Disclaimer: I don't own DragonBallZ.
Reviews! Always nice to receive those!
Vegeta still found it difficult to ignore the peculiarity in the fact that both boys had left in the same instant, and then returned in the same instant. However, Bulma still couldn't see this. The fact that her son was safe and sound at home again was enough for her. At least, he was safe and sound from what she could see.
That morning, when Trunks had woken up and he went to change his shirt, he noticed several light, irritated scratches on his arm. The strangeness of it sank into his mind. He hadn't remembered being hurt since he came home. He wondered...no, that had gone by then...but the scratches...they seemed remarkably like claw marks.
That afternoon, Trunks decided that it was all right to speak to his mother again. She seemed rather hesitant whenever she would approach him since that day he'd been so snappish with her. He could tell, too, that he'd hurt her. Despite his regret, he had thought it best to say very little to her.
That morning she sat at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of strong coffee, until she looked up at him. "Good morning," she said.
"Morning." He put his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. "Dad already gone?"
"Yes," she said. "He's been training since five or so this morning." There was a long pause. Bulma suddenly had a curious expression. "Why are you wearing a jacket?"
He tried not to scowl. "I feel like it." The truth was he wanted to hide the scratches on his arm.
"It's already nearly seventy-six degrees," she said.
"I'm fine." Actually, he did feel rather warm with the sweltering breeze blowing in through the open windows.
"What's wrong?" Bulma asked. "Is there something you want to get off your chest?"
He shook his head.
Bulma sat up straighter and her glare softened. "Trunks...I'm sorry. I know it's annoying for your parents to always worry about you." Well, at least she worried about him. It wasn't as easy to tell with Vegeta. "But please, remember, we only have your best interests at heart."
"Yeah." Abruptly, he noticed a stinging in his shoulder. They felt very receptive to every sharp twinge of pain. He thought it was impossible, but maybe not. Were the scratches spreading?
. . . . . .
Goten, while his family were all out for the evening, had escaped to the top of a mountain where snow still rested on the peak. He could still fly, but with every pint of blood he lost in his leg he felt as if his energy was dwindling.
A howling, shrieking wind whipped at his ears and nose while he sat on a nearby rock. Carefully, with his eyes wincing at every movement, he attempted to pull his boot off. It was finally loose enough around his ankle so that it could slip off smoothly. Then, cautiously, he unwound the long, red bandage and threw it into the snow. Finally, with the blood literally glistening in the orange sun, he removed his sock.
He lunged his foot into the icy, frozen snow. Steam rolled into the air as it hit the boiling heat of his blood, and he wondered when and if the flow would ever stop.
As soon as he felt almost certain that the rush was temporarily halted, he cleaned the snow off.
He stared wide-eyed at his leg. What? he thought. There were deep, sickening, pinkish-red, raw gashes in his shin. The more he stared at the wounds, the more they seemed to feel freshly torn. He didn't remember being cut...at least...not.... His eyes followed the horizon up to the sky. Dusk was falling, which meant that back home it must be completely dark by now.
. . . . . .
A deadly silence seemed to ring through the walls of the house. Every single light was off, and Bulma and Vegeta had met up with Goku and the others for the evening.
Trunks's scratches had not only spread to his chest now, but were deeper and wider. They'd now been exposed to raw, vulnerable slashes that allowed blood to gush out all the way down his arm and between his fingers.
With the hand that was covered in crimson, he held his forehead. His skull seemed to be aching with a wide sensation of soreness.
Pictures were racing through his head. He knew what he was doing, and then he didn't. He was aware, he could feel the smothering creep into his brain. The suppression in his mind struggled with the strong will inside him.
His legs turned weak, and they gave way beneath him. He landed upon his hands and knees, and shut his eyes tight as he tried to flinch out the pain. His nails dug into the wooden floor and scraped through it as if it were butter. Sweat dripped down off of his forehead. His breath was hot as he panted with a rapid pace. Even the warm, night air that entered the house from open windows was cold enough against his exhaling to show steam. A burning feeling spread into his face, and singed its way into his eyes. When he opened them to peer at his surroundings, they glowed with a blazing, scorching red. He rose to his feet slowly as the burning grew more powerful in his left arm.
Well, there you go. Review!
Reviews! Always nice to receive those!
Vegeta still found it difficult to ignore the peculiarity in the fact that both boys had left in the same instant, and then returned in the same instant. However, Bulma still couldn't see this. The fact that her son was safe and sound at home again was enough for her. At least, he was safe and sound from what she could see.
That morning, when Trunks had woken up and he went to change his shirt, he noticed several light, irritated scratches on his arm. The strangeness of it sank into his mind. He hadn't remembered being hurt since he came home. He wondered...no, that had gone by then...but the scratches...they seemed remarkably like claw marks.
That afternoon, Trunks decided that it was all right to speak to his mother again. She seemed rather hesitant whenever she would approach him since that day he'd been so snappish with her. He could tell, too, that he'd hurt her. Despite his regret, he had thought it best to say very little to her.
That morning she sat at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of strong coffee, until she looked up at him. "Good morning," she said.
"Morning." He put his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. "Dad already gone?"
"Yes," she said. "He's been training since five or so this morning." There was a long pause. Bulma suddenly had a curious expression. "Why are you wearing a jacket?"
He tried not to scowl. "I feel like it." The truth was he wanted to hide the scratches on his arm.
"It's already nearly seventy-six degrees," she said.
"I'm fine." Actually, he did feel rather warm with the sweltering breeze blowing in through the open windows.
"What's wrong?" Bulma asked. "Is there something you want to get off your chest?"
He shook his head.
Bulma sat up straighter and her glare softened. "Trunks...I'm sorry. I know it's annoying for your parents to always worry about you." Well, at least she worried about him. It wasn't as easy to tell with Vegeta. "But please, remember, we only have your best interests at heart."
"Yeah." Abruptly, he noticed a stinging in his shoulder. They felt very receptive to every sharp twinge of pain. He thought it was impossible, but maybe not. Were the scratches spreading?
. . . . . .
Goten, while his family were all out for the evening, had escaped to the top of a mountain where snow still rested on the peak. He could still fly, but with every pint of blood he lost in his leg he felt as if his energy was dwindling.
A howling, shrieking wind whipped at his ears and nose while he sat on a nearby rock. Carefully, with his eyes wincing at every movement, he attempted to pull his boot off. It was finally loose enough around his ankle so that it could slip off smoothly. Then, cautiously, he unwound the long, red bandage and threw it into the snow. Finally, with the blood literally glistening in the orange sun, he removed his sock.
He lunged his foot into the icy, frozen snow. Steam rolled into the air as it hit the boiling heat of his blood, and he wondered when and if the flow would ever stop.
As soon as he felt almost certain that the rush was temporarily halted, he cleaned the snow off.
He stared wide-eyed at his leg. What? he thought. There were deep, sickening, pinkish-red, raw gashes in his shin. The more he stared at the wounds, the more they seemed to feel freshly torn. He didn't remember being cut...at least...not.... His eyes followed the horizon up to the sky. Dusk was falling, which meant that back home it must be completely dark by now.
. . . . . .
A deadly silence seemed to ring through the walls of the house. Every single light was off, and Bulma and Vegeta had met up with Goku and the others for the evening.
Trunks's scratches had not only spread to his chest now, but were deeper and wider. They'd now been exposed to raw, vulnerable slashes that allowed blood to gush out all the way down his arm and between his fingers.
With the hand that was covered in crimson, he held his forehead. His skull seemed to be aching with a wide sensation of soreness.
Pictures were racing through his head. He knew what he was doing, and then he didn't. He was aware, he could feel the smothering creep into his brain. The suppression in his mind struggled with the strong will inside him.
His legs turned weak, and they gave way beneath him. He landed upon his hands and knees, and shut his eyes tight as he tried to flinch out the pain. His nails dug into the wooden floor and scraped through it as if it were butter. Sweat dripped down off of his forehead. His breath was hot as he panted with a rapid pace. Even the warm, night air that entered the house from open windows was cold enough against his exhaling to show steam. A burning feeling spread into his face, and singed its way into his eyes. When he opened them to peer at his surroundings, they glowed with a blazing, scorching red. He rose to his feet slowly as the burning grew more powerful in his left arm.
Well, there you go. Review!