Vegeta didn't like to think about the past.
He didn't like remembering just how savage he could be, how utterly malevolent, when pushed to the limits; when he was backed in to a corner. He couldn't blame it all on the blood running through his veins. No, his deeply buried fear of Frieza was a far greater agitation.
During that time he could not afford to be seen as weak.
Ever.
His mask of arrogance was the only thing that had kept him alive.
He didn't like to remember all the things he had to do to survive, to keep his head above water.
What the fear had turned him into.
And how he could convert that fear into brutality.
The ruthlessness of his violence could come so quickly, so easily. Just a glance could sufficiently set him off on a path of viciousness that could go on for days.
Of course, he always paid for those violent acts in his own blood. Frieza's pet couldn't go around killing all of his soldiers just because his temper got the best of him.
And those nights with Frieza are the worst memories he has… and the hardest to suppress. Sometimes he still wakes in the middle of the night, hearing that creature's laugh burning in his ears.
And on those nights, when the wounds reopen and the pain becomes fresh, he is forced to leave his bed, and the woman who had given him a son, to train.
To fight.
The only thing that could always chase away those awful images.
His constant.
The one goal that had not and will not change since the day he was born: to become the strongest. And that he could blame on his warrior's blood.
Vegeta didn't like to think about the past.
But the past does not like to be forgotten.