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Gaara week 2022

DAY 1 - Identify Yourself | Cruel Strength

Trigger warnings: violence, death, blood, murder, graphic description of violence

em português depois do corte; portuguese version under the cut

Akamaru trembles: Gaara’s cruel strength

Gaara felt hungry. He could feel his blood pulsating within his veins, causing his temples to throb violently, his hands trembling with anticipation as he opened the gate and, posed between his older siblings, stepped into the dark forest. He could smell it. Taste it, even, if he paid it a little more attention. He was surrounded by death. And he liked it. He liked it very much.

From the corner of his eye, the boy could see Kankuro and Temari gaze back at him with worried faces, apprehensive, distressed even. It must have been because he was smiling, Gaara supposed. And he never smiled. At least, he almost never did. And, when he did, it was seldom because of joy or happiness or emotion. It was always out of anxiety. A sick anxiety, almost uncontrollable, an anxiety that put dirt on his hands, a pulse of death, a powerful desire to kill. A suffocating will to live.

The smile quickly dwindled, giving way to the serious complexion that rarely left his face. He was to be seen as a threat, and not as a clown. And though he no longer smiled, Gaara felt his heart beat faster when they stumbled upon those three ninjas from the rain village. He felt the adrenaline rise, shaking his blood, his stomach, the kanji stapled on his forehead. This was going to be delicious.

He completely ignored Kankuro’s words. He cared very little about their scroll, about that stupid exam, about anything at all. What mattered was that he had set his eyes on a prey and he would not be letting go of it. He started from the one that talked the most. He was quite entertaining, in fact. Kept saying that the sand siblings would die for having crossed his path. Gaara found jest in the absurdity, in the pathetic needles the man made rain from the sky as what he swore would be the final blow, but moved not his lips even by an inch as he swallowed him from his feet up to his head in thick sand.

The man went into despair as he realized he would never get out of that chrysalis, that deathly cocoon. Gaara enjoyed watching him beg, yet to him such cries held no meaning. The only meaning they ever had was when Gaara, with a twist of his hand, exploded the ridiculously fragile body of his opponent. He felt the smell, the taste of blood that mixed in with the sand, giving him more strength, more power, more mortality, more life. Without a sound, he appreciated the sight of the red rain that stained the umbrellas he had borrowed, and relished even more in the panic of the remaining two who then surrendered, handing over the scroll and taking off, running for their lives. But they would not run for long.

Gaara grabbed them by their feet, the sand dragging them towards him, pulling them in the direction of the starving boy who thirsted for death. He wrapped them the same way he had with the first, from their feet to their heads. He left their faces untouched; he wanted to see the despair in their eyes once life began to evade their bodies. They screamed and begged as had done their successor. Once again, the urgent, despaired words meant nothing to the young shinobi. Only death had a meaning. And only death meant.

Gaara felt the monster within himself cry out in pleasure. As he cut the young men’s lives short, he felt it mingle with his own existence, mix with his power. He felt hungrier. He wanted more, he wanted so much more. His existence was still too feeble. And only if he killed would that existence grow.

He knew of those three hidden behind the bush. He could feel their fear nourish his hatred, his cruel strength, his ominous desire, his deathly pulse. He wanted them to himself, wanted to crush them with his sand, to absorb them into his domain, to murder them and seize their remains, to incorporate those into his own. But he heeded his older sister’s words. Despite the quickened pace of his heartbeat, Gaara allowed the adrenaline to cease. He would have time, they had promised. He would have time, plenty of it, to murder. Those three could live another day. But they would not have the same luck should they ever cross his path again.

Akamaru treme: a força cruel de Gaara

Gaara tinha fome. Podia sentir o sangue pulsar dentro de suas veias, fazendo com que suas têmporas latejassem violentamente, podia sentir as próprias mãos tremendo em antecipação enquanto ele abria o portão e, ladeado pelos irmãos mais velhos, adentrava a floresta escura. Podia sentir o cheiro. O gosto, se ele prestasse um pouco mais de atenção. Ele estava rodeado de morte. E ele gostava. Gostava muito.

Com o rabo do olho, o menino pôde ver Kankuro e Temari mirarem-no com expressões preocupadas, apreensivas, aflitas até. Devia ser porque ele estava sorrindo, Gaara supôs. E ele nunca sorria. Quase nunca, aliás. E, quando sorria, não era por alegria ou felicidade ou emoção. Era sempre por ansiedade. Uma ansiedade doentia, quase incontrolável, uma ansiedade de sujar as mãos, uma pulsão de morte, um poderoso desejo de matar. Um sufocante desejo de existir.

O sorriso minguou rápido, dando lugar ao semblante sério que quase nunca deixava-lhe a face. Era para que os outros o vissem como uma ameaça, e não como um palhaço. Ainda que já não estivesse sorrindo, Gaara sentiu o coração bater mais rápido quando toparam com aqueles três ninjas da aldeia da chuva. Sentiu a adrenalina subir, sacudir-lhe o sangue, o estômago, o kanji que levava na testa. Aquilo seria delicioso.

Ignorou completamente o discurso de Kankuro. Não estava nem aí para o pergaminho deles, para aquela prova idiota, para nada. Importava-lhe que tinha escolhido sua presa e não a deixaria escapar. Começou pelo que falava mais. Ele era divertido, até. Ficava dizendo que os irmãos da areia morreriam por ter cruzado o seu caminho. Gaara achou graça no absurdo, na patética chuva de agulhas que ele fez cair do céu com a certeza de que seria o golpe final, mas não moveu os lábios um milímetro sequer enquanto envolvia-o a partir dos pés até a cabeça em areia espessa.

Ele se desesperou quando percebeu que não sairia mais daquela crisálida, daquele casulo de morte. Gaara gostou de vê-lo implorar, mas, para ele, aquelas súplicas não significam nada. Só teve um significado quando, com um gesto de mão, Gaara explodiu o corpo ridiculamente frágil de seu oponente. Sentiu o cheiro, o gosto do sangue que misturava-se à sua areia, tornando-o mais forte, mais poderoso, mais mortal, mais vivo. Apreciou mudamente a chuva vermelha que manchava os guarda chuvas que ele tinha pegado emprestado, apreciou ainda mais o pânico dos outros dois que se rendiam, entregando o pergaminho e batiam em retirada, correndo pelas próprias vidas. Mas não correriam muito.

Gaara agarrou-lhes pelos pés, a areia puxando-os para si, puxando-os na direção do menino faminto, sedento de morte. Envolveu-lhes como fez com aquele primeiro, dos pés à cabeça. Deixou os rostos deles descobertos; queria ver o desespero nos olhos deles quando a vida começasse a esvair-se dos seus corpos. Eles gritaram, e imploraram como fez o primeiro. Mais uma vez, as palavras urgentes, desesperadas, não significaram nada para o jovem shinobi. Só a morte significava. E só a morte significou.

Gaara sentiu o monstro dentro de si urrar de prazer. Sentiu a vida interrompida daqueles jovens se misturar à sua existência, ao seu poder. Sentiu mais fome. Ele queria mais, queria muito mais. Ele ainda não existia o suficiente. E só existiria se pudesse matar.

Ele sabia daqueles três escondidos atrás do arbusto. Sentia o medo deles alimentar seu ódio, sua força cruel, seu desejo sombrio, sua pulsão mortal. Ele os queria para si, queria espremê-los em sua areia, absorvê-los em seu domínio, assassiná-los e apoderar-se dos restos, incorporá-los aos restos dele. Mas cedeu aos pedidos da irmã mais velha. Apesar do coração acelerado, Gaara permitiu que a adrenalina baixasse. Haveria tempo, eles tinham prometido. Haveria tempo, muito tempo, para matar. Aqueles trẽs podiam viver por mais um dia. Mas não teriam a mesma sorte se cruzassem o seu caminho mais uma vez.

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