He stared at his tanned scar littered body in the mirror. He had stripped himself bare and was staring down at the marks. He knew how each had made its presence and every scar held a deeply hidden memory. As his thoughts began to race he dropped his arms at his side and stared into his mirrored eyes.
Once they held a glare that could will so many thousands into submission. An ice cold gaze that many had trembled in fear of. A burning madness that had been the last image of thousands was now an empty and pitiful sight. The dam broke and the sound of shattered glass resonated off the walls around him. His image broken like his will. His knuckles dripped red and stained the pure white sink beneath them.
The feeling of his blood leaving his body was intoxicating. After so many years of training and fighting, it had become his only comfort. His only reminder that he was still alive and not already in Hell. He wondered would Hell be this bad? Surely nothing could replicate the fierce self loathing and deafening emptiness he felt inside. Maybe even, it would be his relief.
Death was not something he feared. He had already died after all. He remembered the burning anger he had felt when he arrived at the foot of king Yemmas desk. But for once it had drifted away. Now his weary soul could rest knowing there was nothing left for him to fight. No one to take from him, no one to expect from him. And no one to watch him struggle and fall short. He remembered the relief he had felt. Unlike any feeling he had ever experienced while alive.
Snapping himself out of his trance he looked down at the shimmering pieces of glass around him. One sharp ended piece dripped with blood from his knuckles. Before he had time to think he found himself gripping the shard in his hand, hovering above his marred arm. He let out a calculated breath and plunged it deep into his wrist, dragging it down the length of his fore arm. The pain a welcome and familiar sensation. He repeated the action to his other arm though it proved more difficult having to use his injured arm. The line was not as clean and was jagged like the glass which had caused it. He stood staring at the crimson stained flesh until he crumpled to the floor in a sorry heap. Sitting in a puddle that was slowly forming beneath him.
His breathing was shallow now. His vision blurred slightly as his body took over trying desperately to heal the wounds he had inflicted upon himself. The cool tile floor of his private bathroom at capsule corp was the only thing he could feel aside from the rush of adrenaline that numbed his remaining senses. He was alone. Truly the last Sayian. No longer a Prince of anyone but his rivals half breed son. With no true purpose left, no great challenge to face.
The tyrant that he had sworn his life to destroying had killed him. And the ridiculous excuse for a Sayian Kakarott had been the one to bring Frieza to his demise. And what was worse, his rival had also found his end. With none left to rule, and no burning hatred to keep him going there was nothing left for him.
Vegeta sighed as he looked down at his arms. One long deep gash down the middle of each raged red with his blood leaking out. His royal blood, his life blood draining from his body. It wouldn't be long now. He wondered briefly if his father could see him now. His heir to the throne of a warrior race, crumpled broken and defeated by none other than himself. The pride that once coursed through his veins must have trickled out along with his blood for he did not feel remorse for his actions. He could not find the will to live when he lived in a world which he hated, and which truly hated him.
Blackness ebbed at the remainder of his senses. He slowly shut his eyes prepared for the circle of Hell he was sure had been reserved for him. He suddenly felt a whir stir the remainder of his senses but before he could think to open his eyes, a heavy breath escaped him, and darkness, the one true thing that had accompanied him his entire life, caressed him in her cold embrace.