Must warn you, this is angsty. This isn't about Pilaf's 'Shu', but about Mr. Shu, Gohan's evil tutor that was in what I believe was a filler episode in the Trunks Saga. It could go hand-in-hand with What Makes a Man.
With small, upturned nose pointed towards the air, snuffing anything that could be snuffed, Shu marched confidently past the children crouching over the warm sidewalk. He ignored them as they threw their jacks, a childish game, he thought. And they were disgraces, playing such games at his age. They were eleven years old and already neglecting their studies, something he noted with disdain as he clutched his books more protectively in his grasp, pressing them up to his jacket.
The sun blazed down, the wild grass between blocks on that sidewalk parched, cracking with each step the spiteful boy took. The sweltering heat was damaging to his sensitive skin, and the humidity only frizzled his unruly, black hair. He sneered as he readjusted the thick, yellow frames sitting on that tiny nose of his. Such immature brats, withstanding the summer's drought instead of retreating to the cool shades of a library or house. No, he would never understand why these children put up with the sun's rays when they could so easily save their skins from bubbling, only forced to peel those blisters off their arms later. Children were illogical, he knew.
He strutted down the sidewalk, forced to dodge two older boys zooming towards him on bikes. Then he brushed off his purple jacket with a disdainful stroke of his fingers, having staggered into the grass. He clenched his teeth as they spared no glance back, not even bothering to apologize. If he had fallen over and gotten grass stains all over his black slacks, he knew that he would never hear the end of it from his mother.
Shu huffed, turning into a tiny driveway leading up to a tinier house. It was a small shack, the yellow boards of wood beginning to rot, and the porch slanting slightly due to uneven posts. But he paid no mind, making his way past the weeds springing up in the dead grass and shuffling his dark shoes against the doormat before opening the screen door.
The house lacked warmth. It was dark inside, only a dim light hanging above the kitchen table. The rooms were all spotless, but as he saw his mother turn around, her dark, curly hair twisted into a low bun at the base of her neck, he saw that gaunt expression in her sallowed cheeks. But she still pulled her frown into a slight smile, happy to see her son from school, and only happier to see that his clothes weren't stained. Lately, his peers had taken to pulling pranks on the poor boy, she knew. He refused to admit it, but she had received several worrisome calls from the principal's office lately. Her son, however, was too proud, something she respected him for, to allow her to help. So each time he returned home with raw egg cracked in his messy hair, or paste all over his beautiful jacket, she would take him into her arms and clean him up.
All of those little jokes on him were nothing compared to what she had been noticing more and more lately, and that had been bruises on his arms. He would wave them off, explaining that they had simply played a game that day where he had been jostled around a little too much. But there was something in his eyes, the way that his little, yellow glasses glinted, that made her suspicious. She trusted her son enough, however, to not invade in his privacy. She knew that he was delicate, and to call the school up simply because of a few, small injuries would only embarrass him. She couldn't help but worry.
Shu sniffed, setting his books down at the tiny, wooden table set aside in the corner of the kitchen. He pulled out a chair and sat down in it, flinching as he felt his mother place a hand protectively on her son's arm. It hurt, as he had acquired a bruise there earlier that day - his teacher had been especially harsh with him, after her had lost concentration in the middle of reciting his multiplication tables in front of the class. It was at 'seven times eight' that he always got lost, accidentally giving the incorrect response of 'fifty-four'. And that had granted him a lash with the whip, humiliated before everybody else.
But he refused to tell his mother about how his teacher whipped him. No, he knew that each pain would only strengthen him as an individual, keeping him from messing up again. And, certainly, it had worked - when forced to say his multiplications up to twelve again from the beginning again, he recited them perfectly. No mistakes, no hesitation. The cadence of the numbers flowing from his mouth went on undisturbed until finishing, at which he quickly sat back down again, his teacher moving on to the next victim of the whip. And the next boy repeated those numbers perfectly, as did the next one. That whip was a marvel to Shu's eyes, something he saw not as punishment, but rather as an effective teaching tool.
He knew his mother would digress, however, a reason why he had never confided in her of what really happened during math class. As she loomed over him, her weary, dark eyes locking with his own, she asked, "How was your day at school?"
"Fine," he abruptly replied, cracking open one of the books on top and opening it. He didn't want to face the whip again the next day, and he knew that he needed to go over those multiplication tables again so that he could recite them perfectly, allowing the weapon to pass over him. But his mother wasn't satisfied with this short answer, prompting her to ask,
"What did you do today?" She kneeled down by him, relieving his arm as she shifted her hand from the bruised tissue to the unharmed tissue on his shoulder. But the look of determination in her eyes showed that she wouldn't rest until she found out just why he looked so unhappy, so uptight.
"Not very much," he murmured as she stroked his rumpled hair endearingly. He wanted to shrug her off so that he could continue his studies, something he had to do unless he wanted to face the whip. But he couldn't explain that to his mother, and he couldn't simply shrug her off. He had learned to respect his elders, or at least the elders who cared enough to care for him. But there were some that didn't seem to care enough for him, some that he could do nothing but think badly about - namely, his father.
His mother watched as his eyes skimmed over the table on the page, letting out a small sigh of defeat. The boy didn't know when he could rest, when he could take a break. She continued stroking his dark hair as she asked, concerned for her son's health, "Why don't you go outside and play with some of the other boys? You've been at school all day, and you need a break."
Shu shook his small head. "I need to study." He needed to study to not only not face the whip, but also to advance his education. He didn't understand how other boys could afford wasting their time doing frivolous activities, playing all day. He needed to study so that one day he could get a job, saving his mother from this slump they were forced to live in because his father had abandoned them.
She sighed in defeat, standing back up to her feet and returning to doing the laundry, using the machine sitting on the opposite side of the small kitchen. Shu didn't even give her a second glance as clenched his small fists together, angry now as thoughts of his father filled his mind. He furrowed his forehead slightly, glaring as the numbers on the page became blurry, tears of frustration forming in his eyes.
It wasn't fair. Other children had their fathers. Other children didn't have to work as hard as he did, forced to overcome what difficulties came of not having a second parent. Why did his father have to go? Each time they visited the cemetary, standing by his father's grave as a sign of respect, Shu could barely hold the will to kick the stone, kick the epitaph that read, "Forever in Peace." No, nobody was in peace because of his father. Because his father had decided to leave, to move his life on to a place his mother would only describe as 'a better place', they were living life in shambles. He had no father now to teach him how to be a man, to be his friend.
Now he only had the whip and the numbers in his textbook to be his friends.
Shu was now Mr. Shu. He had grown up, though his manhood was questionable. He certainly was successful in his line of tutoring, making quite a profit off of teaching children. The whip was still his friend, as was the textbook. On occasion, he would visit his mother's tombstone, lying peacefully next to his father's. But upon seeing these two stones together, he would only tighten his grip on the whip coiled up by his side, hanging in loop on his pants.
His shoulders would drop as he would stare at the two stones, still unable to overcome the anger he held at his father. He didn't care that it was disease, as he had finally learned, that had forced his father out of his world and into the next. He was still that little boy hovering over his textbook, eager to get vengeance on all that his father had done to him. He was that same little boy who had his pants pulled down in class, his glasses stolen and his pants stained with grass. He was the same little boy who was the whip's friend, and the whip was certainly still his best friend. And he was the same little boy, harboring resentment over other children who seemed to enjoy themselves.
His manhood was questionable.