A pale boy with a shock of red hair walks through the desert, a gourd on his back. He is Gaara, Kazekage of the Suna. He is walking outside the village limits because he is slightly depressed. Ok, a lot depressed. The villagers still do not treat him as human.

Before, he had walked into a restaurant to eat. He sat down, ordered something, and ate it. The problem was, everyone in the restaurant was so terrified of him that they refused to move a muscle. They all stared at him as he ate, either out of the corner of their eyes, or openly. Their eyes were so cruel, so cold. They showed fear, horror, and even outright hatred. Silence had permeated the restaurant until a shaking manager asked him to leave because he was scaring the people away. He got up, apologized politely, paid, and left, hiding his feelings behind his emotionless, bored face. He struggled to put his feelings to words, but all he could come up with was hurt.

"Why should they?", he asks aloud to the desert, "Why should they treat me as a human? They detest me, and have good reason to", He finishes, bitterly. He sits down, lonely, but he just stares blankly across the endless sand. He does not know what to do. Both his sister Temari, and his brother Kankuro, are on missions. There are no pressing duties for him to take care of, and no one would want to be with him.

They still see the boy that killed without a second thought, the boy that people ran from in fear, the boy with no emotion. He is not that boy anymore, but he is beginning to wonder if anyone will see it, besides his siblings. He wants so badly to understand love, hope, happiness, and all the other human emotions. He plays with the sand in his gourd, winding it around him, gently squeezing him, like what he imagines a hug to be. He had seen many people hugging; yesterday at the market place he saw a little boy hugging his Mom. The little boy was smiling up at his mother, and the mother seemed proud of her son. They just seemed so happy, until they saw him, and the mother quickly moved her son behind her, in a protective stance. The little boy clung to his mother's purple skirt, nervously peeking out at him with fear. Again, she looked at him with those eyes. Those cruel eyes; they haunted him everywhere.

Those eyes, the way the people looked at him had not changed, and he doubted it ever would. If he could, he would have cried in the privacy of the desert; but he can't, he doesn't understand how to cry yet, and there is no one to teach him.