Tempting Death
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By The Eternity Dragon
Chapter Five
The wind was coming down fast against the stained glass windows, rattling the pane against the sill, in an angry and frustrated way. Bulma sighed, turning the icy mug of tea around and around in her chilly hands, oblivious to the banter going on around her.
"And do you know what that dratted man said next? He said that he felt saving the world was more important than grades, well I mean to say those A* aren't going to grade themselves well are they! Oh I gave him a what for, the nerve of that man! Don't you think so? Bulma, Bulma?" Chi-Chi gave an antagonistic sigh and waved her hand energetically in front her friend's blank expression.
"Hello? Anyone home?"
Bulma blinked, slowly coming back down to earth, her thoughts disentangling themselves from the darkness inside of her, she smiled blankly at Chi-Chi her eyes unfocused, not really seeing her at all.
"Yes," she said eventually.
Chi-Chi's eyes expressed deep worry, she set her own empty cup down onto the glass coffee table and pulled her friends out of her firm grip and set it defiantly down on the table. The liquid lapped against the sides, spilling over and dribbling lethargically down the sides; where it lay in a puddle, glistening in the dim light, cold and unwanted against the pristine surface that lay all about it.
"What's wrong B," She said gently, brushing Bulma's hair back tenderly from her face as one might do to a child of six, "Is it Yamcha, I know he's going out with someone else now B. But like you said we all have to move on sometime don't we? I mean you and him used to argue like cats and dogs, and to be honest, I think that your much better off without him anyway."
Bulma smiled incoherently, her thoughts moving off the subject again, so Yamcha had a new girlfriend? She wasn't surprised or hurt as Chi-Chi suspected her to be, he had moved on and so had she, and after all. Yamcha was handsome; he had pleasant features did he not? He was charming and amusing at times, not particularly brave or clever perhaps but he was in no way repulsive. Bulma narrowed her eyes for an instant, placing her hands beneath her chin. A wound on her chest was throbbing painfully for some reason, she fidgeted slightly trying to forget and recollect; Chi-Chi was still nattering on about something or the other, what was she saying?
"People grow apart Bulma you said it yourself you must not regret it; we must all carry on with our heads held high. I know it must be painful for you but....."
She smiled at the irony of it all, painful? No, the experience had not been painful for her, on the contrary it had been sweet, the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness, and the taste confounds the appetite.
Dear Chi-Chi, she would never know the boundless extent of irony those words produced, regret, did she regret? And if so when had she stopped?
She had called him back she remembered that clearly enough, that pale crystal morning when the dew had hung heavy in the air.
She had lain there naked in the dark, sobs racking her broken body to take her back to save her from her doom. He had stopped, stared, moved forwards and then moved back again, all the while shaking his head and muttering to himself.
The bed clothes strewn about her body, the same bed that they had made love in only a few hours ago, everything shattered and broken now.
He did not understand he never would, the terror was fresh, coursing through him like the boundless sea. The heavy tides breaking on the virgin shore dragging the pebbles down into the foaming waters.
She had cried for him, arms raised, pleading like a child, her mind child like in it's despair.
But he was wary now, she had played this game before; she knew she was beautiful and she knew she was desirable, she knew that men where easily flattered.
Their prides as inflatable and deflatable as a balloon's. And had he not, earlier that same night told her he would do anything for her, and he was a man of his word and honour, he would come to her if she asked; he was a coward he would dare to try nothing else.
But the night rang to clearly in his mind, the unseen voices, the unheard screams, they were alone that night, very much alone, a valentine's get away into a lovers embrace.
What lovers? The empty shell of a woman and a spineless human?
But he had fed her anger, her malice and spite had grown and blossomed in his care, he hadn't been enough anymore she had realised, he could no longer fuel her anger.
Bulma closed her eyes remembering that night where it all began; they had lain together on that bed, clasped close to one another, his fingers embedded in her long hair, he liked her hair that length.
He would sit for hours at length running his fingers through it, letting it cascade off the tips like solid water rippling into a cerulean mass. Her Prussian eyes were gazing up into his, not really seeing the thick feathery lashes that surrounded them, not really seeing him at all.
He had leant down and gently brushed his lips against hers, "Turn on the light my love," he had whispered to her, "I want to see all of you when I do this."
"But Yamcha," she had silkily replied, entwining her arms about his waist, "It's already light."
He had frowned, thinking she was playing a joke, but her eyes were serious, not a trace of mirth was to be caught in her expression.
"The curtains are drawn my darling," he said, turning to lie by her side, "and the dawn is still far off unless I be mad."
She went very still suddenly, as though made from ice. She did not stir for what seemed an age, her eye's flickering slowly open and shut.
Until, suddenly and abruptly she threw herself against him, lips crushing onto one another, limbs entwined.
"But dawn breaks through the window," she whispered fiercely in his ear, "It streams through the gap in the curtain and I can perceive all of you."
Yamcha tore his head away, panting slightly, caught off guard by her sudden attack.
"No it isn-" he began, but as cut short as she pushed him beneath her, leaning down so that an aqua curtain was formed on the left hand side of her face she smiled at him, through the gloom and the darkness he could see the faint light glittering off her pearly teeth.
The smile was like a snake's; before it rears to strike.
"This room is filled with light," she had snarled down at him, her eye's glittering wildly, "but you cannot see any of it you only see the darkness. This room is filled with ice and yet you only see the fire. I can see the light," she finished simply, her gaze shifting from his, "But I can only touch the darkness."
She moved away from him, smaller somehow, broken, subordinate, he had touched her and she had responded. But he only needed her body to feel passion, she needed much more, she needed him mind.
Again she had reached out when he asked for her to turn the light on, again she responded telling him that light already filled the room.
He grew angry and chastised her for her childishness, and she had responded. The screams had ripped from her throat, the blood, the flesh, the bones; the soul had quaked in their sudden out burst.
"The room is full of light!" she had yelled, "Why can't you see that?"
He had tried to sooth and comfort the flames, but it only fed the fire, Prussian flames dancing like snakes across his skin; marring him tainting him. He had tried to contain her, he had tried to sympathise but how could he when he understood not?
She no longer felt fire at his touch only ice, she was not unfaithful and yet more so, how could her perceive that she felt fire for someone who was utterly consumed by it themselves?
Irony, it was a cruel word was it not, in light or out of it.
The danced had continued for a mere two weeks after that, each time she had brought him a step closer to the brink, closer to the edge, but he was unable to cope.
She had broken him; how many times had she told him he was worthless to her, and yet comforted his sobs with the vows of a lover?
How many times had she hurt him only to later kiss the wounds to heal; and she remembered the time he had lain with her on that last night, telling her to turn off the light so he could sleep, and she had only replied, "The light is off, it is only a shadow if light you perceive."
He had run from her that morning she lay sobbing; without sleep and energy he had weakened his resolve, he could not save her from this madness. She did not love him, and the poison was already spreading into him.
He had left her like that, crying, weeping, bleeding, her parents and friends had taken the tears as sorrow to the disintegration of the relationship. They did not know they had extended into the regions of mourning for her lost soul, her morality the things that made her human.
They would never know, she was no longer human, she was no longer anything, she was no better that Vegeta, she had never killed anyone, though, not physically, but she was a murderer, and she had murdered her own.
Bulma turned smiling to her friend, her eyes expressionless, filled with calculated mirth, "I am wasting myself aren't I Chi?" she said playfully cocking her head to one side. Teasingly waggling her finger from left to right, "It's ironic isn't it? I broke up with him after all didn't I? I severed the relationship so why am I mourning over it, if Yamcha can move on then so can I!" She paused, suddenly turning her head towards the window; the trees were bent double under the howling wind, their leaves whipped about their sundering branches. Her eyes flickered briefly to the gravity machine, as forlorn homeless foliage was chased by the ruthless wind against the cold metal.
The machine was on but no one was inside it, she smiled to herself, though there was nothing amusing in the slightest about this situation.
He had been avoiding her recently, was he another coward? As spineless as Yamcha perhaps? The prince of a long dead race?
"Well," began Chi-Chi, standing up now collecting the mugs together and moving into the kitchen, "as long as you don't harbour a resentment towards him you'll be fine." She said smoothly, disappearing into the kitchen, "Would you like another cup dear?"
"Mmm," Bulma answered, not really thinking about the question, turning her head again to the window, where was Vegeta?
"'I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.'"
She sighed and closed her eyes; tears like spikes inside of her were creeping slowly towards the surface.
"'I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow.'" The voice rippled across the room, disturbing the atmosphere like vibrations on the water.
He stood against the door frame, arms cross; eyes alert and wary, the room seemed to suddenly grow cold as though a window had been thrown open, but Bulma only felt the fire within herself.
"'And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears.'"
She spat her voice aggressive and hostile, "What do you want?" she snarled suddenly, how long had he been watching her for?
"Something wrong Bulma?" came Chi-Chi's voice from the kitchen, "The water's nearly boiled, we've not got long now."
He smirked seductively back at her, revealing those sharp canines he had brushed against her bare flesh that night. "'And I sunned it with smiles, and with soft deceitful wiles.' Tell me does your little friend know about these wiles of yours? Why don't you tell her, or shall I?"
Bulma made a sudden movement as if to march straight into the kitchen to escape from this interrogation, or simply to distract her friend from overhearing the conversation.
But Vegeta got there first, he pushed her down brutally onto the seat, he laughed cruelly down at her, his hands pushing her shoulders back so they rested against the sill.
He lowered his head, those dangerous onyx orbs twinkling with a sudden thought, her skin was covered in fire, it burned and writhed in her flesh driving her mad with frustration and anger.
"Let me go!" she hissed, wriggling to free herself from his grasp, he leaned down closer to her so that his nose bumped salaciously across hers, trying again to arouse her disposition.
"How does it all finish then?" he question, his eyes glittering maliciously, his warm breath tickling her skin, "What fruit are you to bare?"
He laughed again coldly down at her, as she snarled back up at him, Prussian eyes wild with anger. She was enjoying this he could tell from her expression, every second.
CRASH!
"What the hell are you doing!?" Someone yelled, the disturbance brought them back to earth again, their attention snapping back to the ferocious looking woman with two smashed mugs lying by her feet.
Vegeta stood up releasing Bulma's fists slowly, almost reluctantly, "Pursuing matters of a personal nature." He replied coolly, walking towards the door, ignoring Chi-Chi's accusatory stares.
He turned back in the doorway, he was smirking again evidently pleased with himself, abhorrence, revulsion and fury boiled in Bulma's chest, she was finding it nearly impossible to suppress.
Chi-Chi's gaze flickered from one to the other, a suspicion was born in her mind and it stayed there rooted deep among near impossible thoughts.
'In the morning glad I see my foe outstretched beneath the tree.'
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe
I told it not my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole
When night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see.
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.