Riot
Written at five AM with Three Days Grace's new album's song "Riot" repeating. It melted my mind into a puddle of goo.
Do not own.
To DarkKunoichi with love and enthusiasm.
Not noticeable at first.
That's what it was. No one seemed to notice—or maybe cared. No one seemed to care at all. It was just an emotionally unstable boy's mind unlatching and disconnecting itself. Simple to growth in mind, body, and soul.
He couldn't grow without his mind, though.
Therefore he was left behind with the dust. It collected on the soles of his shoes; collected on the tattered sleeves of his shirt; collected underneath sleep-deprived eyes.
He had lost his mind, somewhere. It was somewhere behind him, years past—forgotten. He didn't seem to care.
No one seemed to care.
Voices echoed, shook his skull until his ears rang painfully. Made his eyelids creep shut, only to face a raging fire behind them, calling and screaming and crying to be noticed.
Not noticeable at first—to the outside world, perhaps.
Because there was a rift somewhere inside him, growing and stretching with each voice's ripping scream. A voice that whispered 'Go away' without meaning it. A voice that taunted 'Demon', and meaning it. A voice that sobbed until he himself sobbed; a voice that shouted until he himself shouted; a voice that bled until he himself bled.
And all the while, the world sat outside his window, moving on along.
It frayed into the fragile lives of those within reaching distance of him, sooner or later. Frayed into the lives of those that pretended to care. They reached out to him, fingers curling and offering a grip to squeeze until the feeling disappeared. Nevertheless, he swatted it away.
They couldn't be there when the voice raged, when he was vulnerable to insanity, when he clawed at the floor, wanting to bury himself alive.
Pounding, and pounding, and pounding—roller coasters of turmoil twisting behind his eyes. So much to be said. So much to be whispered.
And after a while, even he ceased to care.
Life lived to move on without him, to leave him in that dust he had become accustomed to, shuffling it about carelessly.
It was at those times—dark times spent behind closed doors and covered windows—that the voice wrecked havoc. Until something burned beneath the surface and he rushed to wash it away, scrubbing even when nothing remained visible, seeing something that remained hidden from every view.
Damaged.
Was that the word fit for this feeling?
It ached deep down, spreading vine-like tendrils of pain to every nerve in his shaking body.
Damaged.
He was a broken piece of stain glass, chipping and clouded over, disgusting beyond reason. Waiting impatiently to be stepped on, wanting to be smudged into the ground and left there without a second thought.
Just one of the ones left behind.
Not really that much to be concerned with.
It was his destiny, wasn't it?
And while the voices danced and rioted behind his closed, crumbling eyelids...
Gaara Sabaku never knew love. He didn't need it. He had himself—his mind. His insanity.
I know, it's horrible. T.T I wrote it in thirty minutes. Shoot me. Sue me. I'll pretend it's love. I promised you a pairing, but I had absolutely no idea what to write.
