A/N~ Wow, it took me a long time to finally finish writing this story. Oh
well, it's done and that's all that matters I guess.
**************
Disclaimer: I do not own the entirety of DBZ, but I do own Gohan. I hide him under my bed and use him as my personal slave. Ain't it great?
**************
Chapter 2: Snip, Snip
Some people believe that their skin is another analogy to represent who they are. If that is true, then why is it that soaps and other chemicals can so distinctly alter one's complexion? I don't know much about current culture, but what I do know is that just about everyone can enjoy a bath. There's just something about the feeling of warm water that makes me feel cleansed in both body and soul… that is until your skin starts to get really wrinkly and stuff because that's just gross, then it's time to get out and face the world again.
So there you are still wet from the bath standing in only a towel in front of the mirror examining yourself for something you don't quite understand why you're looking for, but you look for it anyway. I suppose most guys would flex their muscles and see how beefy they look while in the buff, or anyway that's what I've caught both Krillen and Yamcha doing in the past just before a swim party, but I find it silly and could really care less about how my muscles look on me. So I stand here just looking and talking to the mirror, crazy as it sounds.
The only reason it sounds silly is because mirrors can't talk back, which is why you don't talk to them with phrases, words, and chuckles. The only language they are partial to is eye contact, which can never be broken as long as you look at them. A mirror can be your best friend, offering comfort in small smiles or sympathy in understanding faces. You can converse deep secrets with them, or even find out something new about yourself. For instance:
I look just like my father.
The wild hair, the jovial smile, and the muscular build have all been my father's progressive traits that I inherited. I never would have expressed a notion of these characteristics if my dear friend hadn't brought them to my attention.
It makes me stare at myself with the same scrutinizing eyes that followed me around Capsule Corp and deranged me with the guilt of days long past. No matter what I do, what face I make, what stance I take, I will always resemble the emblem of my guilt because his trademark is now my own.
His hair, which sprung in pointed strands towards the heavens above, now sits atop my own head in its infamous style so that every time I see my reflection I will be reminded of my fault and see my father looking straight back at me. It's not fair; I can't endure another moment of it unless that person looking back at me really is my life's greatest influence.
I don't want to look like my father.
I grab one of my thick strands that rest proudly atop my head and without further thought bring my free hand towards it, a slight ki ball forming at the end of my index finger. I allow the energy to cleanly slice through the hair and wait as the fragments slowly waft to the floor before I look at myself once again in the mirror.
I still look just like my father.
Driven with determination, I take hold of another proud lock and slice it through as well to repeat the process. My eyes clamp shut as angry tears well at their corners. When I open them I don't want to see him looking back at me; I need to see myself, Son Gohan. My hands continue their frenzy about my head and it seems that the feeling of wet hair patting against my bare skin will never cease. The heat from the ki in my hand is beginning to dry my hair and make the process harder for my fretting hands, but I don't care. It hurts to see him everywhere I go. I see him in windows, in puddles, in silver ware and china. I even see him in the glint of my mother's eyes when I think she's speaking to me in that soft voice she rarely uses. I see him where ever I go and whenever I expect to see myself.
Because I look just like my father.
By now my eyes feel bleary and swollen shut. My sensitive senses are picking up the stale, bitter smell of blood as a thick, fluid sensation rolls softly down my forehead and across my brow. More than likely I had been a bit too careless with my exposed energy at some point. No matter though. What's done is done.
My head tilts up slightly and my eyes ease their way slowly open expecting to see the ghost of what I have become, but to my utter surprise I found myself.
**************
A/N~ Ok, yeah, the twist sucked, but it took me so long to write it that I forgot what I was really doing and writing about and I ended up just winging it. Ummmmm.... REVIEW!!! please?
**************
Disclaimer: I do not own the entirety of DBZ, but I do own Gohan. I hide him under my bed and use him as my personal slave. Ain't it great?
**************
Chapter 2: Snip, Snip
Some people believe that their skin is another analogy to represent who they are. If that is true, then why is it that soaps and other chemicals can so distinctly alter one's complexion? I don't know much about current culture, but what I do know is that just about everyone can enjoy a bath. There's just something about the feeling of warm water that makes me feel cleansed in both body and soul… that is until your skin starts to get really wrinkly and stuff because that's just gross, then it's time to get out and face the world again.
So there you are still wet from the bath standing in only a towel in front of the mirror examining yourself for something you don't quite understand why you're looking for, but you look for it anyway. I suppose most guys would flex their muscles and see how beefy they look while in the buff, or anyway that's what I've caught both Krillen and Yamcha doing in the past just before a swim party, but I find it silly and could really care less about how my muscles look on me. So I stand here just looking and talking to the mirror, crazy as it sounds.
The only reason it sounds silly is because mirrors can't talk back, which is why you don't talk to them with phrases, words, and chuckles. The only language they are partial to is eye contact, which can never be broken as long as you look at them. A mirror can be your best friend, offering comfort in small smiles or sympathy in understanding faces. You can converse deep secrets with them, or even find out something new about yourself. For instance:
I look just like my father.
The wild hair, the jovial smile, and the muscular build have all been my father's progressive traits that I inherited. I never would have expressed a notion of these characteristics if my dear friend hadn't brought them to my attention.
It makes me stare at myself with the same scrutinizing eyes that followed me around Capsule Corp and deranged me with the guilt of days long past. No matter what I do, what face I make, what stance I take, I will always resemble the emblem of my guilt because his trademark is now my own.
His hair, which sprung in pointed strands towards the heavens above, now sits atop my own head in its infamous style so that every time I see my reflection I will be reminded of my fault and see my father looking straight back at me. It's not fair; I can't endure another moment of it unless that person looking back at me really is my life's greatest influence.
I don't want to look like my father.
I grab one of my thick strands that rest proudly atop my head and without further thought bring my free hand towards it, a slight ki ball forming at the end of my index finger. I allow the energy to cleanly slice through the hair and wait as the fragments slowly waft to the floor before I look at myself once again in the mirror.
I still look just like my father.
Driven with determination, I take hold of another proud lock and slice it through as well to repeat the process. My eyes clamp shut as angry tears well at their corners. When I open them I don't want to see him looking back at me; I need to see myself, Son Gohan. My hands continue their frenzy about my head and it seems that the feeling of wet hair patting against my bare skin will never cease. The heat from the ki in my hand is beginning to dry my hair and make the process harder for my fretting hands, but I don't care. It hurts to see him everywhere I go. I see him in windows, in puddles, in silver ware and china. I even see him in the glint of my mother's eyes when I think she's speaking to me in that soft voice she rarely uses. I see him where ever I go and whenever I expect to see myself.
Because I look just like my father.
By now my eyes feel bleary and swollen shut. My sensitive senses are picking up the stale, bitter smell of blood as a thick, fluid sensation rolls softly down my forehead and across my brow. More than likely I had been a bit too careless with my exposed energy at some point. No matter though. What's done is done.
My head tilts up slightly and my eyes ease their way slowly open expecting to see the ghost of what I have become, but to my utter surprise I found myself.
**************
A/N~ Ok, yeah, the twist sucked, but it took me so long to write it that I forgot what I was really doing and writing about and I ended up just winging it. Ummmmm.... REVIEW!!! please?
