Disclaimer: Do not own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.

AN: Let me thank all of you for the reviews. I am pleased to know this story is shaping out well and fitting in, if not exceeding many expectations of a Yamcha told story. I hope you all continue to follow this tale. Here is the next chapter, Enjoy.

Title: Story of My Life

Summery: A young Yamcha tells the tale of love gone wrong and the opportunity to gain true love slipping through his fingers. Will he gain what he has always wanted or forever fall short of his desires?

Chapter Two: Sweet Surrender

Hot summer winds have changed this morning. It is the first morning in which you have been strong enough to return to work. Your fragile state of mind had finally gained enough foundation for you to stand tall on without the need of medications that only succeed to make you drowsy in the end after the desired effect has worn off from your body. You know that ultimately the lack of medication will catch up with you. It always does. Your father is always telling you that you need to take your medication diligently but there is something about defying him that makes you feel so impermeable, somewhat like the old you who took heed of no one's warnings.

At the worse you will spend another week on the edge of your seat, wide awake like a paranoid man clutching his gun in a corner, not a second of sleep filling you. And still, knowing all of this you feel strangely awake and alive knowing there is nothing to support you, nothing to catch you if you fall. It excites you; thrill, danger, and all around practically tasting death always had.

Seemingly nothing can touch you. Your own disregard gives you a rush that no drug ever had. That was saying a whole lot considering you had sampled the most intoxicating of drugs the world had to offer you in your time.

The appeal of time tickles you in the back of the neck and you start to pay it mind. How much longer, you wonder, until you're back on the floor reaching desperately for your sanity? How much longer until the mirrors all around you become fogged up by your own panting breathes of despondency?

A sick sense inside of you is pleased. It wants to see you scramble. The very same voice that use to agree with Alizaé all of those times when she yelled at you has returned and wants to see you on your knees, crying, begging, praying for salvation. You give it a sturdy kick, something you haven't been able to do lately, and carry on toward your car.

Nothing can touch you, you repeat to yourself first in your head then aloud so that only you hear it. There is no body around for miles away. Another thing that excites you. If you were to fall now, to scream at the top of your lungs, who would hear you? Would you be left on the gravel driveway to suffer, to die, alone?

Your father has yet to emerge from the house and there isn't a neighbor around for a good block. One of the perks of staying with your father, mother, and sister people swear looks just like you. You enjoy the privacy.

Once the summer is over though you will be shoved unwillingly into the limelight where nothing is private and everyone will be able to look through the open windows at a life you've fought violently to keep private. You don't want them to know the full extent of your delicate state of mind. What would they think of you if they knew the real you?

Nothing can touch you.

Nothing ever will.

No one will harm you again.

No body…

Those are the promises you will frantically continue to repeat to yourself in hopes that somehow if you say them enough times they will stick to you the way the wind does, like honey almost. If you stand still enough the thickness in the air slaps you around the face gently then down around the remainder of your body. It lightly grazes your lips then departs in the same way you do in the tender hours of the morning before day breaks, when in a house not your own. There is something different in the air today though, you notice. Usually you are not so perceptive but after having the first full eight hour rest in the last five months you feel strangely awake. You feel invincible.

While the heat all around you had lessened dramatically from the day before there was something different about it. You can sense it each and every time it kisses you like a teasing lover. The day before it had been hot—actually hot was putting it lightly, especially when the sweat ran so thick it felt like anther layer of skin you could not wait to get out of—but now it weight down heavily like clouds holding back rain. Or more like the cries you have taught yourself to muffle.

You pause momentarily in mid walk, staring at your reflection in the pearlescent blue paint of your 1998 Ford Mustang. There had been a time, back when you were That Boy, when the car had been red. Most liked to joke and say that this very car had been your first love. As strange as it sounded you knew they were right.

That car had been there for you through lovers, through friends, through family even and now that things were changing it was only fitting it underwent a transformation as you obviously had. The once original cherry red paint had been stripped off replaced by blue (it is much more your style), the tan upholstery on the convertible top was now black; the stock 18 inch rims were replaced by four large 24 inch Ashanti rims that had put an incredible dent in your bank account. For a moment you feel like smiling. It was nice to treat yourself to something, since the only other thing you wanted in your life was so far way.

The sun catches your eye on the paint and you dash away for a second though the light hardly hurts anymore. After the revelation in January nothing could possibly harm your crystal blue eyes that vanish in the reflection of your car.

Suddenly you long for the apple from your dreams of the day before, to feel its supple flesh parting beneath your lips. To feel the sweet juices flooding into your mouth with a kiss so demanding that when you pull back, if you pull back, it leaves you both drained.

Sweet surrender…

Air moves faster around you, it howls in your ear as if in warning whisper. Indulge in that apple and you will have sinned the most deadly of sins; greed, gluttony, adultery, lust and desire all in one.

How sweet it would be to surrender. You do not care what will happen to you, if you will rot in hell for as long as your soul survives, or if you will suffer substantial torment in the limbo of purgatory. Your body craves a taste of her. Just one quick sample of what she has to offer and one long hard stare in those ocean blues filled with the lust you have for her…

Sweet surrender…

As the admonition fades away from you the certain "something" in the air comes closer to you. Death. Death is in the air. All that is left of your eyes in the paint is the deep black pupil that grows more with something along the lines of fear; yet, you are not sure what you fear.

Death sneaks up on you and grasps you by the back of the neck. It does not even startle you, for you've felt this feeling countless times in the past couple of weeks alone. You remember its tightening grip from the time spent in the icy waters of your own abyss, from the nights you lay up in bed calling for death, tempting it.

Your very own voice rings loudly in your head briefly, the words you use to call out while you lay alone in the dark, thinking if it was worth getting up to find a razor for. If you truly exist come and take me from this hell! You welcomed death. Wanted it. Enticed it. Longed for it with a hunger you've known only one time before.

Then, after a couple of drinks or a few joints it would come, like a lover in the night sneaking in through an open window left by the expectant mistress. You two would stare at one another, you into the frightening prospect of going to a place where you no longer hurt but leaving behind those who remained by your side through the whole ordeal. Death, glaring into your blue eyes and trying with a maddening force to rip your soul from your body. Once the soul was gone, the body naturally followed.

What Death did not know, with his flowing black robes that seemed to whine in the wind with the cries of thousand upon millions of troubled souls, was that Alizaé had already beaten him to the punch. You were sure the little snake lay curled up in her bed at night with your soul trapped in a glass jar on her nightstand.

"That stupid, stupid, stupid, snaky bitch."You squirm under the touch of death. "STUPID BITCH!"

The hate you feel for her is not helping you at the moment and you know you should think of other things. However, when that stupid snake had made her way into your mind it was harder than anyone could ever know to have her slither out. Maybe if you took a wallet filled with hundreds and threw it across the state she would follow it. Hell that was what the bastard had done.

With every thought that piled up in your mind you became weaker and weaker. In one instant the breath was sucked from you through your mouth. Death had reached in there and taken away your accomplishments away in one quick second. You are not strong enough to control him this time. He will take you with him, of this you are sure. You have taunted and avoided him long enough and he will not leave without you. You have gotten caught up. You are his property.

You try and brace yourself on the surface of your car but it seems Death has turned that into an all too slippery surface to support the weight of your body. Your face reddens severely and the thin layers over your face vanish back in the red assault.

You think you let a small cry escape from your dry lips but you cannot even be too sure anymore. The heat thickens around you until you feel it all around you, you start to hear it hammering in your ears and seeping in through your open mouth. The world begins to darken as if the sun was sinking back behind the clouds or as if the world were going off. Your eyes close reluctantly, involuntarily. One minute your mind begs frenziedly for sleep. Just for one minute.

After trying to fight off the sensation for what felt like forever you give into sleep's warm embrace. It welcomes you, greets you with the tender expectance of a mother welcoming home a long lost son. You melt for a quick second. It is all you need. One quick second to regain yourself and your energy, then you will be ready to be on your way. When you try to break away from the embrace, however, you find that it is too late. The once maternal essence has morphed into the grip you've felt before; the bruising, deadly strain of a jealous lover, your last hazy thoughts of that venomous snake Alizaé.

You awaken countless hours later, maybe even days later for all you know. Skies on the outside of the window are darkened with night. But when you look around you are not in a world you can call your own. There is an alien feeling to the air around you. You do not like it one bit.

Surroundings all around you hold a dim familiarity about them; the brown walls of the room seem to have a million memories locked within them. You can hear them pounding to get out. Slowly you rise from the bed you remember yet at the same time it feels strangely distant. The room, the world even, takes a lazy dip to the left as you fight to grip the wooden bedpost. Your hand flinches back without you knowing how or why. For a long while you simply stare disorientated at your hand with a bit of awe seeping in. it throbs with the sting of heat you would get by burning your open palm against a stove.

Your now pale blue eyes turn to the wooden bedpost you recently touched; there is a trace of panic in your eyes because your bed never had posts.

"I'm going back out again."

You think at first the voice is just one of the many voices that dwell inside of your head only appearing when times get their worse. But then when you hear its echo and you take in the vibrations off the wall you understand that it was from another human being, your wife, in the next room. It makes your head rear angrily. Instead of answering you rub the walls slowly as if trying to find the way to unlock the memories trapped there. You want to know it all.

"Do you not hear me? I'm talking to you!" she yells.

With every word crawling into the room your head pounds harder. The voice sounds ungodly and far too demanding. The screeching sounded like some cat straight out of hell. You wince and roll your eyes.

There is the loud stomping of heels down the hall, it gets louder and louder then it's behind you. A touch on you shoulder, an impatient tap then grunt. When you finally turn to the person, the woman behind, the red in your face drains and your skin stand out boldly like gold dusted in the sand's of time. Your wife is glaring mossy waves into you, trying to strike fear into you. Since when had she learned how to do that? Where had she gotten that glare from?

"What the hell is wrong with you now? Are you stoned again!"

Again? Your mind is foggy but not that foggy. The last time you were stoned was so long ago to you. After rehabilitation you have been completely clean despite the constant siren song coming from the substances that had once held the keys to your own personal your haven.

Your head feels heavy, as if made out of lead, so it hurts too much to shake your head. Rather you settle for a low sound of disagreement from lips unparted.

"You look stoned again. Shit, Yamcha! You are a lousy father!"

Her accusations sting deep on your heart, leave a gushing red wound that feels like there is lemon being pored onto it. It breaks you apart even further, if there is anything left to break. Even if there isn't she is making sure that when she is through with you there is nothing left of what you once were, not even a speck of dust that embodies that man.

"If you are stoned while watching my son so help you God, Yamcha!"

Yes…so help you God…Even you have to agree with that.

She leaves the room a few seconds later in a blind haste, she can't leave fast enough and it seems that with her speed the walls sink in and leave with her. Luckily this time she does not leave the burned in imprint of her presence in your mind. You can hardly remember what she was wearing or saying. Instead of trying to remember those details you knew you would soon forget you walk aimlessly around the room. Where the hell are you?

The walls start spinning and fading around and behind you. You wonder what you're expected to feel, to do, to say. These dream-like flashbacks have been getting stronger and stronger lately. Again you take a seat, this time on the bed behind you and as you sick back onto the flannel covers the bed becomes real. You touch the lamp, it lights up. You focus out of the window. The stars come out to play. Suddenly you are very home sick and hope to wake up soon.

Your wish is granted.

This time when your eyes part open you are in your room, staring up at the familiar spin of your fan with the hot rays of sun spilling onto your naked chest. Looking up your shirt lies next to you, as well as a now warm cloth of water that you assume was at one point cold. You wonder who could have brought you in. The thought that had once brought thrill to you frightens you. What if no one had found you?

"You're awake."

The voice is distant, miles away and it beats against your eardrum like the bass of a fading song. It reminds you of your friends for a moment. Shaking the thoughts away you become obsessed with finding the source of the voice, tender and gripping at the same time. You try and sit up in bed, a task that even your son can do but when you set your mind to do it the thought can not be translated into actions. Something was lost in the translation. Your head aches, feels like a ton of bricks. But it will not stop you. You must find the voice. Must.

"No, lay back. Your dad said not to move."

After a few more tries you've sat up slightly with your elbows as support. You are unsure how long it will last but at least you have caught a glimpse of where the voice spilled from. It ran down from full cherry lips like water. Your eyes travel up and take in the complete face of the person, not just the lips themselves. Apple lips, you correct yourself, no longer cherry.

Bulma occupies a chair in your room across from your bed, her long legs like the stems of a rose crossed under a short denim skirt with a red shirt catching your eyes; the petals of the beautiful rose. The red contrasts against your blue eyes, reflecting out a dim shot of purple when her own blue eyes met yours. Waves of an ocean not forgotten to the two of you crash violently in a storm.

There is a long stream of hot sun poring in from the parted blinds causing you to flinch in her glory when you try to stare at her too long. A sign, reminder in neon, saying that you must not get too close. That…person she is with will castrate you if you do. You scoff lightly and take a hand to your clammy forehead. That…person. The new permanent shadow looming over your head.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

You think you shake your head, or did you nod? You can't be sure of any actions that you make. Everything is one big reflection in a broken, cloudy, remainder of the mirror you are forced to call your life. It's foggy with condensation from over thinking many situations, a bad habit you have picked up somehow from somewhere and from someone lately.

"Lay back."

She is at your side in an instant; you don't think you saw her move at all. In one blur of white heavenly light she is pressing her cool hand to your chest. Her touch causes your heart to accelerate from it sleeping position. Your eyes are drawn to her lips. Those deep red scarlet lips that cause the equally crimson blood to rush to your cheeks. It makes you get even hotter until you feel that the skin over your cheeks is on fire. You want to kiss them. Burn them, find heaven in them.

A small droplet of water drips down the mirror slowly, teasingly. A glimpse of her cerulean eyes flashes into your world like a blinding light. You need those eyes. You need to tell her that you want her. To leave…that person…and to come into the arms that were always expectant.

But when you try to part your lips you find that you're too weak to say anything to her. She passes the warm cloth over your forehead, the feel of the terry cloth soothes you in a way you never noticed it could before. She seemed to know what she was doing.

When she leans closer to you there is a sent in the air. Roses…your eyes close and you think you let out a soft sound of comfort. Sugar…you take a deep breath until your lungs cannot possibly hold any more. You take her into you and she runs into your system. Your blood becomes infected with the maddening power she has on you. She has the power to change you, to make you a better man, unlike Alizaé…who held the power in her hands to destroy you. Even if Bulma did posses the same power, which you know in some time she might, you know she would never exercise it.

Marine eyes clash, leaving behind a dim layer of sea-foam dewiness over your eyes. You are not sure if it is the strain that makes you want to cry or the simple fact that you yearn to reach out and touch her but you know how…that person is with her and because of that you cannot. It would not surprise you if the minute she stepped through the abode they shared he could smell your presence around her. That arrogant prick was too protective for his own good.

"Oh Yamcha…what am I going to do with you?" she asked.

Her voice is filled with sympathy. She makes your heart beat faster. She makes your body become alive simply by speaking to you. Even the hairs on your arm stand on end only by the sound of her heavenly voice.

You stare into her deep blue eyes and hope that she hears the silent cry shooting between the glance you share at the moment. What was she going to do with you? The question rings over and over again in the hollow walls of your mind until you have reached your answer. The only thing she has to do for you now and forever is surrender to you too.

AN2: That's all for now. Want more? Leave a review, good or bad, or any questions you may have. Thanks.