Gaara, in his life, hadn't known anyone else who could see them, so they were just his own little secret, his own special talent… which created more stress at first but then gained no more attention then a blink of an eye.
Haku's was different.
Haku was the first one who ever showed more of a… consciousness, for lack of a better word. Or perhaps it was just that Gaara seemed to be tied more closely to this one then any other. This spirit actually seemed to be following him, because with the exception of the boys who'd committed the murder, it was always Gaara that Haku's actions circled around. Why?
Why?
Gaara asked that question as he stepped forward, toward the spirit. For the first time he didn't look away, he didn't turn and he didn't run. Instead he just walked with slow and steady steps toward the tree and the wavering figure before him with its mouth twisted to a gruesome angle and size. Even with all the horrible and creepy deformities, it was still Haku, that much he could tell. This was just what people looked like after a death such as his, and ignoring him because of his looks made Gaara just as bad as the people who shunned him for his 'gothic' style of clothing.
The thing in front of him didn't move. It stood there, as much as one can without feet or the bottom half of their legs, and wavered just slightly out of air, his image jittery as if he didn't quite know which dimension he existed in. But it was still Haku, and it watched him with the dark inky eyes, showing no other reactions.
Gaara reached his hand forward and took a deep breath, then he touched him.
The graveyard dropped out around him and Gaara's eyes slid shut, the cut in his side flaring to life in a hot and sheering pain, so powerful that it would have blinded him if his eyes had been open, or so it felt. He could feel the knife there and he could hear his body screaming in pain from it, aching from the torture he'd felt the night…
…he'd been killed.
Moisture slid down his cheeks and he could feel the tears rolling, the only cool reprieve from everything else he was feeling. The concrete under him was cold and hard and the voices had hurt his ears along with his own screams to the point that he only heard fizzing silence now. So he just laid there and cried as the pain flowed over him and he felt the concrete grow warm from his blood. All he could do was cry.
Somewhere in the pain, his mind started playing tricks on him. As if his mind had some secretary whose job was now to file away all his thoughts and memories to be stored at death, he began to see images played before his closed eyes, blurring together with barely audible and mumbled words, expressions and emotions.
Parents always expecting more of him then he could give.
Never being good enough.
Being sent to that rich school as a last resort… and hating every moment.
Being teased for his looks, his hair, his body.
Running away.
Always running.
Seeing the boy by the fence.
Feeling a kinship to him, no matter how different they were.
Trying to speak to him.
Making a friend, finally, for once who didn't care about money or his looks or anything and in his own way seemed to accept him silently for what he was.
That was what it had been, an act of desperation. For the outcast at the school of perfect students, who would better understand then the outcast of the outcasts? It almost seemed set that his rich school, the one he'd dreaded all his life, was situated right next to the detention center for troubled children, or whatever odd politically correct name they tried to camouflage it under. In reality it was the school where all the freaks from society went to, the place where he felt like he should be.
Well, his parents would have thrown a fit if he'd even asked them to consider such a thing, so instead he contented himself to watching down by the fence, dreaming of the school that was out of his reach, where he might actually fit in. After all, if you didn't fit in with the normal kids or the overly talented who else was left? He had to fit in somewhere, so it had to be there, because everywhere else closed their doors and left him out in the cold.
Even this boy closed the doors at first, ignoring him and trying to push him away with a cold shoulder and a hard tone. He wasn't friendly, but then he hadn't expected it to be easy. He knew no one would ever accept him right away, how could they? It would take work, and he was more then willing to try this one last time. This one last time he would do anything to be accepted.
Anything.
So he sat down and tried speaking with him and took the boy's silence as a kind of acceptance and maybe even a welcome. It had to be… he had found someone, hadn't he?
The first day had felt like everyone else, being turned away and ignored like every other time. He'd met it with a smile, secretly knowing that he wasn't going to give up, not when this was his last chance. He just quietly ate his lunch and tried not to disturb the boy. Maybe if he was silent he'd be accepted too, and he'd do that if that's what it took. Still, on the first day, it didn't seem to work.
The second day was the one that convinced him. Another cold shoulder and another cold tone and that seemed to be it, the final rejection and not even worth another try. He'd left, doing his best to hide the sheer disappointment and rejection he'd felt welling up inside. It wasn't worth a third try was it? Everyone had always told him that tries go in threes, but this many rejections and he was way past three, there really seemed no point in trying anymore. He turned and started back to his own classrooms, the fact of this last rejection just looming over him.
"Haku."
Had he heard that right? Had he heard his name? He turned and looked back at the boy, battling everything in his body to keep from showing just how much hope seemed to spark at that single moment.
"Be careful."
And that was where everything ended.
He didn't want to remember what happened the night after that, didn't want to see that again. The pain still flowed through his body and didn't seem to leave at all. And even after that point, after the pain had completely filled him to the point of overflowing, all he could think about were those words. "Be careful."
No one had ever cared that much.
No one would ever care that much ever again.
He couldn't lose that… not after this had taken so long… why did he have to lose it now? Why couldn't he just keep it… just this once…
Please?
"Yes." Gaara responded softly.
(later)
The cop looked down at his watch and let out a sigh. An hour had passed and it was time to go. While he could understand the boy's need to see his mother on her birthday – which he actually doubted was the real reason, but whatever – an hour was certainly enough time to do whatever mourning was required. Placing a bookmark in his book he tucked it safely back under the car seat and shut the door, heading out into the graveyard with his hands in his pockets and his normal bored expression.
It took him a moment to locate the boy, for he wasn't standing near his mother's grave anymore. Instead he found Gaara kneeling under a willow tree, almost completely hidden from sight next to a newly made grave with a headstone that shown from being freshly created and placed. The cop stepped over to him and moved to lightly touch his shoulder but stopped, the scene freezing in his mind. There was something about this that wasn't right.
No one could deny that when you'd been a cop as long as Kakashi had been, that you picked up what some might call a sixth sense about things in your field. In truth it happened with every job, so it really wasn't that strange. Days, months and years of repeated actions helped you pick out patterns that would pass the normal eye and soon it just became habit to notice such things where others would not. An empty grave yard and a boy kneeling near a fresh grave not moving? As eerie as it sounded, it almost seemed to be out of a horror movie, but Kakashi wasn't thinking about that. Instead he was thinking about Gaara… the one not moving.
He didn't know the boy and he didn't know much about him, but he knew his type. Gaara was guarded and any attempt to touch him should have been met with a dodge or a glare. That was just a normal response for someone who had been beaten as much as him.
But there was nothing.
Kakashi touched Gaara's shoulder and his suspicions were only confirmed when there was still no movement, and his hand met with flesh as cold as ice.
Kakashi slowly stood up and moved around the scene, so he could see Gaara's face, intent on getting one last look before he radioed for help. He wasn't looking to determine the cause of death, that wasn't his job. Instead he was looking for anything clue as to what had happened at all. And what he saw was probably the strangest thing he would ever see in his entire career.
On Gaara's face was a small smile. It wasn't immediately noticeable, but it was the kind that you knew was sincere, because it never stayed long and on those who'd been hurt as much as he had, it was especially rare and could only be drawn out by a moment of sincereness.
The other thing was Gaara's hand. His hand was actually buried in the earth of the fresh grave, as if he'd slid it straight into the ground and were now holding something tightly… holding someone's hand…
And the name on the grave…
…was Haku.
The end.
