Goku
He looked into the mirror and flashed a grin, exposing his pearly whites. "You can do this! You're number one!" a voice shouted out chipperly, enthusiastically, supportingly.
This voice was his own.
This was part of band practice, and yet, it wasn't. Band practice started at seven, and it was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom. It was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom, looking at the mirror, flashing himself smiles, and saying encouraging things. He needed reassurance from himself. Why? Smiles used to come so easy; he used to be so happy; his smiles used to be true. But somehow he got mixed up in a band. Now everywhere he went strangers wanted to talk to him, to be with him, to use him.
He had to force himself to smile.
He didn't understand any of it. He didn't understand how being in a band - singing lyrics along with a song - could make him more famous than saving the earth had ever made him. He didn't understand, and he finally decided that he didn't WANT to understand. He was famous now. He sang. He was in a band with his son, Piccolo, and Vegeta. How this had happened he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if anyone knew. It just happened. It just happened and he was forced to put a smile on his lips because of it when he especially wanted to frown, or cry, or be angry, or (Lord forbid) rip some bitch's head off. He pushed it down; he pushed it away; he took deep breaths and smiled. He smiled and he hated to smile because it wasn't real.
When you fake a smile the world thinks you're okay so they treat you like shit. You smile when you're shit; you smile because you're the richest shit in the world and you're expected to smile. You smile because it's all you can do. Because if you stop smiling, you stop being on top. And if there was anything worse than being on top, it was being on bottom. And once you start the descent you can't stop it and you plunge face first into the jagged rocks of societies expectancies; and if society doesn't kill you, you kill yourself. Few survive either way and, if they do, they are usually left horrendously disfigured and rejected for the rest of their exploited life.
That's why when you commit suicide you hope you succeed.
Because the risk of living is too great.
"You are number FUCKING one!" he screamed at the reflection, his teeth clenched, grinding against one another. "You're number one," he repeated softly, sadly.
He sighed. It was six fifty-two. Stupid watch. Stupid, ugly, Rolex. Stupid evidence of his fortune - of his fame. He looked back at his reflection and suddenly had pity on every famous actor, musician, politician - WHATEVER - he had pity on every famous person who had died from a drug overdose. They were forced to take those drugs by the people who loved them - their fans. They died for those people who pretended to care. They died for people they never knew. He smiled.
The lucky bastards actually died.
He was not as lucky however, for he didn't have the courage to attempt suicide nor take drugs. Sometimes, life was good. Sometimes. Sometimes...Rarely. Life was rarely good.
Another glance at his watch told him it was six fifty-four. Band practice started in six minutes. Six minutes and he'd walk out this door, put that smile on his face and happily try to keep a fight from breaking out. That was if Vegeta would show up. In all probability, the chances of Vegeta showing up were roughly one in ten. If he showed that made the chances of a fight breaking out nine in ten as opposed to band practice without Vegeta: zero to ten. He had to remind himself the reason why Vegeta was in the band. What was it?
Oh yeah, he could sing.
Sing? Who was he kiddin'?
Vegeta sounded like a fuckin' siryn.
When they had heard him sing for the first time - when he had heard him sing for the first time - he was instantly put into a blind stupor which floated comfortably on the notes the prince sang.
It was the voice of a god. Vegeta was some type of musical divinity and he had obviously not known about it. When questioned about taking lessons (for singing) the Saijin calmly replied that "singing was for those weakling women and men who fancy other men's attention". And that type of response was rather toned down for Vegeta. Goku knew this and could practically hear the thoughts clearly in his head. So clear he could envision them: Vegeta with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. His voice is calm and unwavering as he says, "Singing? That's for those sick bitches who get fucked in the ass."
Of course Vegeta would reject the notion of singing in a band, and reject the idea more so because it involved an audience. None-the-less they somehow bribed him into the band.
Singing was for sick bitches who get fucked in the ass.
Vegeta sang. He sang. Piccolo sang. Goten, too, sang.
Wouldn't the tabloids love that? He could read the headlines: BOY BAND SENSATION COMES OUT OF CLOSET. Then there would be an indepth article explaining about how each member of the band was gay.
How ridiculous.
His son hadn't even hit puberty.
And they could barely keep Vegeta from killing everyone.
It was six fifty-nine.
Hell, he'd go to band practice early.
He looked into the mirror and flashed a grin, exposing his pearly whites. "You can do this! You're number one!" a voice shouted out chipperly, enthusiastically, supportingly.
This voice was his own.
This was part of band practice, and yet, it wasn't. Band practice started at seven, and it was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom. It was six fourty-five and he was in the bathroom, looking at the mirror, flashing himself smiles, and saying encouraging things. He needed reassurance from himself. Why? Smiles used to come so easy; he used to be so happy; his smiles used to be true. But somehow he got mixed up in a band. Now everywhere he went strangers wanted to talk to him, to be with him, to use him.
He had to force himself to smile.
He didn't understand any of it. He didn't understand how being in a band - singing lyrics along with a song - could make him more famous than saving the earth had ever made him. He didn't understand, and he finally decided that he didn't WANT to understand. He was famous now. He sang. He was in a band with his son, Piccolo, and Vegeta. How this had happened he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if anyone knew. It just happened. It just happened and he was forced to put a smile on his lips because of it when he especially wanted to frown, or cry, or be angry, or (Lord forbid) rip some bitch's head off. He pushed it down; he pushed it away; he took deep breaths and smiled. He smiled and he hated to smile because it wasn't real.
When you fake a smile the world thinks you're okay so they treat you like shit. You smile when you're shit; you smile because you're the richest shit in the world and you're expected to smile. You smile because it's all you can do. Because if you stop smiling, you stop being on top. And if there was anything worse than being on top, it was being on bottom. And once you start the descent you can't stop it and you plunge face first into the jagged rocks of societies expectancies; and if society doesn't kill you, you kill yourself. Few survive either way and, if they do, they are usually left horrendously disfigured and rejected for the rest of their exploited life.
That's why when you commit suicide you hope you succeed.
Because the risk of living is too great.
"You are number FUCKING one!" he screamed at the reflection, his teeth clenched, grinding against one another. "You're number one," he repeated softly, sadly.
He sighed. It was six fifty-two. Stupid watch. Stupid, ugly, Rolex. Stupid evidence of his fortune - of his fame. He looked back at his reflection and suddenly had pity on every famous actor, musician, politician - WHATEVER - he had pity on every famous person who had died from a drug overdose. They were forced to take those drugs by the people who loved them - their fans. They died for those people who pretended to care. They died for people they never knew. He smiled.
The lucky bastards actually died.
He was not as lucky however, for he didn't have the courage to attempt suicide nor take drugs. Sometimes, life was good. Sometimes. Sometimes...Rarely. Life was rarely good.
Another glance at his watch told him it was six fifty-four. Band practice started in six minutes. Six minutes and he'd walk out this door, put that smile on his face and happily try to keep a fight from breaking out. That was if Vegeta would show up. In all probability, the chances of Vegeta showing up were roughly one in ten. If he showed that made the chances of a fight breaking out nine in ten as opposed to band practice without Vegeta: zero to ten. He had to remind himself the reason why Vegeta was in the band. What was it?
Oh yeah, he could sing.
Sing? Who was he kiddin'?
Vegeta sounded like a fuckin' siryn.
When they had heard him sing for the first time - when he had heard him sing for the first time - he was instantly put into a blind stupor which floated comfortably on the notes the prince sang.
It was the voice of a god. Vegeta was some type of musical divinity and he had obviously not known about it. When questioned about taking lessons (for singing) the Saijin calmly replied that "singing was for those weakling women and men who fancy other men's attention". And that type of response was rather toned down for Vegeta. Goku knew this and could practically hear the thoughts clearly in his head. So clear he could envision them: Vegeta with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. His voice is calm and unwavering as he says, "Singing? That's for those sick bitches who get fucked in the ass."
Of course Vegeta would reject the notion of singing in a band, and reject the idea more so because it involved an audience. None-the-less they somehow bribed him into the band.
Singing was for sick bitches who get fucked in the ass.
Vegeta sang. He sang. Piccolo sang. Goten, too, sang.
Wouldn't the tabloids love that? He could read the headlines: BOY BAND SENSATION COMES OUT OF CLOSET. Then there would be an indepth article explaining about how each member of the band was gay.
How ridiculous.
His son hadn't even hit puberty.
And they could barely keep Vegeta from killing everyone.
It was six fifty-nine.
Hell, he'd go to band practice early.