Since it's officially summer and now I have the time to write, and since there wasn't an update last week, here's another update!
Chapter 9: Gaara's Gourd
Temari watched as Kankuro ran towards the stacked boxes, wincing slightly as one of them nearly fell over.
"Please be careful, Kankuro," warned Baki. "The boxes are labelled with your names so don't take the wrong ones."
"Yeah, yeah, got it."
"What was in that box, though?" Temari asked curiously. She couldn't think of anything else that would shatter like that besides Gaara's gourd.
Baki looked a bit embarrassed. "Oh, I brought over some plants from Suna, which included the vases. I thought the three of you might miss home, and I know how much you and Gaara love plants."
It was always something Baki did, Temari noticed; he always included Gaara in the group, even though the younger was never homesick. Temari rarely remembered to include him when she did things. For a long time, it had always been Temari and Kankuro, just the two older children of the Kazekage. Sometimes she felt bad for not considering Gaara as a part of their group, since Gaara was her younger brother after all. There had been a moment in their childhood when they had included Gaara in their little group, but that was before the accident had happened.
Temari shook her head, not wanting to remember such memories. She followed Kankuro's example, searching for her name amidst the identical boxes.
.
Ten minutes later, she had three boxes in her room, neatly placed on the floor opposite her bed.
The first box contained more clothes, all of them efficiently folded, which Temari quickly organized and put away in the closet.
The second box contained an odd assortment of items, just things Temari had thrown in at the last-minute yesterday morning. There were some school supplies—unsharpened wooden pencils and neat bundles of lined paper—some spare batteries, a flashlight, and even a screwdriver, though Temari was sure she hadn't put that in there.
The last box was the one Temari was most looking forward to opening. It was larger than the other two, almost Temari's own height. The outside of the box was carefully wrapped up in tape, and Temari knew the inside would be packaged just as carefully.
Temari opened the last box, revealing a large fan. The fan had been a gift from her mother—in fact, the only one she ever received before her mother had passed away. Temari hated reviving old memories but couldn't help herself as she stared at the fan in front of her, the sunlight through the window reflecting off the metal.
It had been years ago when Temari learned about the fan that had always been in her room. She had been three, maybe younger, maybe older, Temari wasn't too sure. Her mother had explained to her, how it was something her ancestors had done, how it was tradition to give gifts to each child. The fan was merely a sort of good-luck charm, a decoration that Temari would keep in her room, though at a young age the fan had towered over her so moving it by herself would have been impossible at that time.
Kankuro, too, had received a gift from their mother: a large puppet by the name of Karasu, or Crow. Initially, it had been a harmless puppet, but as Kankuro grew older, and his entertainment in tinkering with puppets became evident, the puppet had been installed with numerous weapons and mechanisms.
Temari's mother had then shown her a gourd, which was to be her youngest brother's gift, but before it happened, her mother had died, and Gaara himself had nearly been assassinated right after he was born.
After her mother's death, it had been Temari's uncle Yashamaru who had told Gaara about the gourd in his room, and it became an extremely precious object to Gaara, one which he would even go so far as to kill to protect.
Temari shuddered as she imagined what might have happened earlier, if the contents in the dropped box had been Gaara's gourd. Once again, she was glad for Baki's wisdom and foresight in personally bringing Gaara's belongings to his room. Though, she reasoned, she could understand Gaara's reaction to having his gourd destroyed. Like the gourd was to Gaara, Temari's fan was something very precious to her, being the only thing that she could really feel connected to her mother with. Kankuro probably felt the same way, even if he did change the original design of the puppet.
Temari took the fan out of the box, brushing aside the paper it had been wrapped in, and placed it near her bed, wondering what her life would be like if her mother had been alive. She forced the thoughts out of her head. She couldn't change a past that had already happened; it would do no good to daydream about it. She still had things to clean and organize, after all.
.
Gaara made his way over to his room as Baki continued talking with his older siblings. No doubt he would call the Kazekage later, and Gaara was not in the mood to be there when it happened.
Gaara had to admit he had been just as anxious as his siblings when the mover dropped the box. There was only one material that could make such a sound when shattered, and the only thing Gaara could think of right away was his gourd.
His gourd.
It was something he hated but at the same time he couldn't bear to part with it for long. He didn't know why, but he needed his gourd just as desperately as he needed water to survive in the desert. It was a fact that frustrated him.
When Gaara opened the door to his room, the gourd was there, its bright color standing defiantly against the dark of his room. The youngest son of the Kazekage cautiously approached it, as if it would suddenly come alive and devour him.
Gaara slowly put a hand on the gourd, checking it for signs of damage. There were cracks, but only the same ones that Gaara had inflicted on it himself in past years. The boy let out his breath, which he hadn't been aware he had been holding.
"So, you're safe," Gaara said softly, lifting the gourd. He felt the familiar weight of the object in his hands, the familiar sound of sand rubbing against the inside of the gourd. He set the gourd back down, and shrugged off his backpack, leaving it on his bed. He turned to the window and opened the blinds slightly, just enough to let a little sunlight in for the cacti plants that Baki had placed by the window.
"Why did Mother give you to me?" Gaara mused aloud, expecting no answer and receiving none. "If she hated me so much, then why did she give me something so valuable?"
Gaara stood still, watching the gourd, expecting it to hold all the answers he sought. There was no reaction, and Gaara made his way back to the gourd again. This time, while standing on top of a chair, he uncapped the top and reached inside. His hand made its way past the rough sand, until it made contact with something cold and metallic, a relic from a bygone past that he had wanted to bury and forget, but couldn't.
Gaara pulled it out, and the object came into view: the hauntingly familiar shape of a pistol. He held it in his hands, feeling the cool metal against his skin, observing the way it seemed to fit perfectly into his hands, as if it had been custom-made for him.
The gun had once belonged to his uncle, a Sunagakure ANBU named Yashamaru. After his mother's death, Gaara had mostly been raised by Yashamaru, who had been kind to him. He had been Gaara's closest friend and confidante, or so Gaara had thought.
.
It had been a quiet night, with the moon illuminating the clouds in the sky. As usual, during the day, Gaara had been chased away by the other kids in his village, his siblings had been nowhere to be found, and he had received a stern scolding from the Kazekage for something he hadn't even done.
And now even Yashamaru, his only friend, was avoiding him.
The six-year-old boy wandered through the village, searching for his uncle. Gaara had the pistol his uncle had given him in his pocket; Yashamaru had explained to him that his father was the Kazekage, and as such, his son would be targeted, and so Gaara had to protect himself. Gaara had no reason to distrust Yashamaru; in fact, the boy knew that he had been the recipient of multiple assassination attempts from the moment he had been born.
"Yashamaru?" Gaara called out, but there was only the sound of the wind.
Eventually he gave up, and returned to the place Yashamaru called "home". His siblings were asleep and the Kazekage was waiting outside, a look of contempt on his face.
"What are you doing outside at this time?" The Kazekage accused. "Did you kill someone again?"
Gaara said nothing, though he wanted to. He wanted to explain that the previous deaths had all been accidents, accidents that Gaara had little control over—
Gaara bowed his head and walked off, towards the roof, the only place he felt he could truly be alone without the hateful eyes of everyone in the village. He stared at the sky, at the numerous drifting clouds that never knew where they were going, that never knew their end destination.
But at least they have more companions than me, Gaara reflected sadly. As he watched the clouds cover the moon, there was a sudden loud bang, and Gaara immediately spun around, the pistol already loaded in his hand. The bullet had missed him, but the boy knew the next one might not.
There was a man there, his face covered in a mask, with gun in his hand, aimed directly at the boy's heart.
Without thinking, Gaara fired his own gun, watching the man fall down, blood seeping from his wounds.
.
Gaara was back in his room again, Yashamaru's pistol in his hands. He saw his gourd next to him, and the hotel bed, and the closet filled with clothes. Except he wasn't really in his hotel room; he was still back in Sunagakure, hearing the sickening thud of the man he would later recognize as Yashamaru falling down, the smell of blood suffocating him, the feeling of pain from his own self-inflicted wound.
And Yashamaru was in front of him again, glaring at him with a look of pure hatred. Deep down inside… I think I resented you.
Gaara took a step back, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. He loaded the pistol in his hands—no, Yashamaru's pistol, not his, it was never his—and aimed it at the wall, where Yashamaru was standing, as if mocking him.
My older sister did not want you
Yashamaru took a step towards him.
I resented you, for stealing the life of my sister
He held a gun in his hands, the very same pistol that Gaara was holding.
Gaara… a demon, who shall only love himself.
It was no longer the pistol, but a knife in his hands, the blade flashing dangerously in the moonlight.
Love only yourself, and fight only for yourself… so by doing that, you will be able to keep existing
Gaara's grip on the pistol tightened, his finger on the trigger. Yashamaru's last words rang in his head, over and over again, until it was a deafening roar in his ears.
No, you were never loved, and now, please die with me.
You were never loved. Please die with me.
It wasn't just Yashamaru's face now. There was his father, and his older siblings, the ones who were supposed to be his family, but had never been.
Please die.
The villagers were there, and the Council of Elders, each one with varying expressions of hate and fear.
Die.
.
"Gaara-sama, what are you doing?"
Gaara blinked, and the faces disappeared, revealing a concerned Baki at the doorway. It took the boy a moment to realize he still had the gun in his hand, and he had been about to fire it. His breathing was short and ragged and his hand was shaking.
"Gaara-sama, are you alright?"
Gaara nodded, putting the gun down, forcing his face to remain calm.
"I am fine," Gaara lied. "Is there something you need?"
Baki did not pressure him. "I found another box of yours. I'm leaving it out here."
"That is fine. I will get it later."
Baki nodded, taking it as his excuse to leave. The door closed and Gaara looked at the pistol in his hand, at the intricate designs on the barrel.
Taking a deep breath, Gaara got back onto the chair, and forced the gun back into the gourd, and back into the past. He buried it deep in the sand, hoping the memories would stay forgotten along with it.
He capped the gourd again, and moved it into his closet, where he would not be able to see it without opening the closet door. Some things were better left alone.