Torpedoes

The pond water ripples for a short while, and then stops. It reminds me too much of my own short life. I pick up another pebble and toss it across the pond, again, it doesn't skim but instead plummets down like a misled torpedo. Torpedo. War. Again I've reminded myself of those unfortunate events, but the triggers are so vague it's almost as if I'm TRYING to make myself sad. It wasn't a war, really. It was more ambiguated than that. I wouldn't exactly call an android-bug-creature terrorising the world, WAR. I'd call it just another day of my life. Because me and my friends, we're a part of something bigger than ourselves, bigger than God, even. You could call us Superheroes, but we don't have secret identities. All we do is save the world. Then make a wish on some magic orbs to erase everyone's memory so that they won't recognise us or the fact that 90% of the human population died during the battle. As all. My friends, we can do anything. We could have flown forever. But somehow, we crashed and burned.

I can't stop thinking about the "war". Of course, we won. If we didn't, I wouldn't be sitting here outside the Son house, fucking around with their garden pebbles. I'd most likely be dead. I always knew we would win, the Z gang can do anything, after all. The warmth of pride swells in my heart when I say it, the fact the Cell was destroyed by Gohan. Obliterated. Pain follows pride when I remember what we lost. Guilt drags itself into my being next, filling my entire body and soul and suffocating my heart. I dreaded the war. I prepared for the war. And for a short time, I took part in the war. But like potentially any soldier on the battlefield, I was wounded and eventually, made my way home with a dying friend.

I try to shake my head free of those thoughts and concentrate on the smooth, shiny surface of the pebble I'm holding in my palm. A stranger stares back. He looks strong. Powerful. He even has a battle scar on his face to prove it. His eyes are hard and his expression leaks confidence. A real tough guy. He's me. But he's not me. I am weak. Powerless. My scars are amateur. My eyes are hard because they hide so many emotions, and my expression is one I've come to adopt for the public's assurance. I'm no hero. Not anymore. There's nothing worse than losing the battle before it's already begun. It eats at your pride, who's mangled carcass then attempts to fight self pity turned to self hate, which had manifested itself when you realised how insignificant you were. Compared to them. Currently, my pride isn't holding it's own very well. The battle is raging inside my head and I don't know whether to get over myself or get rid of myself.

I am so weak. A rabbit among a herd of elephants. Could never keep up. Could never catch up. 'The Z Gang'. Pah. We were so great. We could do anything. My old friends. Anything. It wasn't so long ago that a strange little black haired boy with a monkey tail looked up to me.

I get up and brush my blue corduroys off respectively. The Son's garden grass is well overdue a haircut. Ceremoniously, I dump the remaining pebbles back into the pond and watch them sink. Like torpedoes. Then, for the moment at least, I push my own self pity out of my mind and enter the Son household. It's about time I paid the real hero a visit.

The faster you rise, the harder you fall

The harder you fall, the faster you burn

The faster you burn, the heavier your heart

The heavier your heart, the faster you run