Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, eh! I can smell that turkey
already. Mmmm... turkey. Okay, I'm back. Thanks for reviewing, everyone. Today
you get to see my take on one of my favourite 10-second scenes of DBZ. This is
the last letter in the series, so after this, I'm on to bigger and better
things (finally). Look for a new story sometime soon. Hopefully it'll be
updated faster than this one was. So enjoy your Thanksgiving turkey, my fellow
hosers, and to you Yanks, well, you've unfortunately still got a month to wait
for yours. Bye!
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From Hell, With Love
Dear Someone,
It's too quiet here. Everything is so quiet, so motionless, so dead. Well, maybe that's not so surprising, given where I am. But you really start to notice it after a while. You can only be surrounded by death for so long before it begins to wear on you. You feel death all around you, in the air you breathe, in the water you drink, and it begins to dawn on you that you might just actually be dead. Not an encouraging thought.
I get up and I go drink water. My lungs still draw and expel the air that surrounds me. Does it really make any difference, any of this? Am I somehow any less dead because I drink the water? Or is it just a force of habit: something to hold on to now that everything else is gone?
That's what I'm doing, after all. I harbor no illusions. I cling to what remains of my life, of my time spent on Earth, to keep me in some semblance of existence, to keep me apart from the other wisps of spirits that are to be found everywhere in the pit. If I didn't do this, if I didn't try every day to remember who I was, I might join them. I would lose everything that makes me me and become nothingness, drifting aimlessly over this land that doesn't really exist, with all those dead things that once did.
I try to remember everything: the good, the bad, my strength, and my weakness. I try to remember myself and the others who made up my world, for if I forget, I am lost. If others forget me, I'm twice as dead as I am now.
That has always been my greatest fear: to be forgotten. Who knows where it comes from? I don't. I'm a warrior, not a psychologist. I understand best what I can see and feel, and I felt afraid whenever I thought that I could die and leave no mark upon the world. So I strived to change that through my actions. I destroyed Egypt, but they would rebuild. I killed Goku, but he would be wished back soon enough. Thus, I maintained an overwhelming desire to achieve something permanent. Panting, weak from the battle, I gazed at Radditz's body as similar thoughts ran through my mind. There must be something I could do!
And my eyes fell upon the boy.
I've tried to rationalize this decision many times over the years. He would become my weapon against the Saiyans. He would do anything I said. I could mould him into whatever I wished. If worst came to worst, he could be used as cannon fodder in the battle. The real reason, however, was to alleviate my fears. Someone was going to remember me when I was gone, and who better to do it than Goku's son? My generally pragmatic turn of mind was at work there. How could I not take the boy in? If he were unworthy, I would kill him. Simple.
So thinking, I scooped the gently slumbering child up into my arms and bore him away.
Nothing is ever simple. I should have known it then. He stopped crying soon enough, but I still had to endure his whining. He surprised me though. He was never afraid of me. He was shocked occasionally, surprised, or startled, but he never truly looked upon me with fear. That was new to me, and I found it endlessly confusing. I just couldn't understand how he could be so close to me, and yet never tremble.
He took whatever I gave him like a true warrior, uncomplaining and strong. I worked him to the bone, a little too hard I know, but they were trying times. But no matter how often I struck him down, he would always return smiling broadly, his childish laughter filling the air.
It was such a nice sound. Sweeter than the chime of a bell. I couldn't feel either anger or bitterness while Gohan laughed. I could only pause and admire the purity of his innocence. He was like me, I remember thinking. Just like I was before I came to know the world.
He was so innocent it hurt.
"I'm having a birthday party, Piccolo-san," he announced one chill night as we sat under the stars.
I didn't answer, pretending to be deep in meditation as I gazed into the fire.
"I'm going to be five years old next week."
I still didn't answer, guessing where this was heading.
"I'd like it if you would come."
I concentrated even harder on the flames. His small childish hand came to rest on my shoulder. Only when I was sitting could he look me in the eye. He did so then, looking down at me with a pleading gaze. I didn't shift my own from the crackling fire.
"Please, Piccolo-san? Say you'll come. We'll have lots of fun. Please?"
I had to answer, but how to explain it to a child? "Gohan," I began, "people like me can't go to parties."
He looked at me, confused. "Why not?" he asked.
"Because... other people don't like it when we do."
"Why?"
"They don't like me."
"But everybody would like you if you talked to them."
I turned my head away from his, baring my teeth slightly. "That's news to me."
"They would," he insisted. "If you'd just come..."
"Gohan!" I snapped. "The reason I can't go is because people hate anything different. The moment I set foot in the door there'd be cries of 'Demon!' and 'Monster!' going up all over the place, and all your guests would leave so fast that they wouldn't even take a piece of cake for the road. So I'm not going and that's that!"
"Oh," he whispered, taking his hand from my shoulder and sitting down next to me, chastened. We sat in awkward silence for a while, the chill wind blowing around us.
Gohan began to shiver. After a few moments of vainly trying to keep himself warm, he seemed to give up. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. A minute later, I felt his warm weight resting against my side. I growled softly in warning, a warning that he did not heed. I growled again, more forcefully this time, as he burrowed his way very nearly into my arms. The kid was freezing. Growl as I might, I didn't have the heart to push him away. So, he rested his curly head against my chest and closed his eyes, safe from the biting wind, trusting me completely. I pretended not to notice him.
Later, when I thought he was asleep, I heard him say softly, "I don't think you're so different, Piccolo-san. You breathe the same air, and your heart beats the same as anyone else's. You're my best friend, no matter what anyone says." His head reached up and his lips briefly touched my cheek in the purely innocent manner of an affectionate child. His head rested once more against my chest and he closed his eyes.
I stayed silent, staring off into the night. Soon enough, he really did fall asleep.
Gently, I rolled him off of me and onto the ground. Standing, I pulled off my cape and placed it over the boy's small body, carefully tucking the warm fabric around him to ward off the chill. I sat next to the child, studying carefully his sweet features outlined by the firelight. Hesitantly, I reached down to touch him. He stirred, and I quickly withdrew my hand. But he settled again, and I gently ran my fingers through his soft curls, lightly tousling his hair.
"You're my best friend too, Gohan," I thought. "And so help me, I'm never going to let anything happen to you, I promise."
All these years I've kept that promise.
It's just one memory among many. But it's a happy one at least. Something to cling to in this dark eternity. This is the last letter you'll get, dear Someone, for I will get out soon, I think. There must be a way to get back to life.
After all, I haven't forgotten it completely. I think my heart still beats.
From Hell, with love,
Piccolo Daimao
