This is just more or less my thoughts on Gaara's character. I wrote it down randomly for no reason, and then I figured I would post it, cause I sort of liked it when it was done.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

He had survived six years of assassination attempts, graduating from the academy without ever spending a day within its walls. They didn’t want him there. Everyone knew the power he had, there was no reason to test it.

They made him team up with his siblings. He was indifferent about the choice, hating them as much as he hated everyone else. When they went on missions, he never bothered to protect them. He knew nothing about teamwork. He simply went in and killed whatever stood in his way, never flinching as blood poured from his broken victims. His siblings knew better than to tell him otherwise – he would kill them without hesitation if they stood in his way. He saw the same fear in their eyes that he had seen in everyone his entire life and he knew that they were no closer to him than all the other lumps of flesh that were called humans.

He was different. He cared about no one. He loved only himself. He fought only for himself. His only goal in life was to ensure his continued existence by mercilessly killing everyone who threatened him in any way. He hated his village and everyone in it. He felt no loyalty towards anyone.

He was a monster.

Gaara.

When he retreated to a secluded spot each sleepless night, the pain of loneliness threatened to overwhelm him. There could be no emotion stronger than this. He could no longer cry like he did when he was a child, but the dull ache in his heart was always with him.

When the demon inside him stirred with the ceaseless desire for blood, he was almost glad of his presence. At least there was one existence on this planet that needed him, even if it wasn’t human.

Some nights, he watched as assassins came for him, always trying new ways to overpower him and always crushed effortlessly by his sand. He relished in the feeling of their lives coming to an end at his hands, knowing that it allowed him to exist another day.

He could no longer truly call it living. He was simply surviving from one day to the next. It seemed that he had been able to carry out his mother’s wishes. He continued to stay alive, forever haunting the village with his hatred and keeping them in the grip of fear.

He no longer had dreams or desires. He simply waited for the next chance to see a new flow of blood mixing with his sand. A new life. Another day for him to exist.

When no one could see him, he would watch the villagers, joyful with their families, laughing with their loved ones. He tortured himself with the images of their happiness, knowing that he will never be able to experience that feeling. Sometimes he would approach his siblings, only to see the terror in their eyes at his presence and remind himself that he was alone.

He never looked at his father. This existence had been his gift, and he would return it with a million deaths if he could.

Sometimes when he was alone, he would pull out a knife and slide the blade across his wrist, knowing that the sand will always stop him. Death was his only fear, and it was his only fantasy. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the eyes that looked back filled with eternal pain, and he wished he could see their light go out.

He never loved anyone. He did not truly love himself. He only existed.

He had learned never to speak unless it was about pain or death. All other words had lost meaning to him. Even that one word forever carved into his flesh had become a lie.

Love only yourself.

But he didn’t.

He only existed.

When he went on missions, he sometimes saw those that he was attacking defending each other, risking their lives for each other. The same word surfaced in his mind every time. Why? Why did they care about someone else? Why were they willing to give up their own existence for another? Why had no one ever done that for him?

Some nights he wanted to simply give up and go to sleep. Let the demon destroy the village. Let him take over his mind forever. But his drive to continue to exist always overpowered this.

The only thing he had left was his existence. He could not give that up too.

Sometimes he wondered what he had done to deserve this. He was the only one who suffered like this. He was the only one who was truly and forever alone. He was the only one who had to live with the burden of the world’s hate, simply for being.

He was born a monster and no one ever told him why. No one ever said he was a bad child. No one ever said he was being punished. He was a monster, that was just the way it was. There would be no way out of it, no way to repent, to apologize, to somehow be forgiven.

It would never change. He would eternally see hate and fear in everyone’s eyes. He would always watch as they ran from him. He would be forever left standing alone, untouched by anyone, unloved, never cared for.

He had learned to hate them to erase the pain of his loneliness. He would never again call after them. He would never again try to find someone to understand him, to accept him. He would never again try to be anything but a monster.

All he could do was continue to exist.

That was his life. That was him.

Gaara.