Playing With Knives

by Ebony

Standard disclaimer applies.


He didn't even have to move…

The clock on the other side of his room had read 2:30 am when the person – male or female he didn't know, but it didn't matter – stepped quietly into his room. He, of course, was sitting on his bed with a puzzle spread out on the mattress in front of him, sheets in a pile on the floor. Only seven, Gaara continued sorting through the pieces meticulously, as if he hadn't noticed the intruder's presence.

But then again, he was used to this sort of thing.

Outside his open window, the sands shifted softly in glowing moonlight.

He heard everything. The hiss of breath and the rustles of clothing as the black-clad and masked intruder shifted their weight back onto their right foot. The muscles tightened. The blood in their veins (just like his only not) racing through intricate passages all through their body, faster now.

Was that hesitance?

The target was only a little boy, of course.

But inside that little boy was a monster. You could see it in his eyes, they said, nothing but cruelty and emptiness. Soullessness.

Gaara slipped two pieces of the puzzle together, careful not to peel the picture from the cardboard.

And then it came. The ever so quiet shriek of air against the blade as it came from the sheath and was whipped towards him. Another, and another.

Shamaru-jii said it wasn't good to play with knives…

The blades clattered against the floor as the large wall of sand sprung up between the intruder and the boy deflected them. Fear sparked in the whites of their eyes as it moved forwards to engulf them, swallowing them up in one gulp.

And it was cruel, yes, but there was nothing Gaara could do about it. As much as he would've liked to die, he was unable.

He listened to a muffled scream, desperate, and the crunching of flesh and bone together as the body was crushed…

The last, jagged breath.

Silence.

The sand, now stained a brutal breathtaking red, retreated once more. Gaara pressed his face into his teddy bear, trying to suppress the tears, the memory of not understanding why

2:33 am.

Another assassination attempt by his Father – failed.