Introspective little one-shot (perhaps... . depends on what you guys thought of it) that I wrote mainly last year, but I recently dug it up and finished it. It's pretty nice, though it tends to ramble. That often happens when I write introspective... Eh. I'll try harder next time.

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When I was a kid, I was always alone.

My father hated me, and for the longest time, I could never figure it out. But eventually I realized that the only reason was that I was just a remnant, a leftover piece of my mother's life that he wanted nothing to do with. He hated all three of us, but me, he hated me the most. Because I was useless. Always useless.

Gaara, of course, was Gaara. I knew, at about the same time I knew about my father, that it wasn't Gaara's fault. I knew it wasn't his fault he was like this. It wasn't mother's or Temari's or uncle's or father's or anyone else's.

It was mine.

Think about it: when uncle tried to kill Gaara, where was I? Where was I when everyone in the village feared and despised him for no good reason? I was there, in my room, all by myself. Just me and my puppet and a picture of mother. If I had tried to be nice to my ni-chan, maybe he wouldn't have been so bad. He was only bad after uncle died, after all.

It was all my fault. And I paid for it, oh man, did I pay for it. Twelve years of my life wasted in fear of my own ni-chan. Twelve years spent in fear of someone that I should have loved; sure maybe picked on a little, but I'm an older brother! What else are we supposed to do?

It isn't too different now. Temari thinks I'm a total ass. I don't have any friends either at home or in Konoha. They all think I'm just some jerk in black who picks on little kids for no reason. I have a reason! They remind me too much of myself. Too small to do anything, but still mouthing off. Useless, short little punks. That just about sums me up.

Father's dead, of course, but I know he still hates me down there in Hell. He's probably looking up through the brimstone and calling me pathetic and useless, just like he always did. I was just a useless fucking little boy with no mother and no friends.

But I don't need them. I've come to understand, through all of that shit, what it means to be Shinobi. A killer-for-hire. A silent assassin, a tool of others, a mercenary. I finally understand that we don't have feelings. We don't have lives, we don't have family or friends or possessions. We don't have fear, love, aggression, or passion. We have apathy and skill. We have, from a very young age, the means and knowledge with which to kill. That is what we do, and that is all we are.

Or at least, that's how it should be. But it isn't. Instead we are all too human, all too aware of what we do, and we walk around with masks on. Metaphorical masks of happiness, or bravery, as well as physical masks. Baki's cloth. Gaara's sand. My paint. Masks that we wear in the hopes that it'll fool others into thinking we are something other than human.

So from now on, it's a new mask for me. I will wear the mask of apathy. I will appear not to care-even if I care the most of all.

Because if I don't… I'll fall apart, just like so many others.