Part V: Dolls and Dresses
Why did it hurt so much?
She woke up, feeling cold and drained in both ends. She curled up, looking like a marble sculpture in the bed around her. So blue and pale, she felt like she had nothing in her. No energy..no life...
But why? She couldn't remember..
She looked at her fingernails and felt the pounding headache in her forehead. "Ohh.." she moaned and felt something stir by her. She lifted her head tiredly and saw Trunks sleeping, nude with only the red sheets covering him.
..Red.. She looked at the fabric, squinting her eyes. Her mind was slowly working past the hangover but not fast enough for her taste. Weren't they white yesterday?
Yesterday..last night...sheets... bed... Trunks... blood... tears...Vegeta...
Time was distilled water. Unmoved for such a long time, a small ripple began in its center and echoed until it reached Bulma's brain. She looked down at him, inching away.
'I'm not Vegeta...'
Her eyes were wide and her breath quickened as she dragged herself off the bed, finding no use in her legs. They hurt so much... the bruises were not skin deep. What happened, what happened, what happened?! Her mind was on alert as the rug burned her once delicate skin.
The dinner. The wine. His smile. Vegeta.
"I'm not Vegeta!" he boomed and she gasped, biting her swollen lip to keep the tears at bay. She was still, not taking the chance to move and she looked behind her quickly to see he was asleep.
"I'm not Vegeta," he slurred again in his sleep. He moved, clutching a pillow and holding it suffocatingly close to him.
She couldn't help it. The tears burst out of her, like stallions galloping to be free. She clutched her hair, surprised at the matted clumps and wondered how long was she in that bed with him. Hours, days... she wouldn't be surprised if it was months and years.
And I thought he was Vegeta, she thought to herself, as she looked over herself still in a dull panic.
Trunks moaned his protests at this name and she bit her lip skimming around it in her mind, frightened at what even the slightest thought could incur. Fear and blood go so well together, though, a frantic part of her went. Like dolls and dresses.
She shivered, hugging herself before continuing the trek to the bathroom door. It was the Promise Land; it was the sanctuary she could cry from and cry in, from the persecution of the crowds. It was haven like shelters were to battered wives and lost soulless children; it was everything a victim, a true victim in the innocent, could hope to find solace before dying ever slowly in that safety.
Everything below her waist was numb. Her neck throbbed and her throat burned and scratched. Don't get her started on her vagina. But what was most numb was her sense. She couldn't ask why or even comprehend why he did... nor could she even bring herself to that train of thought. All that was there was an animal trying to survive from death, instincts coming into place and flight going before the unlikely fight.
And so with each painful grab of the carpet, her burned and bruised body reach the door, and she forced herself to grab onto the sides crying softly at the sharp pain in her knees as she opened the door.
And when she did, he woke up.
"What are you doing?"