OooOooo
There was a calm that washed over the remnants of the city, a quiet that had been long lost in the shattered hearts of many, and the residents took to the rare opportunity with restored joy, enjoying dinners that could stretch past the hurried rush of anxieties and safe measurements. The warm night allowed them to open their windows and embrace the night air, their sounds of guiltless laughter soaking the still night until it rained with their pleasantries.
It was beautiful, poetic. It was what they needed, even if for just a fleeting moment. This particular evening provided a mirror of what used to be, of how they used to live before the haunting ghosts named 17 and 18 wrecked their lives with a merciless terror.
She was happy for them, she really was, but their soft lulls of laughter and music made the ache in her heart clench until she could no longer stand it.
She needed to get away.
She used the luxury of time to pack a small bag of necessary foods, and then she jumped into her hover pad, the wind running its chilled fingers through her aqua tresses, and drove off, not bothering or caring to turn back.
If everything went according to plan, by their hands, the city could enjoy more undisturbed nights like this. They had no idea of the fight that was currently taking place in another lifetime ago, by a lavender haired teenager who had left her with determination in his eye and victory in his pocket, who gave her a silent emotional goodbye as he headed to the past in the time machine she built to give a future to two eras that would never meet.
And they had no idea that her heart had gone with him, and now all that was left of Bulma Briefs was hollow shell and a flicker of hope imprinted in her flesh and on her jacket.
She headed to the hill that Trunks loved to visit as a boy. She would take them there for a lunch or quiet dinner, pretending that they were far away from the madness of life all together, only he and her to eat pork dumplings and rice balls with enough love to sustain them. In those fleeting moments, they were a normal family, enjoying a normal meal, and she pretended that she wasn't a mother who had brought her son into a world of impending doom. He was Trunks and she was Bulma, and everything else was white noise.
The hill was unscathed surprisingly, as if the Androids were gifting her for her troubles, and it provided little relief to the chaos of emotions that welled inside of her. She sat down at the very top, overlooking the ominous city below that was carefully crafted with a veil of limited joy.
The wind tickled her cheek, bringing with it the phantom sounds of his voice, the "Mom, what's this flower called?" or "What was dad like?" and her favorite "No one has a mom as smart as you!"
Her chest carried a heavy ache and she breathed out slowly, hoping to dissolve the weight with her exhales. She needed to be strong, after all Trunks was the one going through the intensity of it all, but the tug of motherhood was intense this evening, and she had a hard time letting go.
Was he all right?
Was he eating?
Was his father taking good care of him?
…Did he miss her as much as she longed for him?
A choking sound escaped her tight lips at her last question, a desperate plea begging to spoken. Her only reason for going on, when everything else had been so selfishly taken from her, was in another world entirely, and with hin, a small shred of her will to continue.
She shook her head, scolding herself for thinking like that. The mission was too important for her to be selfish, and yet she couldn't help the conflicting thoughts. What had she done that was so cruel that the sins of the world fell solely on her shoulders? Was this some cardinal sin for bedding the one man who was hell bent on destroying it?
No, she instantly rectified, you can't think like that.
Soft giggles infiltrated her ears, causing her to look over to a side street of the city. A little boy, most likely no older than five, was tugging on his mother's hand, his mouth open in an innocent grin, as if the entire world waited for him instead of being threatened of tearing apart.
"Can you carry me, Mama? " he had said, cupping his tiny fingers around his mother's hand, "Like an airplane?"
She watched as the woman nodded, and then bent down to scoop the boy and toss him on her shoulders, his short arms extended like they were wings, his mouth in the form of a circle as he mimicked air noises.
It was too much.
The dam that held her together broke, and she didn't resolve to stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks in a river, falling to her collarbone and carrying the words that she was too afraid to say.
Trunks. Her brave Trunks.
He had gone to the past with no hesitation, and although she was proud, a part of her wished that he would have. He was a teenager. He should have been as she was, carefree and spoiled with a map on his back and the promises of tomorrow on his face. He shouldn't be fighting for a world that was so foreign to even her, for a mother that was losing the grip on protecting him.
"Oh Trunks, " she said softly, her voice full of tears. She was on the edge of sobbing, small whimpers getting stuck in her chest and fighting to get out. She swallowed thickly, hoping it would relieve the pain, but it didn't, instead egging her on. Her face scrunched up as a gut wrenching cry broke for him, for her, for all the could have beens and why is its.
Looking over the dimmed yellow lights, Bulma found a single truth in the pit of her stomach. She reached down with all of her strength, pushing past the tears and emotions and her own brokenness to say it: "I miss you. "