, an outline in his vision, knelt to catch it, and with his poor reflexes, missed, and it hit him in the nose.
The first thing he did, that boy, was to stand up straight as if shocked, and rubbed his injury. Blood began to trickle out. Mostly boys crowded around in awe, whileas the girls ran for the teacher, shrieking as they went.
Gaara felt his head tilt to the side. Pain was supposed to be there, like gravity, or the sky.
But for him, for some reason he couldn't place, it wasn't there. He didn't know what it was or why it hurt. Whatever hurt felt like. And betraying his nature, he even wondered what it was like, to get hit in the face with a ball. To have that red liquid come out of him.
Maybe that was why he was sitting on the swing.
The right one.
Maybe having that red liquid come out of you made you belong somehow. Made you more like other people. Why was that...?
Gaara stood up. Recess was over.

Biting his lower lip with uncertainty, Gaara looked around. No one was around him. Carefully, he took out the red marker he had slipped into his pocket. Wearily keeping his eye on Yashamaru, who was teaching the class, he popped off the cap.
He had seen them do it many times. Paper cuts, they called it, and in order to interrupt class, they went up and asked for a bandaid, the class grinning knowingly. Yashamaru would shake her head, smile, asked if it hurt, and gave them a band-aid as quickly as she could and sent them back to their seat.
Underneath the table, hesitantly, he drew a horizontal line across the side of his hand, much to thick and uneven to be a paper cut. But he actually smiled, a little, pleased with what he had done. This new change of mood did not go unnoticed.
What's the matter, Gaara? Yashamaru asked, noticing his off behavior. What was with his hands underneath the table? Gaara tried to look solemn, as most of them do.
I-I got a paper cut. May I have a band-aid? Secretly, it gave him some tremendous power.
To many, it was called hope.
The whole room went silent. Whispers were hushed, the side conversations ended the second Gaara spoke. Everything seemed to freeze.
Because everyone knew Gaara didn't get touched.
Yashamaru's eyes softened, relaxed after first being widened.
Come here.
The boy practically jumped off of his stool. His footsteps seemed to echo as he makes his way down the isle, everyone who hasn't caught his glance staring at him. He held his hand out, proudly, almost to her desk. Wordlessly, he took his hand, instinctively hesitating. He smiled again, softly, as she discovered his She looked at him, at a loss for words.
Does it...hurt, Gaara? She asked, her lip shaking. His eyes were becoming strangely wet. His eyes brightened; that's what he always asked. It had worked!
Yes, ma'am. Because it would if he couldn't get one.
With tear rimmed eyes Yashamaru gave him a band-aid.

At recess, Gaara took a path he had never walked before. Shyly, he made his way over to where the other's kicked the ball around. They were picking teams, he realized, and when he had made it over there, they were already split up into two separate groups.
They all went quiet as Gaara stood in front of them, his bandaged hand out a little to make himself sure they could see it.
Can I...play? That was what they called it, he was sure.
Maybe he was wrong. Because they gave him that horrified, angry look everyone gave him.
Get away from us, you monster!

We didn't do anything to ya! Back off now!
Run, c'mon guys, let's go somewhere else!
He's so scary...
It was kind of blurry what happened next. Gaara was so confused; he had gotten cut. He had bled. W-Why didn't they want to play with him? Why did they run away? What was wrong with him...?
Through the unpredictable emotions that controlled him, the last thing he allowed himself to see was the sudden explosion of sand and screams, before tearing himself away and running.

Many students were absent the next day. Gaara did not question it, or consider what happened in his mind. He had adjusted to any changes such as these. Yashamaru wasn't teaching today, either; this he did not even realize. He was walking, not aware of the sand swirling around his feet, or the adults watching him intently. His sight was on the swings.
The right one.
It wasn't until he had gotten a few feet away that he realized the swing's rusty chain had broken.
And, in all the things Gaara wouldn't do, he did; he quickened his pace. His eyes widened. His breath came in rasps.
He reached the swing, it's seat dangling from the smoother chain in a twisted, vertical position. Something seemed to push itself up from inside of his stomach, and crawl out of his throat, sounding like a cry. A plea of helplessness.
Like a defeated warrior, he fell to his knees and bowed his head.
With shaking hands he reached out and grabbed the plank, the chain rattling as he clutched it close to his chest, his shoulders shuddering. He embraced it...yes, that was what he thought it was called. He cried.
The swing had broken.
The right one.
And it would never come back.


A/N
: Alright, this one was a little strange. It came out of nowhere, when I drew this picture of Gaara as a little kid, clutching a broken swing and crying. I thought, What would happen if that swing Gaara always sat on broke? When I saw the picture, which came out remarkable compared to what I thought it would turn out to be, I typed this.