urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:fallen_sands The shattering of hourglasses Gaara 2004-05-13T22:30:25Z urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:fallen_sands:763 2004-05-13T22:26:51Z 2004-05-13T22:30:25Z Vast - Last One Alive <a name="cutid1"></a><br /><br />School was fun, for a little while.<br /><br />Gaara had about as much choice in the schools he'd attended as he had choices in any other aspect of life when it came to his father, but he made the best of it.<br /><br />Although, his "making the best of it" was what usually got him sent to <br /><i>another</i> boarding school sooner than the ink could dry on another one of his father's many, many checks to the prior school. Donations, of course - for the new computer lab, or library, dormitory, or Headmaster...<br /><br />He thinks of the schools a lot, the tiny, structured little cities where<br />he spent the greater part of his adolesence. So many, and over such a short period of time. <br /><br />Gaara remembers perfectly executed fire drills being interrupted by very real fires. Remembers the screaming and the way the paper crinkled as the fire ate it away. In the worst of his fires, smoke filled his tired eyes and he got the best sleep he had in two years - unconscious in a hospital bed for 72 hours straight.<br /><br />He remembers the way blood looked, splattered haplessly on white linoleum. Remembers standing and staring, hands and legs trembling not in fear but still in anger. His skin crawling because the boy had <i>grabbed</i> him and tried to do it <i>again</i> after Gaara had told him not to.<br /><br />He remembers glass shattering, trophies and ribbons sailing to the floor because the championship was won and the celebrations wouldn't let him <i>sleep</i> when he was <i>finally</i> tired enough. He destroyed six displays that night, but the music swallowed the noise and he might not have been caught at all.<br /><br />He even remembers the imprint of papers and pens on his face and chest, bent over a cluttered desk as the headmaster fucked him but - very wisely - never touched him. He remembers that out of the sixteen schools he attended from the ages of eleven to seventeen, he'd gotten four other headmasters replaced for doing the same, and at least eleven teachers. It never was pleasant, but the results (when the other students and their parents found out) were interesting enough to more than make up for it. <br /><br />Eventually, though, even that lost its fun. As he grew older, he looked<br />less and less like a victim and the results were never as exciting.<br /><br />Eventually he perfected enough of a glare that kept people from innocently touching him, and he was able to relax just enough.<br /><br />Eventually he gave up on trying to sleep and just gave into it when it came, which wasn't often but he couldn't help it.<br /><br />And eventually his father died and he went back home - with the promise that Vegas was more fun than school had ever been, now that he was old enough to enjoy it.<br /><br />But now, ambling weakly to the Sands Casino with blood-flecked hands, he remembers a time where his mistakes were much easier to clean up. And they were more fun, because at least at school he could stick around to enjoy what he'd created.<br /><br />In Vegas he hides while his sister cleans up for him.<br /><br />And that isn't fun at all.<br /><br /> urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:fallen_sands:258 2004-05-11T22:19:08Z 2004-05-11T22:19:08Z Fuel - Falls On Me <a name="cutid1"></a><br /><br />Gaara wasn't sure who he was looking at.<br /><br />Days had passed since he had last entered his apartment, <br />only to feel the crunch of glass and sand beneath his feet<br />and feel the silence all around him and remember why he <br /><i>hates</i> coming home. He wants to leave already.<br /><br />He stays, this time, long enough to shower and change <br />his clothes. In the bathroom he stands, facing a mirror larger<br />than the windows of his bedroom, staring into his own tired <br />eyes and he thinks of sleeping. <br /><br />Gaara doesn't recognize the person he sees. It's a strange thing.<br /><br />His eyeliner has bled away over the course of days, and unveiled<br />is the bruiselike purple around his eyes that never seems to fade.<br />His face is paler than usual and he knows he's losing weight again.<br /><br />He knows he should sleep. Knows it, hates it. <br /><br />He stares into his own pale, empty eyes and his skin, flushed and shining <br />from his shower. Calmly - thoughtfully - hides his dark and tired eyes behind<br />darker makeup even as the silence makes his slender hand tremble.<br /><br />He hates it. <br /><br />Anger rips through him and he shatters the silence with his hand; fragments<br />of silvery glass clattering onto the tile, hot splashes of scarlet staining <br />the sink. <br /><br />Gaara gets one last look at his face, his eyes, before the mirror crumples<br />away completely. He recognizes what he sees, there.<br /><br />And he feels better now.<br /><br />