Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ A Place Within Strangers ❯ Part Three: Soul (by my hands) ( Chapter 6 )

I do not own or make a profit of the DBZ franchise. I do believe that the honor of creating such a show, manga, etc. is of Akira Toriyama. DBZ is a trademark of TOEI Animation (says on the label of DBZ videos) and licensed by FUNimation. So from all that legal stuff, you can conclude that I DO NOT own this stuff....I just get a kick of out using their characters for entertainment purposes. So please, do not sue.

Part Three: Soul (By My Hands)

*A scarlet cord around my heart, a heavy pressure upon my soul.

Blessed are ye whose sin is covered, no great evil I shall fear.

Where do ye find forgiveness for failings?

She cries, her small fists balled up as she turns crimson throughout her wails. In a moment, she is quiet, sucking busily at her bottle and draining the contents in seconds. She looks up, and although I am not looking at her, I can feel her looking at me. She fumbles, her small hand attempting to curl around my thumb, but I pull away as she radiates an aura of innocence that aches to be in the presence of. But, because she has no one else, I must remain, yet if I had a choice, I would not be here at all.

She yawns and for once, I look down, noticing that my arm has already begun a gentle rhythmic shaking -my body reacting subconsciously to her needs. She opens her eyes in a drowsy manner, and our eyes make contact for a second before I break away for sleep to claim her. I cannot look at her for long. She has her eyes. It feels like I am looking at someone else.

Why should I care? I never did before. But that was long ago, and although there are parts of the past that I do not wish to revisit, others I would return to gladly. I did not know what true pain was. Yes, I knew physical and I most surly knew of injured pride, but...I never understood the ache of a lost soul, never comprehended what it was to have your essence torn out and replaced by fragments of what was there before, only existing to cause pain and anguish. Only to remind you of what was once there, so that each day you would feel a renewed pain -a burn in your heart as the realization hit that your piece was gone. Never before have I seen myself as truly worthless, a mere pawn in a game that I will never control.

I felt it once and forced it from my mind, but even then it was weak -even then it did not hurt as much as it does now. The possibility that this pain will eventually lessen has not entered my mind. It is a wound that cannot heal.

Why does it hurt more than broken bones or shredded pride? I can't understand why it sears to breathe... Why my throat closes in and that damned lump appears, even as much as I attempt to control myself. The burning in my eyes has not faded, the wetness of my cheeks does not dry. It makes no difference.

And then there is her.

She is proof of what I have done, flesh and bone of what has disappeared into another world and that cannot return to me, despite as much as I wish it. This is my punishment. The cruel joke fate had to play. Fate waited patiently, waited for the perfect moment to inflict something that would hurt, and what better payback than to take her away from me? What better way than to spend my life alone, accompanied by the knowledge that no one will ever love me as much as she did?

It is because of me that she was taken, it is because of me that she is gone.

"Father?" My son steps anxiously into the room and knows to keep his distance. He is jaded, but stronger than I imagined. "Want me to take her now?"

I hand the child over without thought.

He pauses and looks down to the infant. "Do you want to eat?"

"No."

"Alright." He hesitates, I know he wants to speak, but he knows I will not listen. In a moment, he is gone, the sleeping child curled up in his arms.

I am left alone again, and that is how I deserve to stay.

______

I was rendered breathless. I have seen her in many lights, always beautiful, always forcing me to yearn for her in desire. But it had been the first time where I felt it was an offense to look at her -to see such pure innocence was enough to grant me an eternity in hell.

For some reason or another, I remembered those restless nights before the child had been born, as her mind lay on the border of anxiety and mirth. She'd sit up and read, pulling out books she had kept tucked away for such occasions that I considered it useless. All those sappy stories she read aloud only irritated me and made me want to rip the books into shreds. But she told me they were important. That she had owned the books since she could remember and had saved them, keeping them wrapped away for the time she could have a daughter and offer the child her hope. It was then that I lost all thought of destroying her books.

Once, she drew out a different one from the rest, one that she treated much more carefully than the others. She smiled, as her fingers traced over the childish illustration, and then turned to me:

"This one's my favorite."

I asked her why. She said it was because the story had come true. She had found her prince and had restored her faith.

As her resting form entered my mind, I realized why I had remembered such a thing -she was the living incarnation of the drawing on that book. She lay as a princess, skin soft and fair, rose lips pursed. She was perfection. It was then when I was overwhelmed with the need to touch her, even if it was only once. As my lips pressed faintly against hers, I realized she was no longer mine.

And for the first time in what felt like a different life, I cried.

______

I was left powerless, my weakness displayed through uncontrollable sobs. It was not supposed to happen that way. Our bond was meant to strengthen her, to help her continue without complication. It proved pointless. I attached myself to her, only to have ripped away just as swiftly, only to know that my efforts were futile -that I could not restore her with the help of the guardian or the healing of any beans. It was too late, she was already gone, and I was left alone, with nothing more than the memory of failure burdening my soul.

I cannot look at the child. I cannot love her as well. I cannot love what I have killed.