Part III: The Downsides
"-love you."
Her eyes opened and instantly closed against the raving light of the up and about sun. She could hear it laughing at her. Bulma, Bulma, Bulma...let yourself stay up again for that prince of yours that would never come? How pathetic.
"Oh shut the fuck up..." she grumbled, shielding her eyes and shut the balcony doors."I never asked for your damn opinion anyway." The sun had no smart come back. Well, none that she heard anyway.
She sighed and looked down at her hands. They felt so warm. She put them on her stomach and let them trail all over her covered skin. She felt...so good. Bulma looked at the mirror at herself.
Her hair...mussed up and tangled. She wanted to rip it out, scream and cry sometimes when she woke up after waiting for him. But today, she looked at herself carefully...her skin was glowing, she felt like smiling.
'I love you.'
Words...words she hadn't heard in so long, not from his lips.
She touched her mirror-self's lips and leaned in, looking into her eyes, pretending like yesterday and the day before, that it was really him she was leaning to, and not a piece of glass.
It was cold like every time she kissed it. It never felt like him. It wasn't him, and afterwards, she'd feel ugly and ashamed that she even tried. He was dead. He was dead and she'd never see him again. She could only live in the past and pretend.
She felt hands on her shoulders and tensed, closing her eyes. "Gohan..." The shame she felt cloned itself fifty times over as she felt the hands slightly move over her skin, being tough without meaning to. He caught her again, and she could only imagine that she was someone else, somewhere else in another time.
She opened them and looked into the reflection's angry black eyes. Much like Vegeta's, she always thought. She always wondered if all Saiya-jinn's eyes were like that. But then again, she thought, with an inner bitter laugh, she'd never find out, huh? Not now, anyway.
"It's time..." He said with curt anger and didn't linger.
She bit her lip and looked at her partially aged face. It was so amazing how the years floated by like that cloud that little boy once rode. So much like the waters and the sand she rode across, the time she'd never thought would touch her and her present.
Heh...she closed her eyes, got up and left the room with Gohan trailing her. It was so amazing and so, so fucking unfair at the same time.
---
It was hard since her son left. Things had been slower. She felt older without him around, not younger. Time had become her adversary and they both fought for a while like little children. And like a little child, she was the one that was hurt and it showed physically as each year slowly dripped away.
Things are unfair in life she had learned. First, in her childhood, never getting her way, then the boy-loving years of teenage life came and with it pimples. And wrinkles...well, she was not entitled to say. They were all vain and foolish things she thought were unfair before. Especially when compared to – she paused in her work of a new time travel machine – the loss of a husband. Moreover, it was actually...something deeper than that.
The loss of friends was the first. The loss of a home was second. The third was Vegeta. And, she would never forget the day she saw his broken and torn body. He wasn't even together after they were through, those...those monsters. She held back her tears and smiled coldly to herself.
His cold dirtied body had already decayed by the time she arrived. He had no face because it was torn off...everything had been brutally smashed and crippled. At first, she didn't even know if it was he or Goku.
Her blood mixed with his blood would have suited that night, if she had given in. If she hadn't stopped kissing what was left of him, crying trying to piece him together. She wondered what would've happened if she forgot who she was and became Grief. Became Tears and Wailing and Agony and Heartache. She wondered what if she'd just lie down and forget to get up, snuggling up to his cold body.
She didn't remember anything after that. When she got home, she didn't see her car in the garage. Just scrapes and little rocks deep in her legs and knees and elbows as if she had crawled like a snake on its cowardly belly. She was bleeding all over when she looked at herself in the broken mirror in what was left of her house. Distantly she heard a baby, wailing for the attention of its mother.
When she woke up the next morning, Trunks was in her arms; sleeping through the tragedies; not injured by time. She looked on the table and there were uneven locks of black hair, torn from the roots with dead blood hanging off them. Bulma still remembered her hands hovering over the smooth follicles, the part of Vegeta that would always be hers.
So she escaped madness that night. Barely. What had snapped her out of it she wouldn't clearly know to this day. Whether it be her son's cry or herself in the mirror, with not only her blood, but Vegeta's as well.
She shivered against the chilled metal she was at the side of. She could feel Gohan's stare on her. It was frightening how it all started. Her and Gohan... Little by little...inch by inch. It wasn't spontaneous like she made it seem to Trunks. It was like a seduction but it had no start and it had no players. It was a childless game that neither of them had played in the first place.
Bulma rubbed her arms and looked at the cold blue metal that would take her to her son. She blamed herself for this madness. As a mother, she instinctively felt that it was her fault that something went wrong. Along the line something...something she did without knowing could be pinned on her. And Gohan knew it.
Maybe... she bit her lip and gripped the pole tightly, leaning against it... Maybe she had unwittingly raised a monster...like his father.
----
There she goes again, he thought. Thinking, thinking about him, thinking about something that happened years ago. He sneered. Kami, will she let it go? Will she let the ghost rest?
Will I have to sneak into her bed again and hold her while she calls her dead husband's name, he thought. Gohan shook his head violently and looked somewhere, anywhere else than her.
It was a while now before he caught onto her little habit of waking up and kissing the mirror. At first he thought she really was a narcissist like his mother kept snorting she was... then, he looked closer and saw how she stared into the mirror adoringly, almost...hungrily at times for something that she couldn't grasp.
It was sickening too, in a way. Like the way he'd catch Trunks looking at his mother for so many years. When they'd camp together for training, he'd hear her name over and over again, both in daylight and twilight. It was like a non-stop chatterbox for him. Mother this; Mother that; Mother is so wonderful when she does that; that thing reminds me of something Mother would've thought of! Mother, Mother, Mother!
It was enough to drive a person insane sometimes. He felt the need to kill Trunks for this unhealthy obsession he had for his own mother. Maybe even kill Bulma herself.
And then...there were those rare times when Trunks would begin to talk about a woman, a beautiful woman that he wanted but couldn't have. Gohan always held back a sickened frown. He knew who that woman was. Even worse was why he knew Trunks couldn't have her and yet... he would describe in vivid detail to him what he wanted with her, what he wanted to do to her.
He...Gohan closed his eyes, taking a dip in the memory pool. He was so beautiful to him then. Trunks would be sitting down on the grass looking into the fire, his blue eyes sparkling with desire that would make them shinier than usual. He said that he wanted to touch her in more ways then one, in more ways than there were stars in the skies. To feel her against him and know she was his...that deadly possession that made him gasp. In that erotic storytelling, Gohan forgot the woman and imagined himself in her place, being touched by Trunks, being loved by Trunks. And it was then he'd snap out of it and remember what people always called him when he was younger...a fag.
Gohan looked down at Bulma, trying to channel his anger towards her. Trying to transfer all the hate and sadness and heartbreak he had to her. To make her die of ache and pain like he almost did.
Christ...Gohan sighed and turned around. He remembered too many times when he lost his restraint with Trunks...with him sleeping, dreaming of his beautiful mother...looking so much like something out of a dream himself. He touched Trunks many times, touched him everywhere. Dirty, beautiful, wonderful touching. Secret touching Trunks didn't know about and would've hated him for; Heavens knows Gohan hated himself for it.
He breathed in hard and put his forehead into the palm of his hand. And it didn't stop at everywhere either. It was a sin. It was supposed to feel ugly, this way...but, every time he did it, he wanted more. He wanted Trunks to be awake and to moan and groan to the feeling of his hands, to love him. To want to fuck him back.
But, it never happened. In his fantasies, yes. His dreams, always...but reality was a cruel bitch that always wanted it her way. He closed his eyes remembering when he kissed Trunks. Kami...it felt so good. It felt like nothing he'd ever experienced. Warm, tasty...he bit his lip. Submissive to his every motion.
His grip tightened on the rail. It was so true that afterwards he'd only crave more, more and more of this new addiction. It was like a drug. It was...love. Lust. Hate. Jealousy. Fear. All mixed in together. But, most noticeable...was crazed passion, obsession for attention, for need.
He remembered the many times when they'd be training and he'd purposely always get on top of him. Try to...try to fight him as best as he could. But also, to get close to him like that while he was awake. Heaven, the moments of ecstasy that would keep him awake all night as he looked at the sky, trying to remember every single detail.
Afterwards, he would want him much more. And started to hate him even more. Despise his blood. Want to make him suffer. Every training session became a little more hard-core, a little rougher. If he found the chance to kick Trunks when he was down, he did it without hesitation. In him, he saw himself. Something that was once innocent and frail in the spirit; something that loved without hesitation and was so pure, something that couldn't hate. And crushing that like a flower under a thick black boot was... exhilarating. A necessity so Trunks wouldn't become a fag like Gohan.
It was...fun... in a sick way for him. To see him toughen until he wouldn't cry anymore. Until one day, that pretending not to feel the pain grew into actually not feeling it. And, he would remember one time...he closed his eyes harder as a final attempt for the images to stay at bay...when he went too far with how he felt about Trunks, when he got too close.
They never talked about it after it happened. Trunks, the innocent, lovely boy he was never doubted that it was part of manhood, just another part of training. To Gohan, it was more. It was a new level and he knew that with each training session, it would be harder and harder to control himself until he finally fucked the boy's brains out in anticipation of his death. Kami, he chuckled to himself. How sick he sounded. But...
Blood trickled down Gohan's chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Kami...how that seemed so inviting to him right now. With Bulma building another Hope, as soon as he would see Trunks, the first thing his libido would think is, Fuck that until it can't scream anymore. And, that was what he was afraid of. What he wanted but knew was wrong.
He licked his lips and put a hand through his hair. Sometimes he wished his father were still around to help him. Or at least to restrain him. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head knowing that his father would enjoy that very much. His father, his teacher.
----
It was like a story.
The way it was going, it was like a story being told in images. Maybe a dream was a better way of defining it. Bulma put a cigarette in her mouth, maybe not. Maybe it really was a dream. She took a long drag on her cigarette and wondered if she really cared what it was anymore.
The clock on the wall to her left was two minutes away from noon. It was a strange clock, her father designed after his little cat. Its tail swishing, its' big eyes watching, recording, knowing, that psycho grin that stretched to both sides of its face. It had creeped her out ever since she was a little kid.
Every now and then she'd advert her eyes to the side to sneak a look at the cat and would look back at her almost-empty case of cigarettes. The economy of the world was slowly building back up since the termination of the androids. And thank Kami for that, she chuckled to herself. For a time, she almost thought she'd go crazy without her smokes. Hell, she would've even ripped each of the androids a new one if she went a month without them.
No one understood why she never quit the dirty habit. Maybe it was because everything else was taken from her in this world that she felt the need to latch onto something other than chocolates. Something that would bring her a little closer to the people that was not here anymore. She took another drag, letting it stay a little longer to burn her lungs and enjoyed the pain. Bulma blinked back the tears and put her forehead into the palm of her hand.
It was so hard some days. Even with the smoking and the work, something...anything, even a stupid spoon would remind her of the past. She knew that she should move on, but move onto what? A future of being alone? Looking forward to death? Having no real purpose in life?
She'd begin thinking and thinking. One thought led to another, and another...and then she'd be thinking so much about everything. So many thoughts in her head...death, love, sorrow, happiness... it'd lead her to imagining so many different things, suicide for one.
She put out the cigarette and reached for another.
She wouldn't kill herself. At least, not yet. But sometimes...she'd catch herself thinking about it. Off-guard most times. Like if she'd be working with some toxic materials, she'd wonder what'd happen if she had an accident...or if she were making dinner, what would happen if she cut herself too deep?
What would it take to push her over the edge, she wondered to herself these days after she would have an argument with Gohan. She was such a chicken shit sometimes, you know...through the brave act that she put on for others, that's all she ever was. A chicken shit little girl who wanted it her way or the highway.
No, she wouldn't do it yet.
There were the moments when she'd lay awake at night, the times before Gohan entered her bed, and she wouldn't cry. She'd stare at the balcony window, remembering times when she would wait for Vegeta. Wait and wait for him. He never came back to her.
Her hand was a little shaky with the cigarette as she lighted it. Her fingernails were dirty with oil and grime, skin etched with work. Like an artist's. She bit her lip as she tried to focus her shaky hand with the lighter. "Come on, come on..." she put one wrist over the other, putting it to the table. The stick fell from her grip and the lighter tumbled to the floor when the cat started to yowl.
"Christ!" she cursed and looked down at the fractured cigarette and open lighter. The cat continued to sing its' high pitched praises. "Fucking Kami Almighty..." she shook nervously and gasped. "Kami, I hate that cat...I hate it, I hate it!" She looked up and made a fist...and then took a cup and threw it.
At first, it was like slow motion. You know...that fast-slow reality you're stuck in, when your heart jumps a beat and you're between feeling dread and excitement. It fell from its high place in Heaven, tumbling down and down thanks to a fallen angel. The cup splintered into porcelain slits, jagged teardrops that rained mercilessly on the tiles.
The cat's wide smile broke and its' swinging tail swung on the floor as it bent over itself, bowing down to Bulma. When it was on the floor, broken to bits, she stomped on the pieces crying, "I hate you, I hate you, I've always hated you!" She kicked the head of the cat into the wall. "Go to hell, go to hell! I HATE YOU!!!" Bulma screamed. "Do you hear me?!! I HATE YOU!!"
She always hated the cat. Always. It represented the happiness and naivety she lost, it made her think of her father and mother and the times that couldn't be. It made her think of Vegeta. She hiccupped and hysterically laughed. Above all else, it made her think of Vegeta. Vegeta, who practically had nothing to do with this absurd looking clock that her father made. She put her hands through her hair, laughing a little harder, a river of wet make up and itchy salt dripping down on the floor.
The stupid clock reminded her of Vegeta...because to her, it was Vegeta. She shook her head, sobbing and laughing at the broken cat face, who was now smirking at her. She shook her head more, "I hate you," she said to it, backing away as if it were coming towards her. "I hate you, Vegeta. I hate you. I've hated you since I first saw you," she referred to her childhood years. "Now look who's taller? That's right, me. I'm the taller one. I can stand over your little body and laugh in your face." She smugly smiled and hiccupped, pointing at the face. "See who the pathetic thing is now... that's the last time you'll ever cross me again, Vegeta. The last time..." she stopped, looking afraid all of a sudden. "What do you mean by that, Vegeta?" She was against the wall, staring at the cat face.
It smiled at her. No, no, it smirked. It smirked at her. It was just laying there, watching her...watching her with those black eyes, judging her. "What do you want from me, Vegeta?"
She screamed when it moved. Jerkily at first, in one direction to another...as if a boy with a remote control car were driving it. Then it began to slowly drag itself to her.
"STAY AWAY FROM ME, VEGETA!!" she ran to the counter and threw dishes at it. It kept moving and moving towards her as if it could pass through whatever she could throw. She climbed on the counter and threw a tray of dishes and knives, screaming," LEAVE ME ALONE!" In her mind, she knew that it wasn't wise of her to provoke Vegeta like that. She should've kept in mind that he was unbeatable and held a grudge. But oh she couldn't help it! He was down and out and it was her moment to tell him to fry in hell for all he was worth!
The cat head was so close to the counter that she stood up and ran on it, and slipped. She grunted and moaned against the tiles of the counter, running her hands over it. She drowsily got up and looked over her shoulder.
The cat face was brokenly grinning at her with its cut edges.
She shivered and tried to inch away with her elbows, watching it. "What do you want, Vegeta..." She listened and continued, "Why, Vegeta? Why do you want this?"
It was just staring at her. "Vegeta...Vegeta, I don't see the point in you staying here anymore." she backed away a little. "I'm sorry, Vegeta...I didn't mean to make you angry." Anything to make him go away, she thought. She'd grovel like a dog for him to die.
"No...I won't come there." the clock head was staring at her, inching forward as she inched back.
"I never said that... No, stay back." her eyes softened with desperate tears. "Please...please, Vegeta. I didn't mean it. Stop..." she began to cry again, and bumped into the counter, watching it zip slowly towards her, "I love you." The head stopped. In the distance, crickets in the kitchen gave a violin lesson to the air and in the living room, and a roach scurried past her fingers. She only felt his fingers on her hands and only heard his voice in her ear.
He was saying something to her...his voice so quick and so hard to understand. It was in a different language, in another tongue with a new sort of tone. It was tender or maybe she just imagined it. She closed her eyes when she felt his lips trail from her ear to her cheek.
Her lips were open as she breathed...in...he was biting her on her neck...out...he was rubbing his nose against the side of her head...in...his hands were on her body. Vegeta... she started to cry quietly, the tears coming down her cheeks. She couldn't believe how long she waited for this moment. How many times had she told herself, thought to herself, "I've given up hope on this impossible dream." Her hands shook. Her head shook. She was a Californian earthquake. A Hawaiian volcano waiting to erupt. A Las Vegas jackpot that had just been won. She was everything in action, her blood cells moving, threatening to burst within her veins from the elated, confused, and utterly rapt feeling she was experiencing.
"Vegeta," she moaned against his lips and then went cold. Vegeta never kissed her on the lips. The volcano went cold and the lava never poured out. The earthquake was a false alarm, so go home and eat your dinner, folks. They found out you're actually under-aged and the jackpot went back to the hotel. She opened her eyes and stared.
It wasn't Vegeta who was kissing her, she cried silently, the bile tossing and turning in her stomach, burning holes through her stomach. He didn't have a face, she convulsed, looking at the thing that looked back at her. It didn't have eyes, it didn't have a nose, no lips, no cheeks, no eyebrows...just a mass of red muscle where a face should have, could have, would have been. "You're not Vegeta," she said quietly. The thing pulled back and looked at her. But how could it? She screamed to herself, the tears trailing after their clones, one after the other, pop pop pop... How could it fucking see her? Oh god, she realized, shaking her head... she let it touch her...let it...kiss her... How.. kiss? What?
"You're not..." tears, hiccups, shaking her head she refused to believe. "You're not...you're not Vegeta." The name broke her tongue and she hysterically laughed, producing horrific sounds from her throat. "You're," she laughed as if she was a little kid at a birthday party and she pushed the birthday boy into the mud. "You're not-" she keeled over and pounded the tiles, screaming with hilarity. "Yes, no, no!!" she held up a hand and gulped in some air. "Let me guess...let me guess who you are."
The figure regarded her silently, arms at its side. It wore Vegeta's clothes, the outfit he wore the day he died in fact. But, she pushed that aside, grinning, enjoying this game. Time to play, time to play! "Let me guess..." she put a serious face on."You're...that guy all those years ago who managed to have sex with me in the steam room."
It crossed its arms, and she felt the impatience seeping through the air molecules. She burst out laughing, pointing her finger at it. "You should see the look on your face!" she slapped her knee, pointing still. "Hilarious! It's a Kodak moment. So, no...you're not him, eh?" She went 'hmmmmm' and tapped her chin, pretending to calculate something. The thing didn't look amused. "Let me MUSTARD! Aha! Where's your wrench, buddy?"
There was more silence if you didn't count the blue eyed wretch who found everything funny. "Ahaha, geesh." she rolled her eyes and sniggered to the cockroach three tiles next to her, "SOMEONE'S having a bad day." She turned back to It.
She shook her finger at It. "You know what you did before wasn't really nice...pretending to be Vegeta. You aren't Vegeta!" It never budged from its eternal pose. "Now you know you're not Vegeta, right?" she paused to laugh and put her palm to her chest, "and I know you're not Vegeta...okay?" And then she boomed loudly, looking around the room, "and now EVERYONE KNOWS YOU'RE NOT VEGETA!" she turned around and grinned her egg white teeth at the Thing.
"So now..." she crawled over on her hands and knees."Kiss me, you fool!" she mocked in It's face. "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!" she giggled.
It didn't budge, but it was actually looking behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw the cockroach on the tile still. "What...are you leaving me for HIM?"
"Beat it lady. The show's over." the cockroach told her in a deep voice and crawled to an open cabinet. She stared, blinking. Was that cockroach from New York? And if so, why did it never tell her?
She felt hands on her and turned sharply to see the Thing staring down at her with its no-eyes and she heard the familiar whisper and flinched. Through the staticky language she could hear her name and the Thing's face drifting closer to hers. She fought and cried and went," You're not playing the game right! You're not playing it by the rules!"
And then she felt the wind against her and opened her eyes to a junkyard of death. Bones, buildings, humans, and artificial things intertwined in a graveyard of now-nothingness. No one had a name here, no one had an identity. They were dust or faceless...or beyond recognition. She recognized the place.
She found Vegeta here.
Bulma got up, her knees becoming the San Dimas faults. Where was the Thing when you needed it? She looked over her shoulder, so convenient for a man to do that, leaving a woman on her own. She scoffed and crossed her arms, humphing. Well, she'd show him! She started to walk.
She'd show-her foot bumped into something and looked down at the rolling head. Dull black Saiya-jinn eyes stared at her shins. "Show.. show, show, I'll show," she repeated over and over again, her breathing hitching higher every second. "Is this a joke?" She stepped back, staring at Vegeta's head. She looked around, "IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE?" she screamed and grabbed her heel, throwing it in the distance. "Who's FUCKING idea of a JOKE was this? I want numbers, I want names, I want someone's HEAD on my desk Monday!" A big laugh came out of her as she stumbled into a big pile of junk, nuzzling her head into a leftover human body, going hysterical.
Her laughing stopped and she stared at the chopped off head. Almost like a dream the head was in her hands and she smelled ice cream. "What? What do you want me to do?" She leaned in and watched closely and with complete and utter disappointment when she discovered it wasn't Vegeta after all. Only Goku. She sighed, tossing the head over her shoulder. "What a waste of energy that was."
She walked on more, humming. The dead, sometimes even alive moaning bodies didn't bother her a bit. She just smiled, waved at some poor soul that stretched out a hand for help. "Sorry, it's not really my thing," Bulma said, smiling at the pain that ripped through the person's eyes. Too close to death to even feel anger or resentment, the man quit and went limp, breath leaving him.
"Whoo," she waved a hand in front of her nose, looking at all the dead bodies around her. "SOMEONE needs DEODORANT! Whooo!" She shook her head. "Damn! That's a funky smell."
And then she saw the shack.
It was a small shack... the type crazy bombers in Arizona would live in, typing meaningless threats to the White House, lacing letters with Anthrax, making small people's lives miserable. You know that type of shack... woody, shoddy work, ready to fall apart. Not even fit to shit in.
Bulma skipped around it, giggling insanely. "Someone needs to call their realtor!" She slapped her thigh, cracking up. "I am SO crazy it's not funny! Wait, yes it is!" And laughed more.
For no reason she scratched at the door, feeling like a Grown-up Goldilocks.
Bulma.
"Yess?" she sang her name back, smiling silkily. She cracked open the door.
Bulma. It was warm, silvery like her voice.
"Yess?"
Come in. I've got something I wanna show to you.
"Ooh... is it chocolate?" her eyes became childlike and she took a step in.
Yes.
She scrunched up her nose and turned to exit. "I HATE chocolate."
Bulmma..
"Yess?" This game was getting boring.
Anti-fungal cream.
"Ooh," she turned on her heel. "NOW I'm interested."
It was strange being in the shack. Little toy dolls hung from strings tied around their necks. Some stitched and raggedy... others life-size and arms outstretched for a hug that could never be given. She looked around, eyes darting from the dusty window to the glass jars on the shelf. She walked a little more, steps creaking. Something about those jars.
"Like what you see?" A raspy whisper came from her side and she almost expected Vegeta to be there, smirking as always.
But it was only Dr. Gero in a Willy Wonka outfit. He tipped his purple top hat at her, wiggling his facial hair.
"Hmm... is it chocolate?"
He rolled his eyes, smiling, shaking his head. "No way! Only body parts."
"Then I've got NO problem with it then." She grinned.
"Say... wanna see?" He pointed up at the jars.
"Yeah, now that you mention it." She grabbed a jar, wiping the dirt from the surface. The label said Eyes and Bulma felt the need to ask, "So do you use real eyes or what?"
"Of course!" Gero took out his cane and strolled around the shack, touching various dolls. He almost looked like a child molester the way he caressed the body parts. "Everything in those jars came from a real human body!" then he paused, thinking. "Well, Saiya-jin actually if you want to get TECHNICAL."
"Oooh.." that sparked her interest. "I used to know a couple of those."
"Eyes?"
"No, no, Saiya-jinns." She sighed, looking at the black eyes that floated around. "I was in love with one..."
"Oh?" Gero leaned in on his cane, fascinated. "Do tell."
"It's complicated," she waved her hand around, putting the jar back and looking through others. Her fingertips brushed the labels: Cheeks, Nose, Ears, and she picked up the Lips jar, morbidly staring at the floating two things.
"Love is like that, my dear."
"Boy IS IT!" She laughed. "I mean, outside I thought this one Saiya-jin was him. It turned out to just be Goku," she sighed, looking annoyed. "I thought it was Vegeta though... almost would've-"
"Vegeta?" Gero looked surprised.
"Yeah," she smiled.
"You don't mean... Prince of all Saiya-jinns Vegeta..."
"Yeah..."
"Short guy, big hair, kinda like Don King with an overactive temper?"
"Yeah!"
"Dude sporting no face?"
"Yup! That's the fucker!"
"Oooh... What a huge coincidence."
"You met him?"
"Yeah, you could say that. You're actually holding part of him right now."
She stared. Then looked down at the Lips jar, squinting. "...What?" She laughed. Another sick joke... how... perfect.
He nodded, laughing too. "I know! It's amazing isn't it? You know... you might not even be holding this guy's lips if one of my androids hadn't EATEN that face. Boy," he whistled, looking off into the distance, nodding his head and chuckling. "Those androids... always putting strange things in their mouths. You've got kids? Whooo... if you don't, I don't recommend getting them anytime soon. You've always gotta watch the little shitheads or they'll just...blow UP on you!" He gave a big laugh at his small robot joke. He hobbled over and clamped open an eyeball, shaking it at her. "I tell you, they're no easy thing." He sighed, rubbing the eyeball against a cloth, shining it. He inspected it like it was a diamond, some rare and foreign jewel. Then he breathed on it like it was a meatball. He hummed a bit, moving it around so he could stare into the echoing black pupils. He looked behind his shoulder at her and smiled. "They do come in handy though."
"But... why?" She hugged the jar to her plush chest, blinking.
"What?" He continued to smile.
"Why would you chop him up.. into little bits and pieces..?" She backed up, slowly making her way to the door. She looked in the corner and there were bigger jars. Ones labeled Arms, Legs... Head.
"I'm going to make a better Vegeta, my dear," the doctor heezled, walking toward her with the clamped eyeball. She backed away, watching as the room spun. "I'm going to make a better, faster, kinder Vegeta.." he stopped, cocking his head slowly. "Just for you."
"I..."
"Why?... Don't you want a better Vegeta? After all... I did make my androids just so I could do this."
Kinder..
"Well?"
Faster..
"What do you say?"
Better..
"Hmm, Bulma?"
Just for me..
The cockroach climbed up on her shoulder and sighed, talking again in that baritone voice. "I say cut the shit and accept the doc's deal, sweetcheeks." She took another step back and bumped into something solid, looking up to see the Faceless Thing. Worms waved hello as their tails sprawled everywhere, crawling and digging in and out of the Faceless Thing's...face?
Dr. Gero smiled. "Visa or MasterCard?"
----
She shivered, standing in one spot in the kitchen. The air was cool around her, transforming from the warm to a pleasant chill. Well, pleasant to the rest of us; the normal people that is. Bulma in her sweat soaked clothes stared ahead at nothing, seemingly nothing at all. Her lips matched her hair, that sharp blue color with no softness at all. Her skin was pale with a wet sheen to it and the hair on every inch of her body was raised, dewed with fear.
She turned her head slightly, staring at the counter, the cat head staring at her. Her eyes went wide, with fear or realization? Perhaps both; deep fist-grinding fright and dooming fate that she would never escape It. But the question was... was the It really the cat head or Vegeta?
Every morning she would wake thinking of him only. Every night him. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. In the bathroom. In the shower. When she breathed, it was him, him, him. Him with his... beautiful face and those eyebrows; thick and dependable, almost like a spy's. In fact, that was the air around him. Almost like he was a debonair James Bond. Lips always in a smirk, holding a secret that would undoubtedly save the world and doom it at the same time if it, pray tell, fell out of his mouth. Graceful, leaping, and evading.
That's how he was in her dreams. That's how he was in real life. She could barely touch him and he would get out of her reach, just at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes he would reach out his hand, sometimes not. It depended and with that, came her mood of the day.
Her wet sleeve came up to wipe her face of the sweat even though she knew it was impractical. Like it would do any good. She stared at the cat face, intent on finding its weakness, ready to destroy the monster. The crack in the middle of it divided its face in an even split. Like a broken heart, its shattered pleas and yowls were unheard against the tide of indifference.
Bulma licked her salty lips, giggling for no reason. Her head bobbed and she hacked like a geek in the Audio Visual room, pointing at it. "You're the reason why I want to die." She laughed more, head going up and down more frequently. "You're-you're why I always cry at night." Tears began to run down her face. "You're why I hate everything now." The laughter became a gushing fountain of emotion, tone flooding with incomprehensible consonants. "I hate you.. I honestly HATE you this time. You went too far. You were supposed to come back." She took a hesitant step and then paused mid-move. "Too far. You went too far. And now you want me to take you back after all this time... I had to raise a little boy all alone without a father and LOOK how he turned out, Vegeta." She immediately felt awful. She was pinning all the blame on Vegeta. Vegeta who couldn't even defend himself. After all... he was dead, wasn't he? "Do you know how HARD that was..? How.. how much I felt alone? Just for you and your stupid-"she paused to wipe her nose on her sleeve. "Your stupid fucking pride. Are you happy, Vegeta? Are you HAPPY rotting in HELL?" she slammed her fist into the tile, making the cat face jump a bit before crashing back down on the counter.
Bulma stared at the cat face, hating him still. Hating him. Hating this obvious ACID trip she was on, hating the sky, the ceiling, hating how everything was moving in on her and she was running out of air, hating that she couldn't breathe, she was sweating everywhere, that she couldn't scream for help because no one would hear her and if they did, who would care?
She knew one thing and that was the cat's face. She grabbed it, smashing it into the tile before throwing it.
She slid down against the wall and yelled into wall, "-hate you! I hate you!" she turned her face into the wall and cried more softly, "I hate you...I hate you...do you hear me?" she hugged herself. "I hate you..."
The cat's head slowly spun in the center of the floor in front of a mirror that reflected the whole thing. Bulma looked at herself upon the looking glass, and knelt down picking up a clock part and threw the cat's tail at it. "I hate you most of all!"
----
He leaned against the wall, eyes not on her. Bulma blinked through the tears, smiling. She was playing with a clock part, rubbing her bleeding fingers against the rough sides.
He found her like this, in the dark kitchen with a smile and broken clock parts. 'What's wrong with you,' he had asked her. She hadn't given a response. 'Huh?' he asked. 'What the fuck is with you these days?' No matter how much he yelled or even told what was wrong with her, she wouldn't move. She wouldn't speak. She would just look at the clock part; rub it with her finger pads and smile, smiling as if she knew something, a secret.
He sighed and put his head into his heads and slouched. "This is not working..." he muttered.
"Gohan..." he turned to her, surprised at her sudden speaking. She wasn't smiling anymore but did hold the part. Her eyebrows were knotted together, her eyes no longer glazed over.
"What?" he replied, a little annoyed.
She didn't say anything at first, just looked at the part. "Can I ask you something?" Her voice was soft and wavering...like a trickle into a pond.
"You want to ask me something?" He said slowly, straightening himself. "You want to ask me...something? After I yelled, screamed at you, you not saying anything...wasting precious time...now you want to ASK me something?" He gave a laugh and looked at the ceiling. "It's, it's perfect, really. Trunks is loose in another timeline, we barely have Faith up and running let alone completely built, and you want to ask me something." He nodded, pulling back his lips. "All right, Bulma...all right...I'll play your little game. What is it you want? Hmm? What do you want to ask me? Shoot. Anything." He hit the wall in time with his words, "I. Can. Do. This."
She didn't flinch at his tone, like he thought she would. Bulma blinked at her sprocket and turned it around slowly. She put it in her right hand and then looked at Gohan. "Why did we do this?"
He shook his head a little confused and put up his hand, "Do...what?"
"This." she gestured with her left hand to the kitchen, the ceiling, everything. And to herself.
He was still confused with her vague gestures. He thought she was referring to the mess in the kitchen. "We didn't. You did."
She laughed. "Yeah...it's surprising how you changed in the years." She remarked on his willingness not to take the blame. He was silent, crossing his arms, scowling at her. It was amazing to her how much he resembled Vegeta. Maybe that's why she slept with him in the first place. "I remember when you were a shy little boy...how cute you were." Her eyes were shining. "Remember those days?"
"Those days died with my father and the others."
She looked stunned at first but then nodded, dropping the part to the floor. It spun and its sound reverberated through the room. "Yes, so they did." she looked at the floor. There was more silence. He broke it.
"Why did you make this mess?"
Bulma looked at her knees, bumping them together like a little girl. "Depends on which mess you're talking about," she replied smoothly.
A whimsical smile was on his face before he could stop it. Something about her right now was adorable, a bump in her personality that he couldn't help but think cute. "The kitchen," he sighed and rubbed his head, combing his hair with his fingers. He looked lazily into the kitchen, examining the broken dishes and frantic atmosphere. As if she was running away from something, he observed.
"That depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Whether or not you'd believe me."
"Try me."
"The head of the cat clock chased me and then I ended up talking to a faceless...thing...and a cockroach from New York."
"...Yeah," he paused, strangely torn. A part of him wanted to believe her. The other part wanted to laugh at how ridiculous she sounded. But what puzzled him was why he wanted to believe her, at how he was so close to believing her. He looked again at the mess. It seemed almost true. "I'd say... yeah," he didn't talk any more.
Bulma sighed. "I knew you wouldn't believe me." She put her head back and looked up, blinking. Again, Gohan thought she looked adorable against his will. He couldn't stay angry at her for long somehow, like the excuse he'd give to his mother about his pet: "It's not his fault the rose bushes were there." Except, in this situation, the excuse would be more along the lines of: "It's not her fault she's crazy."
He almost laughed out loud. From being unspeakably cold and angry with her, he'd become warm and even adoring her as if she were his pet and she could do no wrong; my, my, he must've inherited his mother's mood swings. But he knew it couldn't be just that. He eyed her sweaty and dirty body, and sighed. He saw Trunks in her, perhaps. And maybe, saw what was there when he was a child: hope.
He shook his head. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Just clean this mess up if you can." He paused, "actually, go work on Faith. I'll clean this up for you." He looked at the level of degradation done to the kitchen, a war zone mirroring the world outside perfectly. Great, making my job so easy. There was a long silence before she answered.
"Gohan... do you even like me?" He paused, looking at the dark kitchen. "Even..." he heard fabric rustle."...as a person, I mean. Not as a lover, a friend, or ev-..even a companion. Just," she paused, "as a person. Am I good enough to be even that to you?"
Gohan was silent, thinking. Why was she asking this? Why was she being so strange? He felt her hands on him, on his shoulder and arms as she slowly turned him around. He closed his eyes, taking in a breath. Split between enjoying it and betraying his love for Trunks, he positioned his face away from her.
She was and she wasn't to him. She used to be, he knew that ... and then he got the sudden sensation something killed off that part and all that was left was a barely human thing. And he couldn't respect what couldn't feel like he did, what thought like he did. It was like all her soul leapt like a ballerina and danced in Trunks' eyes instead.
His eyes were on the floor. Bulma bent her head down to look at them and pulled away, with a nod.
"I didn't think you did either..." She sighed like it was a fact she was only repeating. And left. Gohan sighed, putting his hand through his hair, lingering on the question:
Why did we do this?
He looked at the remains of the clock on the floor and shivered at the haunting grin of the cat's face that lay on the counter.