It began when he was just a boy. Only four or five, maybe he was even as old as six. It didn't matter his exact age. But he had been that young when he firsst donned his mask. His mask of indifference. Coldness. Emotionless. He had no friends. The others were afraid of him. He had more enemies than he could be bothered to count. Most..., were unaware of why they hated the pale skinned, red haired boy. He was, afterall, just a boy back then. Largely unremarkable. Aside from his lack of friends and, later, apparent indifference. He used to smile. To try. To want.
It all changed one day though. When the one person who had ever shown him kindness betrayed him. It was on that night, he first donned his mask. Never again has he cried, smiled, or cared about anything.

Years have passed. He has the kanji for love tattooed upon his forehead, his hair does not cover it. His eyes are lined in black. His clothing largely consists of black, occasionally red, gray, or even white. Boots of black adorn his feet, upon his right wrist a two rowed black leather studded wristband is clasped. He is tall and slender, so of course, the common bully has attempted to heckle him. It did not end well. A roundhouse kick of steel-toed boot to the bully's face, ended all future disputes before they even began.
Perhaps most unnerving, is the way his seafoam green eyes are completely blank, his face devoid of any and all emotions.

Even his siblings, though they would never tell the teen, were slightly afraid of him.
Largely though, they keep out of his life and way.
Despite his disdain for people and anything social..., he decided to attend University. To study art.

His art..., is dark and haunting. He never uses color. Black and white only. Images, within images. Volumes spoken in a mere expression upon a drawn person's face. Everything he cannot or will not say? His mind laid bare?
How many though, grasp what they're gazing upon?

As is required of all freshmen, he is to live on campus, much to his disdain, he also is to share a room. Perhaps his reputation will precede him and the fool will request a transfer. A smirk tugs at his lips but he represses it, keeping his face smooth and blank.
Not that it matters. He will do as is necessary for his studies. Even if it means having to share a room with another person.

He understands that people hate and fear that which they do not understand. And so, he is feared and hated. It doesn't bother him. He accepts that they are weak, feeble minded fools.
He moves in tomorrow. The earliest date. He is already packed, box of clothes, a bag full of his art supplies. Nothing left to do, but wait.

The next day arrived at last.
He woke early and dressed in black baggy cargo pants and a plain black t-shirt.
After eating a breakfast of cereal, he drove himself to the University campus. After an uncomfortable for the secretary, number of minutes, Gaara was given his room key.
The walls were a forest green, the furniture plain light brown wood. He fitted his dark red sheets to his bed and then set about organizing his clothes in half the closet and dresser. With those necessary things complete, the red head laid back upon his new bed. Pondering his new life as a university student.
It would be a large change. People every day. Class work. Living in a dormitory.

Alone, his mask had slipped. He wore a thoughtful expression. His eyes filled with a sort of wonder only possible for those who could see beyond the world in which they live. He was even beginning to smile some, at the thought of once more being in an art class. Perhaps even finding an artist who's art was similar in some ways to his own. Discussing art, it made him feel alive. It made him want to shed his mask forever.
He could not though. Would not. His mask was a part of him. An integral part. He couldn't remove it permanently. It would always slide back on. Back into place. No one really knew him. No one understood him. And they never would.

He wears a mask to protect himself. To protect others from him. To protect his sanity.