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Man of Constant Sorrow

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Gaara didn't remember when he'd begun talking to the gourd. Some time after Yashamaru and some time before Naruto was all he could say, those being the only two points in his life he bothered comparing time to.

Nobody else would listen, after all, and he hadn't the imagination to make up a friend like most of the other outcast children. It was a comfort that he could speak to it and it would never answer back with cutting words like people had a nasty tendency to do, and that it never got bored — or worse, afraid of him — and went off somewhere else. It stayed, which was more than he could say for anything else in his pathetic excuse for a life.

After a while, muttering under his breath to it became somewhat of a habit. He never did it where people could hear him, as he didn't need them thinking he was any more of a nut than they already did, but as there were rarely people close enough to hear him speak, it wasn't much of an issue.

He never named it. That would have been going too far. The fact that he talked to it was already more than odd enough.

Leaning back on it, he closed his eyes. It wasn't like he could sleep, but it was comfortable like this and his poor eyes could get a bit of a break. The black circles made his pale irises stand out frighteningly, yet another mark against him. He really couldn't seem to get a break.

Night fell. At least now his surroundings matched his heart. He felt marginally more comfortable.

"Good night," he told the gourd, "or whatever. ...Whatever."

The gourd, as always, said nothing.