The Birds Flew Backwards

By Little Suzi

no one, not even the rain, has such small hands - e. e. cummings

Part One

Allow me, dear reader, to tell you of the most unlikely aspect of my life.

Be assured that my life was not, by any stretch, a dull one. My father, the king of my home planet, was brutally murdered when I was just five years old. His murderer kidnapped me and trained me in hatred. This was my harsh punishment for living. It ultimately led to my induration and I finally became stone. My kidnapper was satisfied, but not sated. He was a demon, indeed. Watching me, cultivating me, from the sidelines with eyes of blood and white, and a chilling leer; a permissive maniac. He still haunts my nightmares.

When I came to Earth, I found happiness (or was it the other way round? Happiness was, indeed, all but forced on me). It must all be some kind of black humour. I met a woman almost as strong and as cold as I, albeit in a different way. We had a son and a daughter, both of whom I loved deeply. And my life was suddenly wonderfully comfortable.

But humans were not made to last.

My wife went first. I watched, confused, as her life melted away. Her hair drained of colour and her skin sagged. Her hands shook and she grew fat. She died in her sleep. One morning just I could not wake her up, and I couldn't understand why. Dying of old age in your sleep is a luxury my people can rarely afford. She was eighty-three. My people can live over thrice as many years. Yet, the candle that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. She looked like a completely different person when she died; all bloated, with mottled skin and thinning hair. She was like a dried up leaf. I hadn't changed at all.

Then the same thing began to happen to my children. My beautiful children. How I loved them. I would've sacrificed myself to stop this happening to them. Alas, the weak human blood, so incompatible with my alien blood, won out and took their lives. My daughter, my baby girl, looked so much like her mother throughout the whole of her life, and looked exactly the same as she when she died. Like a wilted flower. Not long after we buried her, my son also succumbed.

I visit their graves regularly. They're buried next to our friends. My rival, of the same race as I, left for the otherworld of his own accord. Always after the next adventure. He didn't even stay to watch his wife and half-blood sons die.

Some years later, on one grey day, I got up early. I had bought some white lilies from the florist in the village and was going to tend my family's graves, as I did once every month. I felt like a clockwork doll. I washed my face with cold water. I must have misplaced the soap, because it wasn't by the sink. I dressed quickly; black jumper, black trousers, black boots, black gloves. I always dressed in black these days, permanently in mourning.

I didn't feel like eating, which is odd for me, as my race typically eat a lot. Rummaging around the cupboards, I eventually found some tasteless cornflakes. I couldn't stand to even think about anything with flavour. I chewed slowly and carefully, counting each mouthful. After I had finished, I picked up the lilies. Their perfume was chokingly sweet.

As I passed the mirror in the hall, I checked my reflection. I have never been a vain man, but I couldn't bear the idea of visiting my family with cornflake crumbs around my mouth. My face was clean, I noted, as I gazed at the man in the mirror. He had a harsh, sinewy look to him, with a firm jaw, broad shoulders and well-formed muscles. He looked fairly young, but his true age was betrayed by his eyes. They were small, black and world-weary, tinged with a mist of sadness and regret. Yet those eyes were so lifeless; the button-eyes of the clockwork man. He didn't look all there, his mind occupied by more painful thoughts than those of ordinary people. The skin at the corners of his eyes was pinched and drawn, and there were lines around his mouth, deepening every day. His hair stuck straight up in long, tough wires. It was still mostly black, but was starting to become streaked with grey. As if the grey clouds in the sky were infecting him. Even his skin had a greyish quality to it. He was now pushing two hundred. I sighed at the sight, before tearing my eyes away from the image of myself and stepping outside.

I had moved to the mountains a few years ago; the old house had seemed too big for just me. It felt so empty once they had died. I sold it, sold the company they had left behind, and bought a cabin as far away as I could. I took the Gravity Chamber with me but I seem to use it less and less these days. Some things just stopped seeming important. The change had been good for me, and so had the mountain air. I stopped feeling as desperate and hopeless as I had been. Mostly, I just felt hysterical. I still had nightmares.

My little house had only five tiny rooms; the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom, the sitting room and my bedroom. It also had a little porch with an old wooden chair that I still hadn't got round to throwing out, even though I never sat on it and it legs were rotting and it was covered in moss. There were no other homes for miles around, so I was mostly left alone. Even the postman wouldn't come up here; I had to collect what little mail I got from the post office in the village four miles away, at the base of the mountains. I only went once a month, after I visited the graves of my wife and children, during which time I would do my shopping at their little store. I bought bread and cornflakes and tinned fruit and fish and soup. Things that would keep. Though the bread I ate towards the end of the month was always stale. I'd also become reliant on cigarettes and coffee, so I always made sure to buy a large supply. I used to take affront at the thought of anyone abusing their bodies in such a way, but now it didn't seem to matter. I also bought a small amount of fresh fruit, vegetables and meat, but I usually found it was better to obtain my meat by catching a rabbit or wildcat near my home. I collected the bones. I had a cupboard full; I liked to look at them. The local wildlife ensured I never went hungry, either physically or visually.

The locals, originally suspicious of me, became used to me, and then even came to even like me. Though I never said much to anyone, and offered them no kindnesses, they always treated me with courtesy. The lady who worked in the store would often put together my usual bag of shopping for me to just pick up and pay for when I arrived. Occasionally she would slip in a small carrot cake or a tin of custard. When I asked her about it, she said I needed a little treat. She never charged me for it. I never ate it. The thought of sugar made me feel ill.

After collecting my shopping and my mail (usually junk), I would call at the local bookstore. Though they only stocked a few dusty volumes, the little wizened old man there, who, for some reason, reminded me a little of my son, would order in or put aside some books for me. I had taken to reading a lot, because so little else was happening. I got the feeling they felt sorry for me, the reclusive widower, which made me feel dreadful.

This monthly outing was almost the only time I would leave my home. I was still waiting for the pieces to fall back into place again. I somehow felt I would be waiting forever.

It was an hour's flight to Satan City. My family were buried, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, in a church ground just outside of the city walls. I looked up at the sky; the clouds had grown dark and heavy, resembling machinery. It was looking like rain. It would probably pour on my way home. I turned and went back inside and pulled my heavy black coat off the coat rack and then took off without another thought.

It was already beginning to rain when I arrived. I landed on the gravel path, in the shadow of the church, a squat, ugly, building that looked a lot like my chair – rotten and moss-covered. I pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which squeaked terribly. My limbs seemed to grow heavier as I approached their graves. As I arrived, I halted in surprise.

Bent over the tidy graves of our friends was another figure. One I had not seen in many years. He was planting bunches of carnations by their headstones. Why had I never wondered who tended their graves?

He looked so different I barely recognised him. His skin was darker than I remember it being, darkened with age, now the same colour as the wet grass. His face was beginning to crease along his brow, by his eyes and by his mouth. Not deep creases, more like folds in paper. And he looked thin. So very thin. Like straw, all wasted and dry. His face was sunken and his cheekbones were jutting horribly. He had forsaken his usual uniform and was wearing a black suit made of heavy wool. It was bulky and hid his figure, yet, as the same time, made him look even thinner. It was clear all his muscles were withered, eaten up by his starving body. His ears twitched as my feet crunched on the gravel, and his neck clicked at his head swung round to look at me. His eyes looked so much like my own had that morning; sad, empty and so very hollow, like deep holes in the ground. I could envision myself crawling inside those tunnel-eyes, to hide from time, deep inside those bottomless wells. Yet, when he saw me, they began to glitter strangely.

He straightened up and offered me a sad sort of smile, pleasant yet very detached. I did not return it. I had come here for a purpose. Ignoring him, I knelt down in front of my wife's grave and removed last month's dead flowers, replacing them with the fresh, too-fragrant blossoms I had brought. I cleared away any dead leaves, they reminded me too much of her final days, and gave the marble of her headstone a wipe. I thought about her when she was young and traced out the letters on the headstone with my finger. I repeated these actions for the graves of my son and my daughter. By now the rain was getting heavy, crashing and buzzing inside my ears. When I was satisfied, I got back to my feet and turned to go.

He was still standing there, watching me. I had to acknowledge him.

"Piccolo." I said. My voice felt hoarse from the lack of use.

"Hello, Vegeta." He said in gravelly tones. He didn't offer me the smile again. "How have you been?"

The meeting felt awkward. I couldn't quite meet his eyes. His face moved in an out of focus, so I looked to the mechanical sky. My hair was becoming heavy with the rain, water running in rivulets down my face. Piccolo didn't even seem to notice the water that was streaming down his face, pooling in the folds in his aging skin. I sighed.

"You know, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to." Piccolo sniffed. He sounded slightly hurt, I noted.

"I know I don't, Namek." Using the harsh moniker made me feel a little more comfortable, "I just don't know what to say."

"It's been six years since we last saw one-another. You must have something to say." His clothes were sopping wet now, and he was beginning to shiver. He pretended not to notice and continued to meet my eyes, stubbornly.

All of a sudden I felt bad. Curse the faltering steps of my subconscious. I took a few hesitant steps towards him and closed the gap between us. I grasped his arm and began to walk him out of the graveyard. He allowed himself to be led. How thin his arm was! I could wrap my entire hand around it.

I guided him across the road to a small coffee shop. Anywhere that would get him out of the rain. He didn't look strong enough for that kind of weather.

The coffee shop was a pleasant little place. It only had eight tables, each with a blue and white chequered tablecloth and a vase with plastic flowers in unnaturally bright colours. It was completely empty apart from the waitress, sat at the counter reading a glossy magazine. She looked mildly irritated when we walked in. I sat Piccolo down next to a radiator. He looked grateful to be off his feet and in the warmth. I shrugged off my wet coat and put it over the back of my chair to drip-dry, then went over to the counter and ordered two coffees and sat back down at the table.

"Do you drink coffee?" it occurred to me I had no idea if it was compatible with his biology. I was relieved when he gave a short nod.

"Anything liquid." He explained curtly.

"Then why are you so thin?" I tried to make my voice sound concerned, but it was hard (impossible?) to deliver in my monotone. Piccolo's head snapped up at that. I was never one to pussyfoot around.

"Since Dende returned to Namek…I haven't had the energy to…I just haven't…" He avoided my eyes, concentrating on the tablecloth. I had never known the Namek to be uncertain of anything before. But things were different now. We were old now.

The waitress put down two white china cups, filled with the black liquid, and a pot of milk in front of us. Piccolo warmed his hands on his as I took a gulp. It was bitter and slightly too hot to drink. I put it down and turned my attention back towards the Namek who, despite being over a foot taller than myself, looked so small, hunched over in his chair.

"So you haven't been talking care of yourself at all? You clearly haven't been training. I'm surprised you have the energy to get up and walk around! What have you been doing?" I was surprised to feel anger swell in my belly, and I had no idea why.

"Well…" Piccolo had winced from the harshness of my voice, but he seemed slightly piqued by my attitude. For a moment I recognised my old ally. "I have my garden."

"Really?" I snorted. Then I began to chuckle. Loudly. Piccolo raised an eyebrow in irritation. "The Green Bean has green fingers? Ha ha!"

"Yes, yes. I'm sure you find it very amusing." Piccolo waved a bony hand at me as he added milk to his coffee. He was getting annoyed. That was a good sign. He was still himself.

"No, no." I shook my head and stopped laughing. "It's understandable. I mean, I have my books."

"You can read?" Piccolo smirked. It was my turn to be annoyed.

"So, I've never seen you at the churchyard before. Why's that?" I changed the subject. I didn't like where the conversation was going; far too personal. I still had my pride. In point of fact, that was all I had left.

"I don't normally come today. I usually come on the 20th of the month, but I've been quite ill lately."

"I'm not surprised, you look like you can barely stand up." I muttered as I drained off my coffee cup.

Piccolo didn't reply. He just sipped his coffee, pushed it away and got shakily to his feet and headed towards the bathroom. I stared out of the window. The rain was beginning to ease off. I picked up the coffee cups and the milk jug and placed them on the counter. The waitress nodded her thanks. My coat was still damp, but I pulled it on anyway and waited for Piccolo to return.

I held the door open for him as we left, touching my hand to the small of his back as he went though. He just seemed so fragile. Quivering as if about to shatter with every careful step.

"You know, Piccolo, you're the only one left." I turned to him. The rain had virtually stopped now, and the sun was beginning to filter through. The grief that I kept curled up in a tight ball inside my chest began to sprawl through my insides. I felt sick and pushed it all back down again.

"I know." He said softly, placing his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to place mine on top of his for a moment, but I didn't. Looking at it, I could've crushed it with the slightest pressure of fingertips.

"Well," He pulled his hand back, sharply, as if frightened, (Had he read my thoughts?) "I better be going."

"Piccolo. Will come here today from now on?" I said, quickly. I needed to see him again. A familiar face, an old connection. He looked mildly astonished, but his expression soon softened.

"Certainly. In which case, I shall see you next month."

"Yeah, see you."

Piccolo then took flight, as unsteady in the sky as he was on his feet. Flying clearly cost him visible effort. I watched his labours, feeling rather concerned, before turning away and flying home to run my errands.

I began at the post office. My mail for the entire month consisted of a church flyer, a coupon for a clothing outlet over one hundred miles away that, consequently, I never visited, and a letter from my late wife's solicitor, informing me that the last of her stock had finally been released to me. It had taken so long because we never had got married. I sincerely regret never doing that.

I journeyed on to the store to pick up my groceries. As I entered, the bell on the door rang and the lady who worked there looked up. When she saw me she gave me a huge smile that screwed up her face and showed all her teeth and a lot of her gums. It was quite unattractive, but I smiled back at her.

"Good morning, Mr. Vegeta!" she said cheerily, fishing out two brown paper bags from beneath the counter.

"Morning." I returned curtly, poking my nose in the bags to check she'd included everything. I picked up a bar of lavender-scented soap from a nearby stand and put it in the bag too.

"And how are you today?" she said as she fiddled with the till. It bleeped. This woman was like the flowers I had left on the graves this morning; nauseating. She tried too hard to be nice and was a brazen flirt. She just made me feel sick to my belly. Even being her presence felt like a disservice to my wife.

"Oh, fine, fine. I ran into an old friend today, actually." I muttered without thinking about it.

"How nice!" She smiled that smile again, "How long has it been since you last saw him?"

"About six years, I think. I hadn't seen him since my son's funeral." That wiped the smile off her face.

"Oh, I see. And how is he?" she seemed flustered and fiddled with the bags, avoiding my eye.

"He didn't look too well, actually. He's lost a lot of weight." I said as I gathered the bags in my arms, handing over some money.

"Oh, dear. Well, I slipped some flapjacks in there for you. You just share some of them with him." She winked at me and handed me my change. "Bye now, dear."

I left, the bell tinkling behind me as I did, and called at the bookshop. The old man there had found me five new books, which should keep me entertained for the next month. He bagged them for me and I managed to clutch them by manoeuvring things in my grocery bag around. Then I flew home.

I found the soap in the kitchen. It had fallen down the side of the counter, so I threw it away. I put the new soap in the bathroom, unpacked my shopping and then took a shower. The water was cold; the heater must be broken again. I didn't mind the ice-cold water, though. It felt cleansing. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the water pour over my face.

But today's little ritual seemed different. Something had shifted when I'd seen Piccolo in the graveyard. I felt unsettled, although not altogether unhappy. Maybe just a little distressed. The problem with my current lifestyle was that it gave me far too much time to think. Initially this had helped me clear my head when my family died, but nowadays it was just troublesome. Maybe it was that the cold water felt just like that rain that had poured down around Piccolo and I, while he, thin and vulnerable, had shivered.

I dried off, threw on a dressing gown and grabbed a book, slumping down in a well-worn green chair in my sitting room. The room was so small that there was only room for an armchair, a sofa and a bookcase, leaving only just enough room to move about in. I should've liked a coffee table to put my feet up on, but there just wasn't space for one.

I tried to become engrossed in the book, but I just couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept returning to Piccolo. The characters in the book didn't help much either; one was a cancer patient, growing thin and pale, and the other (my mouth twitched in amusement) was a gardener. I sighed and closed the book.

How old we had grown!

I went to bed. I thought maybe that my thoughts and concerns might keep me awake, but sleep quickly found me. Reality melted away in the shadows. I dreamt dark, claustrophobic dreams, in which I suffocated and thin white flashes of figures danced erratically before my eyes. I awoke with a start, relieved to be back in my own bed, and to see sunlight pouring through the window.

The month passed in the usual manner. I read books (but not the one about the cancer patient and the gardener) and cooked modest meals. I fixed the heater, did push-ups to keep in shape and set traps in the woodland near my home and caught rabbits, skinning them and roasting them for dinner. Their skeletons disturbed me; their bones were like chalk. They would crumble if I merely squeezed them. They reminded me too much of what the Namek had become. They made me feel uneasy. I emptied the cupboard of their bones and flung them out at the purple mountains.

I couldn't understand how that could have possibly happened to him. He'd always been so strong and determined with a powerful sense of self-preservation (apart from when it came to my rival's boy). He'd seemed to be calm, collected and intelligent too. He was certainly a master strategist. It occurred to me then how little I really knew him; he'd always kept himself to himself, never really associating with anyone. That boy was always the exception. I, in turn, never made an effort to speak to him unless there was something I needed to know. He always seemed to know everything. How was it possible that he had been reduced to that sad, frail, ghostly figure that I had seen? A wraith, (his or mine?) afraid of his own fear.

Why hadn't he and I found solace in one another after our friends were cruelly snatched from us? I remember the boy passing not too long after my daughter. At the funeral, Piccolo had been slumped in the corner, like a broken doll. The boy's wife had been wailing like a banshee, but I remember more the grief on the Namek's face; it was intense and palpable. I hadn't even thought to comfort him.

Dende had left for his home planet not long after that, and Piccolo had simply vanished. By then my son was dying. I hadn't even noticed the Namek's disappearance. He came back for my son's funeral, but I didn't say a word to him, consumed with grief as I was. Then he was gone again.

When the month was up, I got up early and washed my face, eating a tasteless breakfast (dry crackers and black tea), and, tucking white lilies beneath my arm (less fragrant this time, I noted), flew to the graveyard outside of the city. My thoughts were of the Namek the whole time.

He was already there when I arrived, sat on a bench adjacent to the headstones, bathing in the lucid autumn sun. The pallid light caught every angle of his gaunt face, making his eyes seem sunken and his cheeks even more hollow. His huge ears now seemed altogether too big for his head. This thinness had knocked him entirely out of proportion. I felt strangely sad, watching him like that.

I tenderly tidied the graves of my loved ones without a word. Then I turned to Piccolo. He was watching me with those piercing eyes. We didn't speak. He just got to his feet and we walked over to the coffee shop. I made him sit by the radiator again; there was an icy chill in the air and I didn't want him catching anything. He didn't look like he would recover.

"So you came." I said, as the same waitress as before set down a pair of cups in front of us. I had ordered hot chocolate for Piccolo. He looked like he needed it.

"Of course." Piccolo said, taking a sip. He looked pleasantly surprised by the flavour, and took another. "So," he paused for a moment, puzzling out how to start a conversation. Neither of us was exactly fond of talking, much less to each other. He chose the safest route, "How have you been?"

"Oh, fine. My hot water heater broke, so I had to fix that." I didn't like talking about these mundane things; I was used to my life being a whirl of epic battles, a quest to prove myself and defeat my rival. Not sleeping late, fixing appliances and reading books.

"I've just planted a new Japanese Maple." Piccolo had a tone to his voice that suggested he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

"What's that?"

"A tree." Piccolo smirked.

"Are you sure you should be outside so much?" I couldn't help being concerned, when I thought of Piccolo lugging a young tree around in the damp, his waist scarcely bigger than the tree's skinny trunk.

Piccolo didn't reply to that, staring into the depths of his mug. I looked around the café. There was a young mother at the table by the window with a blonde, pig-tailed girl who looked to be no more than three years old. She was making funny faces at the child who was giggling whilst trying to stuff her mouth with cake. I usually found humanity repellent , but the scene made me smile, slightly. Other than that, there was no one else in.

"Do you think about them a lot?" Piccolo said quietly, as if to disassociate himself from the statement, still gazing into the cup.

"My family? All the time." I said wistfully.

"Mmm. Me too. Gohan, I mean. And Dende, even though I could still go visit him. He's just so far away."

"Why did he leave?" I had never quite been clear on the details.

"Homesickness, I suppose. And Moori, his father, Namek's leader, was ill. Namek needed him more." Piccolo heaved a sigh.

"Who's the new Guardian?"

"Tree spirit. Unpleasant sort of person. He and I didn't really see eye to eye. I couldn't stay there. He just made me very angry." Piccolo shrugged.

"So where are you living now? Not that valley?" I was somewhat horrified at the thought of Piccolo living out in the open again. He looked like a strong wind could carry him away.

"Yes and no." Piccolo's expression turned to a melancholy smile, "They built a small town on it about twenty years ago. You know the sort, roads and bridges and houses and schools and farms and people. There's a park with a swing set and a roundabout near where I used to meditate, and half the land is used for growing crops and raising chickens and sheep. It had changed so much when I went back. But I couldn't bear to leave it." Piccolo let out a deep sigh, "I took a little cottage there. It's not much, but it is quite secluded. And the locals mostly leave me alone. Some of the children stare at me; their grandparents told them about my days as a warrior – I know because the brave ones come and ask me about it." Piccolo shook his head, "Everything's just so different these days."

"I know what you mean." I drained my cup. The young woman and her daughter left, smiling.

"So, where do you live now? I know you sold the Capsule Corp. It was in all the papers."

"I have a small house in the mountains. Very peaceful. Far away from anyone, really. No one bothers me."

"You sound like a hermit. Or a monk." Piccolo said, expressionless. His lack of expression was familiar and comforting. He had been emoting far too much before. Age and time, how your tricks elude me.

"Do you know what happened to the Capsule Corp?" I swiftly switched subjects again.

"They moved the company to a bigger city. I think the old building is a shopping centre or something now. They put asphalt over your front garden."

"They didn't! That's such a shame; my mother-in-law loved that garden."

"It was a beautiful garden."

"I suppose you'd know all about that." I couldn't keep the tone of mocking from my voice, "What's your garden like?"

"It's nice. Small, though. But it adds a bit of colour to my life. And it's something to do. I can't really train anymore. And meditation is so draining." Piccolo ran one long finger around the rim of his mug, then raised it to his mouth and took another sip, before pushing it away. He'd barely drunk half of it.

Simultaneously, we rose to our feet and left the coffee shop. The day was still bright and cold, though there were clouds darkening on the horizon and the liquid sunlight was already beginning to recede.

"Same time next month?" I smirked at the Namek.

"Sure, Vegeta." He pushed off from the ground and hovered in the air, wavering slightly, "You know, you can stop by my house any time."

I nodded absently, and he flew away into the blue sky. I sighed, and returned to the village to collect my mail and run my errands.

Notes: This, my latest effort, was originally intended to be read as one piece. It has no line breaks; it is, mostly, continuous prose. However, owing to its length, I decided to split it up into three pieces, which I would post separately. This will also enable me to answer any questions. It is about grief, more than anything else, and is also about loneliness, and how two people can react to it. As I abhor GT, I mostly pretend it never happened. In which case, I'd assume that the two characters who'd be left would be Piccolo and Vegeta, the former because of how long Nameks live, the latter because I imagine a Sayian lifespan to be around thrice that of a human's, and also because Vegeta just seems like the type to never give up. In any case, I hope you enjoy my little love story. The next part shall follow soon.