Anger Management
Chapter 4
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"You need to eat, Vegeta."
The Saiyan poked a corner of toasted bread into runny egg yolk, sniffed it, and set it back down on his plate.
Bulma heaved a frustrated sigh and lit her second cigarette of the morning. Vegeta was being even more stubborn thanusual, but his refusal to eat was worrying. He had seemingly lost his appetite two days prior and was unwilling to speak.
Still, since his sentencing, Vegeta had not only regained his meticulous sense of hygiene, but he was sleeping somewhat normal hours in the bed he shared with Bulma. His first appointment with a Dr. G Kim was at ten thirty, and Bulma was coming to recognize that Vegeta was absolutely terrified of what was about to happen. He'd actually stopped talking roughly thirty six hours prior, refusing to respond with anything beyond a shrug or a grunt.
"Damn, I'm gonna be late," Bulma glanced at her watched and saw it was already ten minutes to nine, "Vegeta, good luck today. You're going to be fine."
Vegeta crinkled his brow at Bulma and looked away. Eating the silverware sounded preferable to sitting down for an hour with a stranger who would be probing his emotions. "Nngh."
The waiting room in the upscale clinic where Vegeta found himself biding his time was unexpectedly luxurious- the air carried a hint of some expensive, subtle fragrance, and the chair he'd chosen seemed to pull him into the cushions. Although he'd actually wanted to throw up in the car on the way over, he now felt quite calm about what was happening.
Maybe I'm just trying accept my fate, he thought, there's no use in fighting, is there?
"Mr. Briefs?" A very slender elderly woman with silver hair cropped close to her scalp approached Vegeta's seat and extended her tiny hand to shake his.
When Vegeta extended a hand, he watched as his own hand engulfed hers and didn't dare put any energy into his grip. All I need is to crush her bones into dust, he thought, that would be an even bigger mess.
"Come with me," she broke the handshake and motioned for him to follow her down a short hallway, "my office is the last door on the left."
Dr. Kim was barely five feet tall, with a tiny frame concealed by a thick green sweater, a white scarf draped over her neck and shoulders, and a flowing copper-brown skirt. She led Vegeta into her warm and very clean office, which contained a long desk, four oversize chairs similar to the one in the waiting room and additional blankets draped over the arms and cushions placed in chair corners. A large potted tree stood in the far corner of the room, and low pots filled with small cacti and succulents accented side tables.
"So, is it pronounced "Vah-gee-tah", or is it "Veg-eh-tah"?
"The first one," Vegeta struggled against the need to squirm in discomfort.
"Thank you," she opened up a pad of paper, "I will be taking notes during our sessions, okay, Vegeta?"
"I don't think I can really protest or say no, can I?"
Dr. Kim gave Vegeta a wry smile, which he returned. Just like Ramirez, Dr. Kim did not seem to be remotely intimidated by the Saiyan, which Vegeta found both frustrating and rather admirable.
"I understand our meetings are a part of your sentencing for assault, Vegeta. Is that correct?"
"Yes. I figured the court had already sent my information to you."
"Yes, but I wanted to confirm. Thank you, Vegeta. So..." she paused and took a moment to gather her thoughts, "I'd like to talk about your current day-to-day life at home. I understand that you are unemployed. Where do you spend the majority of your time?"
Vegeta folded his arms over his chest. He hated the term "unemployed"- he thought it made him sound lazy. "At the house I share with my wife and her family. And the kid."
"Yes, I know you have a young son as well. How old is he?"
"Trunks is going to be four in a couple of months. My wife's already planning this... event... for the occasion. Ridiculous if you ask me."
"I see," Dr. Kim jotted notes down on her pad of paper, "when was the last time you were working or enrolled in an educational program, Vegeta?"
"Quit my job when I was thirty. Couldn't take it any more," he said, comfortable with the fact that he was telling her the truth while still withholding the majority of the details surrounding his former employment, "so it's been about four years."
Dr. Kim nodded and kept writing. "What did you do at your last job?"
Vegeta felt his stomach roll. He had to come up with a lie, and fast, and stick to it. "Collections," he finally said, "I collected on delinquent accounts for a major corporation."
"That sounds like it could be a stressful job, Vegeta. How long have you and Bulma been married?"
"Eighteen months," the truth was easier to spit out, "but we started living together almost four years ago."
Dr. Kim gave him another nod and continued writing. What could she be writing, wondered Vegeta, she can't get that much out of what I'm telling her...
Finally, she spoke: "Have you ever been in therapy or sought mental health care before, Vegeta?"
The Saiyan's derisive laugh provided enough of an answer for Dr. Kim. "Well," she offered, "we all begin somewhere, Vegeta, and we will be meeting every week for at least a year, which you already know."
"I know," he grumbled, "and I wonder if you dread this more than I do."
"No," Dr. Kim was quick to reply, "and I can't really dread meeting somebody I've never met before."
"Fair enough."
"Can I ask why you'd think I might dread meeting you?"
Vegeta picked at his nails. "Call it past experiences, I guess. Let's just say people haven't always been happy to see me."
More scribbling down on the pad of paper. "Why are you dreading these meetings, Vegeta?"
"Never said I was," it was Vegeta's turn to be quick on the reply.
"But you did, Vegeta. You asked if "you dread this more than I do", after all."
Vegeta sucked on his teeth. "Shit, I did say that. Ugh," he pressed his fingertips against his eyes and squeezed them shut, "I don't know. Obviously I should be here, but I'd rather not talk about this shit, you know? I can say "shit", right?"
Dr. Kim nodded and and said nothing. This chair is incredibly comfortable, thought Vegeta, and with an increasing feeling of disbelief with himself, he finally spoke up: "my life's just been upended several times in the last few years. I went from being comfortable and yet miserable, and I mean fucking miserable, to getting my ass completely handed to me, to a f-" his voice caught in his throat, "fucking near-death... thing, to this period where I just wandered around kind of pointlessly, I think, to having this kid and getting married, and now I don't do anything. I don't work because, well, let's be honest, I married very rich, and I don't really have anything to reach for any longer. So now I'm here."
Dr. Kim didn't say anything for a while, not writing, but digesting her client's words. "I think you've not only gone through some very traumatic experiences, but following that up with what must feel like sudden stability must not help. I think your anxiety around talking about what has happened is natural- you don't want to live that pain again. And I don't blame you. Would you describe yourself as "bored", Vegeta?"
"Very."
Finally, Dr. Kim took more notes. "I know we just met, Vegeta, but you strike me as a go-getter. Ambitious, and maybe just a little ruthless, too."
Vegeta felt the corners of his mouth turn up a bit. "Very astute."
"I think we need to get that ambition heated up. You need to make goals for yourself, not only in your personal life, but in our sessions as well. Are there any goals you might wish to share?"
What kind of a question is that, he wondered, a goal in therapy? My goal is to not strangle you!
"Get back to peak physical condition," he said, "I'm out of shape."
Dr. Kim couldn't help but smile. "You enjoy physical activity? That's good, Vegeta. There are many emotional and cognitive benefits associated with regular physical exercise. What sort of exercise do you enjoy?"
"Martial arts. But you don't understand," he shifted in his chair, "I trained all day, every day, for years. And then I... stopped. There used to be a hot flame burning me from the inside-out and it was snuffed out. The other night I discovered I can actually pinch fat on my stomach, I'm that out of shape. I'm turning into all the other soft-fleshed, pasty-faced, miserable looking men I saw at Trunks' school. God help me."
"That's quite a description," Dr. Kim's eyebrows rose up, "you really feel that your fitness has declined that significantly? Because, if you don't mind me saying this, I don't see a "soft-fleshed" person sitting across from me. Maybe your, ahem, "training all day" isn't possible right now, but why not ease back into your routine by exercising for an hour? Even a half hour walk can be very beneficial."
"My wife makes me go on walks with her," he replied, "but I do need to do a lot more. A couple years ago, my mother-in-law started taking a lot of photographs of me. There's this one she took right around the time where I was at my peak. I saw it the other day and I've been disgusted with myself ever since."
Vegeta paced around the living room and flicked through the extensive digital photo album Mrs. Briefs constantly updated, searching for pictures of himself that had been taken around his thirty third birthday. It took almost ten minutes, but he found a large folder of photographs that weren't displayed but still stored on the hard drive.
The first ten photographs had actually been taken as a guideline for how the Saiyan preferred his armour to fit, and turned the Saiyan into a headless mannequin. A handwritten measurement chart photographed for quick reference showed he had a waist measuring twenty nine and a half inches, while his chest measured forty inches. He found the next set and recalled how angry he'd been when he'd discovered the woman photographing him as he trained, followed by the pride when he saw that many of her shots had captured him in motion, immortalizing his physical condition and the power behind it.
One shot captured the Saiyan performing a handstand, balancing his entire weight on his left palm while his right arm reached out to the side, his bare feet arched as his toes pointed skyward, strong thighs pressed together, his narrow waist taut, and his expression completely at ease. Another captured him mid-backflip, his arms just starting to sweep out to balance the landing, his eyes shut and mouth open as he'd exhaled through the motion.
The next shot showed Vegeta much more at ease, leaning back on a patio chair with a large glass of water clutched in his a gloved hand, apparently in mid-conversation with somebody. The next shot captured the growing Briefs family, along with Oolong and Krillin, everybody grinning for the camera save for Vegeta, who was captured staring off into the distance, his mouth slightly downturned.
Vegeta sat back on the couch, bag of potato chips between his crossed legs, and set the photo album aside.
"Hi, sweetheart," Mrs. Briefs took a set a large tray carrying two mugs of green tea and a plate of sliced fruit on the coffee table, "let's turn on the news, shall we?"
Vegeta grunted and passed her the remote.
Mrs. Briefs waited until a commercial break to try talking to her son-in-law. "Did you have a good day, Vegeta?"
Vegeta shrugged and shoved several potato chips into his mouth.
"You met with Dr. Kim, didn't you? I know you haven't been looking forward to it."
Vegeta found an perfect-looking chip, unbroken and perfectly seasoned. "I'm supposed to find five "goals" and write them down before I see her again."
"Ah," Mrs. Briefs nodded, "have you thought of any?"
Another mouthful of chips. Vegeta silently watched a commercial for a popular fast food restaurant. "Quit eating crap and see if I can't get the fat off my stomach."
When Mrs. Briefs reached over and took away the bag of potato chips, rolling the top shut and setting it aside on the other side of her lap, Vegeta stared at her with sheer amazement at her boldness before letting out a single, very dry: "ha".
