HOPE AT A FUNERAL
by Obsidian Blade
Amber liquid in a crystal glass; the creak of ice as it began to melt; the smooth hiss of the grazed skin of his hand against the wooden tabletop; and even the reddened lids of her bright blue eyes became nothing more than witnesses as Vegeta sat in the Briefs' kitchen with the thundering retort of Gohan's kamehameha wave lingering in his ears.
It had been two days. Two days of self-abuse and aimless disgust, of desert air and blood in his hair. Exhaustion wrought his return. He was too tired to insult himself, so who better to call on than Bulma? It had made sense at the time. But sense had worn off when he stood, battered and torn in the doorway, and she had welcomed him in wordlessly, guided him to the table, sat across from him and cried and said never do that to me again. I thought maybe you were dead too.
Perhaps she had thought correctly. Vegeta might be dead. Vegeta had never accepted alcohol, only sneered and prided himself on senses kept sword-edge sharp. Brought to his mouth, the glass stung his tongue and his throat with a substance once left to the foolish and the weak, the second-rate worms who needed this drug to give them false fire, false worth. She refilled his glass once, twice, three times, and the room bore witness to the death of Vegeta and the first broken crawl of this man, this being outside the warrior, who felt the knots his predecessor had left in his muscles collapse. This man who had no purpose in life, no purpose at all, but felt some alien twinge in his chest as a child bawled overhead and this human woman said,
'Vegeta, I know. I know.'
His kin.
Drabble: 300 words, 'tipsy'. My own black mood may have infiltrated this one.
Black mood aside, Phoenix Satori, deal. And thank you, your enthusiasm is a beautiful thing to find in my inbox.