the only hope, or else despair
lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
to be redeemed from fire by fire
. . .
She never found out what really happened that night, but no one had to tell her.
She remembered almost nothing – just the slipping feeling of release as the phone fell from her hand, and the comforting warmth of the blood she lay in. She thought that this sensation must be what birth was like; how fitting, that birth and death should be so alike.
You slip in, and you seep out...
He must have panicked when he arrived – her door had been ripped from its hinges. Her blood must have coated his arms as they flew, soaked his shirt as they rocketed to the Lookout. He must have begged – how that must have hurt, to plead for another man's child – and whatever he said must have worked.
She must have woken briefly, just as they healed her – a small green face swam before her eyes, and there were voices.
"It is not as we hoped –"
"Save her, if you must get rid of the child –"
"I am through giving that man second chances –"
"He is never coming back – we need this baby –"
"I can cleanse it, but I can never make her whole..."
She must have slept. When she opened her eyes, she was on the couch in her bedroom, soft morning light warming the blanket that had been draped over her. Yamcha was gone, and the house was silent.
The stain on her bed had dried and darkened to black. She stared as she carried the rumpled bundle down the stairs, out of the compound, and through the treeline to the bonfire pit. The newly risen sun lit her way through the dewy wood. Her bare feet, still caked with the blood that had dripped down her legs, seemed to glow.
She sat in the leaves and watched the blankets burn, black smoke climbing up through the trees and to the fading stars. She hoped it found him up there, pursuing his mad dream. She hoped he was dead.
The child no longer felt dark to her – it no longer felt like anything. It would be weeks before she could bring herself to hum another lullaby, hoarse and bittersweet. She never knew what they had done to fix him, and she never wanted to know. She had stared darkness in the face, and found that it was no stranger to her.
She sat in the pale morning light until the coals of her pyre had turned to ash. Then she stood, weary with shock and the new healing, and drifted back to the house, one dirty foot before the other.
. . .
He knew that the baby had been born, because his cries kept him awake every night.
In the stillness of the ship, the wails echoed ferociously, tortuously, just when he seemed to be in the deepest stage of slumber. So instead of resting, he sat up and counted the stars, scouring his mind for the memories he had created on each. He would cultivate his rage, channeling it into his training in the hopes of forcing a transformation.
Most days, he was able to concentrate his mind, if not achieve the sleep he so desperately needed. Most days. On others, they haunted him: the phantom family he had never asked for.
He would enter the kitchen to prepare himself a meal, and walk in on her bent over the sink, spotting the dishes with tears of blood.
She languished in his shower, staring defiantly while rinsing the open wounds on her abdomen.
She paced the hallway, rocking a screaming bundle that dripped black blood onto the floors.
She lay on the floor beside him as he did push-ups, whispering the litany of his sins as he sweated and struggled.
Worst of all was when he did manage to fall asleep. The gruesome birth dreams persisted, with increased and frightening intensity until they gave way to cold android eyes and lavender hair matted with blood. He woke with the certainty that he was going mad, that he would likely die from exhaustion before he was able to make the transformation.
It was this bleak realization that drove him to do it. He directed the pod towards the nearest livable planet, with the intention of leaving as a Super Saiyan or not leaving at all.
As he prepared the ship for landing, Bulma, who had appeared in the co-pilot chair beside him, held out a crumpled, still infant. Her face was stricken and pale as she spoke.
"What have we done?"
. . .
She was sleeping when the transformation happened. She was dreaming, for the first time since the birth of Trunks.
Red. All she could see was red.
She had to fight against her rising sense of panic – the red was the same shade that she had washed from her legs after her visit to the Lookout. She ran in circles, unable to get good footing in the loose, deep sand.
Then, an explosion.
She stopped in her tracks, eyes trained on the yellow flare over the horizon. It frightened her, but she could not stop herself from running towards it. She ran for what felt like hours, but never seemed to get anywhere. Finally, when she could go no further, she collapsed. She remained sprawled where she had fallen, face turned to the golden light.
There was someone she had been looking for... that's why she was in this place. She struggled to remember, but the light kept distracting her. Where had it come from? She labored to her feet, and with renewed determination chased after it.
At the scene of the explosion, there was a blazing fire. She hesitated, feeling the heat through the thin material of her nightgown. Somehow she knew that the person she was seeking was beyond the flames.
She was completely engulfed as she jumped through them, but did not seem to have sustained any injuries. Smoke rose from her skin, twisting into curlicues as it went. She watched it, mesmerized, until she heard his voice.
He was chanting in his lost language, and he was glowing – he was so bright that it burned her eyes to look upon him. He was very still, despite the fire that threatened to close in on him. She knew then that he was the source of the explosion, and the cause of the fire. She carefully approached, wary of the yellow energy that emanated from him.
"Vejita..."
The chanting stopped. Slowly, he turned towards her.
The sight of him was too beautiful, too terrifying to bear. She tried to scream, but his hand clamped over her throat, and a pair of violent teal eyes bore down on her. He leaned close, lips rough against her ear as he spoke.
"I knew you would be here."
She woke abruptly, chest heaving. The room was dark and silent, except for the sound of Trunks' quiet breathing. It had only been a dream, but she knew.
He had done it – he had made the Ascension, for better or worse. He was coming home.
. . .
Lady Rhapsody
[ Please review! Opening poem by TS Eliot. ]
. . .