Breaking the Music Chapter 13: Name: Sick, a naruto fanfic

I have a very good memory.

Just selective. Very selective.

I often find holes in events that shouldn't have holes in them, gaps were I forget people, things, places because I didn't want to remember, and, maybe, a completely changed memory that is altered because the mind sees what it wants to see and remembers what it wants to remember.

The following are some stripped memories I have with dozens of gaps in between them, and, ultimately, the feeling that something is missing. Something very, very important, something so important that the point of the entire memory is ruined without it.

I just don't know what.

Breaking the Music

By FlightAngel

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, but I do own this story: so you steal, I kill

I am a rock.

A still, cold, rock that was not-quite-ice and not-quite-stone, but a rock, nevertheless. Hunched over on my blankets, white wings protecting me, guarding me, I am furious, so furious at myself and the pain that kept me down. Pain was wrong. I shouldn't be feeling pain. Pain was only something a weakling would feel. Dammit.

I am a lab specimen. A red-headed, sharp-toothed lab specimen that is poked and prodded and observed through a Plexiglas window encasing me in my hospital-cage. Not only is it chilling cold, it's chilling cold through all levels—mind, body, soul, heart, everything, everything freezing and drying up as I refuse to respond.

"Gaara, dear?" A voice hovers above me like a wispy tendril, at the back of my mind, hardly a voice at all, "Gaara, you have to get up and eat."

Anger. Pulsating anger, rage, wild, beastly urges tearing through my insides as I stiffen.

There is a momentary pause before I lash out, knock the tray from her and the woman screams, clad in white—what does she think she is, an angel—as Shukaku shrieks, "Chance! Chance!" while I sink my teeth into her exposed arm. I bite hard while she writhes, writhes in agony as I draw blood, then, with a strength I used often, I tore.

Suddenly I'm limp, a needle at my side and everything starts getting duller and duller, fading away at the edges, doctors swarming into the room to treat the woman, who was still screaming because I tore a chunk of her flesh off and it was lying, a mass of red and pink tissue, limp on the floor. I can still taste the tangy salt flavor from the blood, and I faintly wished I'd eaten some of the flesh before I completely black out.

I don't know how long I've been stuck in this hellhole of a hospital. At first I'd been put in a normal white room with a Plexiglas window, doctors trying to figure out my "problem" and the "extent" it had gone to. The incident with that frickin' nurse thing has sent me chained up in more ways then one, barred inside a dark prison cage with no windows, no doors, no anything, just leaving me to rot in the darkness of my heart.

My cheek is pressed against the cold thinly covered-up concrete, eyes screwed shut as Shukaku whispers, "We'll get out somehow, just wait for them to come, to come, wait so you feed upon the blood, that precious red blood, again, like candy…" It is pitch black. So black the ebony shadows were wriggling into my skin, my heart, clenching it in such a way I know what I feel is fear. Fear of what? Fear of the hospital—no, no, no—fear of the dark, fear of being left alone, fear of… fear of… dammit!

I am writhing in my incarcerate of a soul, trying to scramble about, hands grappling at anything that has edge, trying to hold on, hold on, not to fall, no, not to fall…

The darkness is too long. I feel myself being flung, flung into the encasement, the hissing words of insanity drawing me into its safe enclosure.

There is nothing. Darkness clogs up my ears, my nostrils, my eyes, my mouth, can't see, can't breathe, can't think. Time is void, null, passed, and I cannot identify.

Eventually my thoughts turn.

The black is my friend. Black is what I am used to. It is, in its own way, a haven, a sanctuary. It will never change—black is always black, and, though it's fearful, it is my world, my own world that is in my control, something I can depend on, yes, yes. Snuggling into the folds of my own darkness I am afraid my sanity has permanently gone off the cliff.

Voices suddenly pierce through my quiet blackness and I snarl like a beast—what the heck do they think they are, invading my domain like this?

"A-are you sure?"

"It's been a week, I think he's calmed down enough. But get the tranquilizer ready again, not even our best men can stop him once he's on the attack."

"O-Okay!"

And suddenly I am under attack. Piercing… light? scour my cheeks and I scream for the longest time, eyes tearing, voice bursting out until my throat became hoarse, all the while thinking—my darkness, my precious black, what have you done, you done, to my world, no, give it back, it's mine, no, my black—white burning my eyes, my face, everything about me, searing me to the bone, exposing what I truly am. I am a limp rag as the doctors drag me out of my prison, muttering things about "getting him on treatment" and "hope he behaves himself" while my head still rings of my ebony world.

There is a fat old woman sitting nervously behind a Plexiglas window with a small hole drilled in between us, so we can properly hear each other. My head is bent low, I am slouching, I am the image of a pre-adolescent boy who was going to insist on being horribly rebellious. Shukaku has left me for now and while she tries to talk all I hear is—Shukaku, protect me, guide me, where are you, you frickin' bastard of a raccoon, Shu—while she tries to get me to "open up".

"So, Gaara-kun, can you tell me more about your siblings?"

I don't answer. Why the hell should I answer prey—all I think about is prey, everything is prey, a victim of my own horrendous intent to murder, everything and anything can be killed, squashed, squeezed until blood is flooding the floor, until blood is in my mouth and in my stomach, so why the heck should I even talk to something I was going to slaughter later on? There would be no point. I am silent.

"Come on, Gaara, you'll never get better if you refuse to cooperate with us. If you don't answer me we're taking away the bread roll from your dinner."

Like hell I care about a stupid bread roll. Food was physical. I was no longer a physical being, I was spiritual, a boy who had overcome his pathetic human body with such power that I was invincible, untouchable, a thing of people's imagination that is no longer connected to his body. My body can rot for all I care, and I can stay here forever. I can die here. That would make sense, as the only thing keeping me living was the sei or living force of other human beings. Because I haven't shed any blood I, my spiritual self, is bound to wither away. That's ok.

There's no point in living, anyways.

"Gaara? Gaa—ooh, sessions over! Well, I'll see you in an hour after you have dinner ok?"

Fuck you lady. Fuck you.

"You'll never escape if you don't talk to them." I am lying on my rotting cot, thoughts swimming about—who I should kill, blood, damn I'm still in a hospital, stupid psychiatrists I hate them all, I need to get out of here, no I don't need to get out of here, I want to live, I want to die—when I am interrupted by a soft, familiar voice.

I slowly turn my head to see a boy, around my age, dressed in a white t-shirt with a swirly design on it, blonde hair stuck up in a just-got-of-bed fashion, body looking casual though cold blue eyes saying otherwise. It is the being that had been kicking me. My god.

I just watch him out of the corner of my eye. He is the enemy. He is my victim. I will kill him; rip him limb to limb, blood flowing everywhere, his screams piercing the night, the darkness, loud as I crush him. I refuse to answer him.

He doesn't look phased, or even exasperated, unlike those doctor bastards.

"They'll just keep you here until you 'improve'. They're all that way. I know you don't talk. That's ok. Everyone says it's because you're a wild beast with the brain of a fly, but I can see it in your eyes—you just don't want to talk, right? You're not dumb." He presses his face onto the Plexiglas, "There's rumors going around about you, you know. 'The new kid'. Newbie. Damn, to think that you spent your whole first day screaming your head off… that was real annoying. Did you lose your voice screaming? Is that why you're not talking?"

I continue to stare at him—Shukaku has not returned, my head and heart is split into a thousand shattered pieces, I am staring, staring, staring as this golden god is talking to me, lips moving up and down, a being that I cannot touch, though I want to kill him, murder him, shred him… an inner me, the soft Gaara, the one that says "Stop it! Stop it!" while I carry on my duties, is still convinced that this boy is a god, an almighty omnipotent being that I should serve and be obedient to.

"Shut up," I tell Soft Gaara, and, being without a backbone, that aspect of my already shaky character vanishes.

"Oh? You said something!" The boy is even more interested, "You want me to shut up? Well… too bad! I'm non-stop-talk Naruto! No one can shut me up! Anyways, is it true you bit off a nurse's arm? And that you actually spent a week in the punishment room? No one has ever spent a week in there! Most of the time it's just an hour or so when you misbehave, but a WEEK! No wonder you're so messed up! The doctors here are all crappy losers, except for Iruka-san, but I only see him at lunch now… Hey! Say something again! Please?"

I stare at him. He stares back. Shukaku, I shriek aloud, desperate, where are you? Here, a voice slithers through my thoughts, but I'm afraid you'll have to deal with this alone, cub.

And suddenly power pushes out from my mouth, and, before I know it, I am screaming again, blankets flying everywhere as I ram, suddenly, into the Plexiglas, sending non-stop-talk Naruto back in surprise, screaming bloody murder as I beat my fists against the window, thoughts swirling, defiantly, out of Soft Gaara—I don't want to die, I want to live, I want to get out of here, I want to be normal, got to get out, get out, get out—and doctors and scrambling about, wondering what is up with the ever so silent Gaara, screaming his head off.

"You! Uzamaki! What are you doing here?"

"Crud!" The blonde hisses, ducking quickly behind a corner of the hall, "See you tomorrow Gaara! I like you! You're fun!"

"Go away, look what you've done to Gaara—you know he's our worst case, you probably just got rid of weeks of work—get back here!"

"Wah!" I can barely see him, my vision is starting to get cloudy as sudden pain bursts into my throat, into my mouth and blood is everything, blood is red and dripping and everything I see is in red.

"Gaara! Damn! Get the doctor!"

Everything I see is in red.

I want to die. I want to live. Two conflicting thoughts writhing inside my body as I stay, helpless, in bed. I hear a tap on my window. I don't bother to look, don't bother to stand, to live, to breathe, don't bother to even give a damn to whatever is going on outside this hospital. I can't remember life outside this place. I wonder if the memories of a house, of downtown Suna, of Temari and Kankuro are just all frilly dreams in my head, and if I'd spent my entire life here being some specimen to poke and examine and to shout at for not talking. The tap is louder.

"Pst!" I still don't look, though I imagine whoever it was it'd probably be the blonde god from some time ago. Time is lost here—it can go backwards, forwards, stand still—all these, wonderful things that I am so fascinated with, a part of me that detaches itself whenever that fat woman still comes to talk to me, wondering who controls time. "Gaara! Over here! Hello? Hey! You won't look at me! Gaara!"

The tapping stops. I am staring at the crusty popcorn ceiling, shifting dustily to-and-fro as people from the upper level rampage through their halls. It is harder to be insane and yet so easy to in the same time. After a while, you just run out of things to think about. The silence is so heavy and thick I am sure that the god has dissipated again, probably off to Mount Olympus or Heaven or some other beautiful place like that, where Mother and Mom were, probably. Sometimes I wish I can ask him to tell them I was sorry because I was sure as hell not going to heaven.

"What are you in here for?"

The question is so sudden, so piercing, I lift my head to see the blonde again, this time dressed in an orange t-shirt and another swirly on it, cheek cupped in his hand, staring at me. I am vaguely and pathetically jealous over the fact that he can choose his own clothes—every morning doctors strap me down to some sort of device and put some sort of gag in my mouth to prevent me from biting more arms off of people and latch a gray skirt-thing over my struggling body.

"Are you going to kill him yet?" Shukaku whispers quietly, curling his tail around my face as he stalks his prey, me, "All you have to do is reach into to that hole in the glass and pull his head towards you until it bursts…"

I ignore him. The sunshine being was part of my safe routine, a guarantee, something that would be sure to come every day. He is my walking, talking human calendar and he was mine. Mine, such a confusing word, something I can barely comprehend, though it rings inside my head and ghosts over my skin—mine, mine, mine, he is the only thing I can cling to here besides Shukaku, mine…

He's been coming for four days already, most of the time to just squat and stare at me. Everything had to be neat. Everything had to fit. Time had to always work—there had to be a pattern of getting up, sitting in bed, refusing to come out until a doctor comes and drags me out and onto a bench, listen to fat woman, go back to bed, get dragged out again, listen more to fat woman, go back to bed, see blonde, have dinner, the only thing I'd eat and I ate sparingly, go to bed and stare at the wall, not sleep, get up, all over again.

Doctors soon found out I was extremely intolerable to food. I didn't eat. I grew paler, weaker, skinnier, just a rag of bones tied up by loose, whitening skin. I liked my rag of bones, but, evidently, the frickin' doctors didn't.

They wanted me to hook up to an IV. I snarled and actually managed to get a finger when they tried to approach me with a needle in their hands.

I just stare quietly at the boy, mind suddenly ceasing. Time has done its miracles again, ceasing time, ceasing Shukaku, who was caught in mid sentence, shutting down first thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts, until my head is all quiet, silent, without restlessness.

"Ah, I already know what you're in for, anyways. It's in the files at the front office; easy to nick, and easy to read. You kill people? And you got into here because you are 'criminally insane'. Or was it 'clinically insane'?" He leans forward and blows onto the glass, clear sheet fogging up a moment before fading. "Can you cure insanity? What are the doctors working on you for? Do they think you have some other disorder? Some other thing? Is that why they prod you?"

I am silent.

He smiles.

"You know, if you don't like being force-fed and tied down to a chair and observed and lectured to by a psychiatrist, you should make more an effort to get out of here." His face brightens up a little, "And once you start getting better, you can come live in my wing! You'll like it better then here, I promise! No Plexiglas or anything; looks just like an apartment and all, and you get to have your meals with the other patients here. So you got to try harder, Gaara! Do you seriously want to get pushed around forever?"

Pushed Around? Forever? Suddenly my mind is whirling again, time is flying backwards and forwards at the same time, Shukaku suddenly that aspect of me, the soft Gaara, screaming "Don't want to be controlled, stop, get out, get out, live, live, why won't you listen, stop it!" until there is such endless chaos in my head I say, aloud, "Huh."

The being squeals a little, "You spoke! You spoke again! Yay! Do it again! Again!"

But my brief moment of sanity has passed. I am a rock, a cold ice cube, a vegetable, a specimen. I say nothing and turn my head stiffly away from him.

"What? Gaara! C'mon! Do it again! I like your voice! It's cute! No? That's not the right word? Okay… it's sexy! Speak! Aw, damn…"

He is one voice of many. They are all colliding in my brain, scolding me, yelling at me, Soft Gaara, Hard Gaara, No-feeling Gaara, all screaming for their thoughts to be heard, all shrieking for their souls to be possessed.

I make a promise to myself, in the folds of the folds in my mind, dark and pitch black, voices curling with insanity and giddiness. One promise, out of the smashed mounds of broken ones, a new set of words I am determined to keep.

I'm not going to stay here. I am going to get out of here, no matter what, and nothing in anyone's power is going to stop me.

The psychiatrist is getting exasperated. At first she attempted the 'I am silent and waiting for the patient to speak' method, but, after a significant while, it became apparent that I was not about to open my mouth any time soon. Then she tried the 'ask a bunch of questions and hope for the patient to answer' method, which, in the end, was an even worse idea then the silent mode. After that, she went into a frenzy of 'try a bunch of different methods and god help it if the patient responds' deal, which I had to painfully drag myself through.

"What do you see?"

It's a frickin' inkblot with dots and patterns splattered everywhere. It was mortifyingly hideous and I just glare at it. Seeing as the paper is not willing to melt, I aim my soul-piercing glare at the psychiatrist, who flinches and attempts a faux smile that makes Shukaku along with everything else in my head scream—liar, cheater, crazy, insane, she's trying to kill, kill you, blood, no, get out of here, liar, fraud—and she slowly puts down the card.

"Um… ok, let's try this. Here's a photograph. What do you see?"

I burn a hole through the Kodak image. I do not respond. She is whimpering.

"Um… well… er… I guess I'll have to close the session. Gaara, if you still refuse to respond we will… we will…" She is desperate. I seem to have an apparent apathy to everything—food, darkness, women, men, people in general, animals, stories… nothing can get me to react, thus, nothing can be used as punishment. She finally throws up her hands in frustration and stomps away in her little psychiatrist way.

I slither off the wooden chair I was forced to sit in until the end of the session and crawled across the floor. I am like a large, mucus-creating slug, so ugly to look at, bags around my eyes from insomnia and sleep deprivation, something to squash, something to smash, something to point and say 'Hey Mommy, can I kill it?' I writhe around the floor for a while, placing my ear onto the carpet and hearing—escape, escape, sing, get out, sing, mm—while crossing my eyes, banging my head against an oddly carpeted wall and then, finally, pulling myself into the bed.

I do not get into my bed to sleep.

I do not sleep. My spiritual being does not need sleep, and, because of that, neither does my body.

I have been trying to seek myself an exit out of this hellhole. Some things are rather simple, maybe a little tedious, and others are not. Dressing myself. Eating, sparingly, because if there is one thing Shukaku hates, it was fat. That was because fat got in the way of everything, blubbered around on its own accord, bunched up muscles, caused slow thinking, and, was, in my own opinion, a much worse case then being a bundle of bones. These were easy.

Talking. Touching. 'Coming out'. There was no use for any of these…items, nothing fit to use in combat. I ignored them. Discarded them. Threw them away. The doctors urge me, you need them, take them back, use them but there is no point, nothing that matters. Being compassionate. I do not care, I do not know, I do seek or find or look. I am a selfish person by nature and I will stay a selfish person by nature. Nothing can get me to react. Nothing.

I do not remember how long I stared at the ceiling before familiar steps gently echo in the hall outside, steps ringing hollowly, as if stepped lightly and with care, plop, plop, plop, dark soles, sandals, chocolate brown, probably, and I sit there and listen to this charming music until I can see the top of a blonde head ducking beneath the window.

Light, crystalline eyes slowly appear at the edge of the windowsill, followed by a small, perky nose and a pair of thin, but smiling, lips. He waves at me, and I, as usual, do not respond. He lifts up something vaguely foreign. I stare at it, eyes widening—what the hell is that thing, monster, what the, techno?

It is bright, bright red, plastic, circular and has a dangling wire attached to its end. My god ducks below again, so I can't see him in the dim lighting, and, after some cursing and loud bangs there is…

A cacophony of noise, eager, organized, so horrible I immediately sit up and shriek. The noise stops and I look, eyes wide and furious, panting, where I can see a golden tuft of hair wavering in mid-stride. The noise starts up again, but this time, there are death-pounding rhythms, dark, ghostly voices howling in the night, and I put my hands over my ears and burrow deeper into the bed. The noise stops again, the being starts fussing around, it picks up once more.

Mm.

This is…

Good

I unravel myself from my sheath of blankets, draped over my head and face, carefully crawling out the bed and next to the window, where the being and I have an eye-to-eye.

The music was pleasant. It soothed the voices in my head, seducing them to a state of non-existence, so there were no random thoughts floating about except for my own. And the music's. Even Shukaku disappeared momentarily in the midst of the wonderful notes playing from the little… gadget the blonde had brought.

"You like it?"

I flinch a bit, entrancing lull from the music snapped by the god's gentle voice. I am about to answer "Yes, I love it" when I remember I am supposed to unresponsive and apathetic.

I nod.

He beams, as if he had just accomplished the world's most difficult challenge, like he had just won first place in the most important competition in all of man kind, like he had seen me almost smile and was very, very pleased with himself.

"I thought'd you be! Yeah, so they tell me they've tried visuals, talking, emotional-improvement etc, and I thought you'd be feeling kind of stressed. So I begged a CD player from Iruka-san and he finally gave me one. Here you go." He takes a slim black case-thing from his pocket and disappears around the corner. I watch, interestingly, as my door opens and he carefully places the thing onto the floor. Joining the item is a pair of dark, padded headphones and a case of CDs. Looking at me nervously, he shuts it and reappears at the window. "That one has the CD that you liked so much and there are more in that case. When I get stressed out or frustrated I always think listening to music makes me feel better. In all actuality you're not supposed to have any electronics because you're a 'bad case' but I think that's all bullshit. You know how to use it, right?"

I am not looking at him. Gingerly crawling to the items (I seem to be able to do nothing but crawl because of the condition my body's in) I pick them up and look at the blonde.

The music from outside is still playing, my mind is still sharp and clear and Shukaku is not here. I am on my own.

I feel ecstatic.

"Thank you." I nod towards him in my sudden joy in being alone, "I really appreciate it."

His eyes bulge. His pretty mouth opens a little in surprise and I want to lean forward and claim them. In actuality, I didn't need to claim them because I had already decided that he was mine anyways. He really had no say in the matter.

"W-whoa! You talked! Uh…no problem! Thanks! Um…" He leans forward and I can see every eyelash, every freckle on his face as he smiles, "You're real cute when you talk you know! I've told you before, but you really need to get it through your head!"

He bends over and the music stops. My world stops. Suddenly the voices reawaken and screech in my head, Shukaku is snarling—what the heck was that, where'd you go, Gaara, answer me—my mind spinning back into insanity as I watch the blonde wave at me cheerfully with the red-thing, walking away down the hall. I clutch my newly acquired items to my chest as I struggle to find my way back to the bed—darkness, stay still, sleep, kiss, mine—because of them

I quietly place the large headphones over my ears. I turn on the CD player, and, thus, turn on a flow of music that immediately shuts them out, every one of them, soothes me again, brings me this peace I've never had in years. The best part of it all—these were mine

Thus began a series of sleep-filled nights I've never been able to have for years.

Two whole months after my arrival at Spring Forth Christian Treatment Center, I am finally allowed to 'officially' interact with the other patients. Of course, I had my being, my god, but the doctor's were oblivious to the fact that he had continued to see me even after they chased him out of my wing. Shukaku is meekly trailing after me, not completely gone and still speaking to me, but, obviously, had less of an effect.

I try to picture what I must have been like to the other patients.

Crazy murderer of a boy, spoke to himself and attacked the staff, grins maniacally, finally allowed to dress in a hoodie and some jeans, dark black headphones always hugging his ears because five doctors were injured in the process of unsuccessfully removing them. But because it didn't seem to be doing more harm then good and Gaara actually looked pleased with them on, it wasn't much of a deal. CD Player tucked into the crook of his hoodie, hands hidden in his pants, looking moody, angry, and particularly murderous on day one.

Everyone is still in horror as they see this insane, lunatic of a boy quietly slip into the cafeteria. Everyone here is crazy. That was why they were here. But, they whispered to themselves, This guy is the ultimate crazy. They fled from him. They sat at different tables, talked to different people, eyes darting everywhere but this brilliantly red-headed boy who didn't really seem to care that he was the bane of everyone else's existence.

He sits at a table which had immediately cleared on his arrival, chewing on a piece of beef jerky because that is all he is willing to eat. Things like lettuce and tomatoes and bread rolls have long since given up on him. No one bothers the new kid because everyone is all too busy to act normal.

Too busy to act normal in an asylum. What a bunch of hypocrites.

There is one boy, though. Short and blonde, been here for five months, on the road to recovery, a 'success'. A smile always adorning his pleasant face, not minding the greasy white tabletops or the greasy white Styrofoam trays full of food, not minding the odd stares people gave him as he approached this new kid, this stranger, dangerous murderer, insane boy, approached him and gave him a smile, saying, can I sit next to you

The red-head says nothing, just chews harder on his beef jerky before nodding a little, allowing the blonde—Uzamaki Naruto, everyone knows—to sidle up next to him, allowing him to edge closer to him then he's let anyone during his entire stay.

The blonde makes small talk all by himself, talking about the CD player, what his treatment is, if the new guy had been put on treatment yet, how'd you like the food, what'd you think of the people? There are no answers from the other boy, except for one he had when Naruto started to talk about outdoors.

Is there a garden? What? I said, is there a garden? Uh, yeah… whoa! You talked again! Is there a garden? Yes. Can you show it to me? Sure! Of course, when they start letting you go outside, you need a pass you know… everything needs a pass, because the frickin' doctors can't trust you to not run away…

People stared. People whispered. Everyone was nervous because it was the new kid and the new kid was creepy. Lunch ended and everyone headed towards the therapy group. Naruto tugs on the red head's hands, gripping them with his own, slightly dry ones firmly and carting him towards the therapy room when Iruka-san, the psychiatrist in charge of that lunch hour that day stops him.

He can't go in there. Why not? 'Cause he's not recovered enough. It might be too much for him. What kind of crap is that, Iruka-san? Gaara's perfectly fine. How do you know his name? Who doesn't know his name? Please? Can he come? He'll be good! Besides, hasn't he been 'improving' all this time? Yes, but he's only improved enough to attend lunch! We can't let him into the therapy room or else he might attack the students! He didn't attack anyone here! That's a different story! How? I want to go.

Silence. The two stare at the boy, who's head is cocked to the side, headphones still clenched around his ears as he slowly entwines his fingers with his being, his god, his Naruto who he had claimed in a spurt of possessiveness so many weeks ago. His eyes were cold, though defiant.

I want to go.

And that was that.

Naruto, the being had a name, though hardly applicable enough to cover his wholeness, in my mind, is extremely warm. I know because of the palm resting slightly crooked into my mine. I am half surprised at myself, but the other Gaaras crowding in my brain are either crowing or shouting, a multitude of voices edging into my mind only shut down by the music humming in my ears.

Therapy in my mind will always be in the imprint of a large, spacious room so foreign, so vague, yet a dark memory tugging at the bottom of my mind, a tug that said—this is a normal room, you've been in them before, you've been in rooms other then your bedroom with the Plexiglas windows, normal rooms don't have Plexiglas, remember, you have to remember, this is normal—with dark tan wallpaper curling around the edges, a chocolate colored rug, three pairs of old, moth-eaten sofas and an enormous painting of a king frowning down upon us all. I can almost feel his dark taunting voice echoing—you people, dare you sit down upon my furniture? I will punish you! My imagination, though greatly cut back and up in the slaughterhouse for months in this hellhole, is still as tacky as ever.

"Well, looks like we have a new member today!" A man dressed in a very unfashionable green jacket and chewing a toothpick with his arms crossed is sprawled over one of the chairs. The toothpick moves up and down as he talks and I quietly follow the movement with my eyes, up, down, up down, sharp edges, fun to poke people's eyes out with… he notices me staring and his eyes narrow in warning. The only response I give is squeezing the being's hand a little, which causes him to look at me curiously, before pulling me into a …comfy… sofa that dipped so inward I was unintentionally pressed up against the blonde for a moment before I shifted my weight and balanced the cushions out.

I am not an intimate person. In fact, as people have quickly gathered, if you even took so much as a wrong step around me I'll tear you—bloodily—from limb-to-limb. The sense of another's flesh against my own was hideous, at best, because the only time I felt another's skin was when I was murdering them. Because of that, I rarely touched other people. It was like a pattern—touching equals killing and most of the time I really didn't want to kill. Thus, not wanting to kill equals no touching.

Except for now.

There is a ring of six or seven people not including the being and I, all huddled together looking like caught rabbits trapped in with a wolf—me—trying to look normal or haughty though just making themselves look silly. I am the untouchable, crazy, blood-thirsty newbie patient who stared at people funny, only ate beef jerky, and held hands with Uzamaki Naruto. I was not somebody people would want to go up and make friends with right away.

Therapy is, as I vaguely remember, utterly and totally boring. I sat there with my head lolled to the side, wanting to snatch my hand away from the blonde's though liking the touch all the same, listening to other people 'admit' things from their pasts and start bursting into tears. I remember this particular girl who had burst into tears every frickin' session until after the seventh time I sat up and kicked her hard in the shin, screaming at her to go get a life and stop complaining if you're not going to frickin' deal. The doctors were too shocked about the fact that I had talked, much less shouted to reprimand me for 'attacking' another patient. Naruto had been very, very pleased.

After the first therapy group session (where I had just sat there and 'listened' because the ward in charge didn't ask me to say anything) I start to quietly slink back down the hall towards my Plexiglas prison again, to be kept, to be jailed, trapped again in my own little world where it wasn't really all-that-mine anyways, when suddenly I am jerked back. My hand is still caught in a fine hold of iron that looked delicate but was firm, and my eyes travel from the soft, warm hand up a lean arm, dark-colored t-shirt, determined lips pulled tight, nose, set eyes, bushy and somewhat fluffy blonde hair…

"Where are you going?"

I stare blankly at him, refusing to let my own lips part, body rigid in a—where do you think I'm going—stance that causes the being's lips to pinch together further.

"Don't you know, silly? When you're allowed to go to the cafeteria that means you're allowed to stay in the less guarded wing. Didn't the psychiatrists give you a key with a number on it?"

Key? Oh yes, that cold metallic thing fat woman had stuffed in my hands on my way out—keep it well, not coming back, evil, get out of my sight, I hate you—jingling in my pocket, a key to freedom, to a life where there is no Plexiglas but there are cameras, a life where doctors can't peek in and prod you until you want to nip their fingers off, one-by-one. I am blank as a slab of soft and slightly smelly clay, suddenly easy to mold, to touch, to break off and melt until there is just a puddle of gray pool on the floor where people would point and say yep, that's Gaara all right, the poor thing, something flaky and dried and cracked up in more ways then one because there is that nagging voice in my head screeching in it's high little voice, "Uh oh, Gaara's going to get moved again, your world is crumbling, crumbling, can't you stop it? Worthless little child get some control stop them, escape, hit, kill, blood washing the sadness away…"

I must have turned paler then I had already had been because the being, concerned as he was, a fuzzy blot in my blurring vision, hurriedly said something—can't hear, can't think, what was that?—to Ir-Iru—whatever that guy's name was—before a strong hand grips my shoulder shaking me. My feet unsteadily move on their own, as it is just a part of a body that was barely a body without a soul, spirit, intellectual side because that had been ripped away into shreds long, long ago. And that was true.

There is nothing left in this hollow puppet of flesh except for a burnt up heart and a little raccoon that didn't sleep and liked to cackle in the night.

The doctors have finally decided that the 'right course of action' to deal with an insane, sort of anorexic, insomnia-plagued, perhaps mute, possible obsessively compulsive, maybe schizophrenic boy was to tackle one problem at a time.

First, insomnia.

It was, obviously, totally and completely useless to try to get me to have a fitful sleep without music ringing in my ears with my headphones on my headphones, mine, mine, mine, and a nightlight. I hated and despised the dark, clenching, dragging me down, me screaming, trying to escape, that hell of a prison they dumped me after tearing blood off that nurse, hate it, chew it raw, dammit, why can't they get a brighter light? The first thing they tried to do was place little white powdery things into a sandwich that was handed to me in the morning.

I know because the only thing I eat is beef jerky. Everything else was too bland, too tasteless, not lively enough to wake my body up, to revive it, to make it being, though I really didn't care, it was a frickin' body for goodness' sake I'm not going to baby it. I know because after I eat the beef jerky I check the rest of the food to see what other crap the cafeteria feeds to the being, my being, Naruto, I didn't call him that often, just because. It is my second day in the cafeteria and I am informed that on Friday through Tuesday we actually have family dinner—never had much of those, even at home, the heat was unbearably hot, smells of burnt chicken, Ne-chan never could cook—which is supposed to be scrumptious and good and very, very yummy (as you can see it is my being that had told me this because he is the only person in years who still says the word 'yummy' with a straight face).

I lift my sandwich and take off the first slice of slightly soggy, slightly olive-colored bread and flip it around, just to find, oddly, a white circular tablet thing that is oozing powder all over the blotchy turkey slice. There are two more of its brethren hiding in the folds of the bread and I stare at the intruder a moment before slowly looking at the being—Naruto, dammit—who looks unfazed.

"Oh," He cocks his head as he, how does he do that?, takes a bite of his sandwich, "Medication."

I stare at him longer.

"They usually grind it up and put it in your drink, but I think they want to see your reaction. Looks like sleep medication. For your insomnia."

I take the whole disgusting tray of slop and throw it into the trashcan.

Naruto nods. "That's what they always do."

The 'treatment' continued.

I was, as doctors were probably furiously scribbling down on professional personalized notepads, a very, very sick boy. After giving up after a few days of insomnia treatment they decided to tackle my 'anorexia'.

Not necessarily meaning I had the disease, just that I was, well, not eating. They stalked me at breakfast time when I was not-quite-there and yet-somehow-here and still sunk deep in a mesh of pillows and blankets sprawled everywhere and pulled me out and onto the floor. I am unresponsive but though it really did look like I was sleeping, my body is rigid, wary, untrusting, a minute ahead of everyone else, a step everywhere in all directions in this crazy backwards place.

They place a banana on the table, on the floor. I glared at it.

They put down an apple. I continued to glare.

Glass of milk. Glare.

Bowl of cereal. Harder glare.

Piece of lettuce. What the—glare.

Slices of tomato. Glare.

The doctors are looking at each other, each shivering inside his own skin because this frickin' extreme case insane loony guy is glaring at them.

Ham. Glare.

Pieces of bread. Glare.

A plate of scrambled eggs. Glare.

They look at each other.

Beef jerky.

I immediately snatch it up, pop it in my mouth, and attempt to hide in my covers, still chewing. Feeling their gazes attempting to see through fabric and the itching painful urge that was developing inside my chest, I finally scurry out and, impulsively, start to reassemble the mess on the table—banana and apple sitting next to each other at a forty five degree angle, pour exactly half the milk into the cereal bowl and place those about an inch beside the fruit, assemble a sandwich, bread, lettuce, tomatoes, ham, bread, exactly on top of each other or else I'd have to do it again, put that on the plate of scrambled eggs and scoot it next to the bowl so that the edges were just barely touching, stand back, dive into the covers, wait.

The doctors stare. Getting to me to properly eat was not fun. Getting to me to eat and instead seeing a display of one of my moodier bouts of obsessive compulsive disorder was even less fun then that.

They tried treating my schizophrenia by putting medication in my drink, which I promptly poured out, my MPD with classical music, for whatever reason, which I wouldn't stop screaming at until they came and took it away, and made me stay in a frickin' room with a frickin' dog to help me 'come out' and talk. All of which, rather pleasingly, didn't work.

Obviously, things weren't going to go as well as they thought it would be.

Music. Beef Jerky, unfortunately. Strawberries, the tender scent of the sun, if it had a scent. Something heavenly, too. Chicken? Soup.

I am laid down on my bed with my head feeling heated and blown to the size of a hot air balloon, phases of unbelievable pain snatching my mind away from time to time, leaving me panting and waiting in dread for the next bout when I wasn't moaning. My hair is slightly sticky with sweat and clung to my face in such an unbearable fashion I writhed, trying to find function in my arms though upsettingly finding none.

But there are things my weakening soul can cling to in my chilling yet hot hazes. Like what I mentioned earlier.

And a certain blonde-headed being that was emitting or holding most of the things I mentioned earlier.

Things I mentioned earlier, clearly, still at the top of my 'wonder-while-sick' list.

"Gaara," his voice is hollow, vague, unfocused, in a fog so thick my hands flounder upwards trying to find him, seek him, seek anything besides flashes of red and white and speckled things that made my eyes whirl, "Gaara, drink this, and none of your throwing-up thing." Suddenly a hot concoction sliding down my throat, burning, searing, me trying to cough it up and a smooth surface—spoon?—firmly pushing it back down again.

He's mumbling to himself, words slightly incoherent except for little phrases, "—sick, can't believe—the mind—Gaara, is—argh—mind, believes it's—in the mind, just because—way to hide—Gaara—no, but—agh!" Completely useless junk anyways, can't tell if it's my voice, his voice, anyone's voice, but the concoction's gone, me coughing, gagging, trying to get up, something stuffed into my mouth—

Black.

And then, everything was completely clear.

The walls of my room were bright, bright wallpaper white, a pale morose color that was plain, blank and emotionless. A just-as-white door opens up to a closet full of old hoodies and jeans and pants that Ne-cha—Temari had brought with me when I first arrived here, in a duffel bag, my clothes from Suna not some frickin' nurse-dress thing. There is a mirror made of shiny plastic because the doctors aren't dumb enough to put real mirrors inside a bunch of lunatics' rooms, the floor a white carpet of fuzz, bed, large, maybe queen-sized full of white, white, white blankets and sheets and a white pillow because everything just has to be such a bright white color and the bed was big because the doctor's didn't want one other thing tacked up against them where they were the minority whether they liked it or not. Long, ramble of sentence juggling around in my mind as my eyes focus on something that was, tragically, not white and thus stuck out like a sore thumb.

Naruto, in all his golden glory. He is propped up on my bed with his arms folded and he was glaring at me. The music is gone, and so are all my little voices, too, which was a good thing, but the strawberry and sun smell was still there. That was, because, the smell came from Naruto who was sitting right there while I stare at him.

"Gaara!" He shouts at me, loudly, and I open my mouth, only to snap it shut while the blonde continues on his about-to-be-merciless rampage, "You dumb creepy red baggy eyed WEIRDO! Stupid! You did that on purpose, right? I hate it when you new people do that! Dammit!" He grabs me, roughly, by the head and starts shaking me back and forth, back and forth, mind blurring, images fading, me so surprised because no one has touched me like that in years and it really, really hurt. "I hate you! You know how long I've been here? Huh?"

I don't answer.

I don't do anything but go black again, because, well, it just seemed to be the right thing to do at that moment.

Starving yourself is not a joke. The body cannot live on beef jerky forever. One day I snapped my eyes open in the middle of the night and thought, crap, I'm hungry. The next day I ate everything on my plate and even, pathetically, stared at Naruto's until he let me have half of his sandwich. I went on a rampage. I drank from my milk even though I knew the doctors had drugged it, ate anything I can lay my hands on, no longer cared if the banana and apple weren't at a forty-five degree and angle and tried to hold Naruto's hand more often. I was acting totally and completely out of character and it didn't faze me one bit.

I do have to say, I do get better, eventually. Many things happen in my stay. Many things that I really don't want to go into very much detail of, except for the fact that I got better, I got worse, I got better again, Naruto left, I hit rock bottom. Everything revolved around order and my life, crumbled and thin as a wisp, is nothing like order.

Nine months after my arrival at the center, whether I recovered or not, Baki drives up to the doorstep, packs my things into the back trunk, tells me to get into the back of the car and says, quite matter-of-factly, that we were moving to Konoha.

Nothing would ever be quite the same after that.

Author's Notes: Yes, the entire chapter is a flashback. Yes, there are some REALLY REALLY important parts missing, which I will leave as another cliffhanger and maybe reveal in another chapter. Yes, I am aware that my idea of mental wards is very, very inaccurate, so don't flame about that, please. REVIEWERS I LOVE! (Hugs all reviewers, gives them candy and gaara dolls) Luv, luv, luv! (waves) LOVES! (coughs) in another words, please feel free to review! I'm thinking of writing a seperate fanfic/companion fic to this one about his stay at the psych ward and Naruto. Poor Naruto. Another cliffhanger-- what was HE in there for? Dun dun dun... (most likely the flashback will continue as the top paragraph before the chapter)