Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Butterfly ❯ Beaten to the Idea of Death ( Chapter 15 )

For the next few weeks I clung to Hope and her friends as my last support. I grew to know them relatively well and things were okay for a number of weeks.

Notice I said I got to know them well - well being the operative word.

So when a certain incident happened I was not hugely surprised. Broken, but not surprised.

* * *

After my bitter argument with Vegeta I had sought solace with Hope.

That included even more alcohol, even more parties and even more disorderly behaviour

For instance, on Friday evening the `crew' and me met at a rave and got so pissed I couldn't remember who I was! I danced like a slut with any man I could find and smoked as much dope as a dealer.

On Monday, I found out someone had found it wise to go and tell Chi, Goku and everyone about my goings on from Friday. The looks of superiority they gave me in the corridors were hilarious.

I believe some of the comments exchanged were, "Just like the slut she is" and "Well it's not like she hasn't done it before - think about the Yamcha incident".

What incident?

Anyway.

It became a custom for us to skive of lessons at least once a day and go to the Art cupboard.

The Storeroom was a huge room; bigger even, than some of the classrooms! It had dust filled windows so no one could see our illegal actions and a few old, rotting chairs in the rarely trodden corners of the room.

It housed ancient paintings that had never been collected by their creators, barely used art materials, trashed equipment and our own supply of cigarettes and a bottle or two of some spirit that went straight to your head, in a box labelled `Crayons for use on black paper'. Shows how much people used crayons on black paper.

It was on one of these particular occasions that I was finally abandoned by everyone.

Whilst I was lighting up and taking a filthy seat next to a box full of used 3B pencils and a can of contaminated black paint, one of the guys, of whom I cannot remember his identity, had an idea that could have rivalled Einstein - or me for that matter!

NOT

"You know," he paused in a desperate attempt to at drama to his plan, "I've always hated this Hell Hole­­­­­­­""

Dangerous words.

""And I've just had an idea on how to exact revenge for all the shit this school has put us through""

Uh oh.

"Let's burn it to the ground."

Shit.

I knew I was in that particular substance when he received murmurs of approval.

Well, from all except me.

I kind of hoped no one had realised I wasn't exactly being enthusiastic about this arson, but my luck had been failing me this last year.

Sure, I had burnt things before.

I'd even burnt down a neighbours shed when I was nine.

I kicked my football over the fence and into his pristine garden. The old git wouldn't give it back. He even had the indecency to tell my mother I had been throwing stones at his green house windows, in a failing attempt to smash the new windows.

So I decided to give him something to jack off over.

But this was big. And I didn't want to do it.

"You know guys," started Hope. I should have known she'd bail me out, "Who's going to actually do it?"

Now I could take this innocently, or, I could think that Hope was suggesting lil' old me.

Picking up on the subtle hint, one girl spoke.

"You do it Bulma."

"Well… I just don't think this is a good idea," I stuttered, "Somebody might get hurt?"

It ended up as a question because, simply, it was a questionable excuse. And even with the illegal substances in this room clouding their senses ever so slightly, they saw through it like I can see through a window (but not ones with curtains).

"What's up B? Don't you want to help us? Aren't we your friends?" Hope asked.

I felt like I was being interrogated by MI5, and it was fucking scary.

I stumbled over my words before just deciding to tell them the truth.

After all, they were my friends, right? They'd understand.

"I just don't think it's a good scheme. What if we get caught?"

"Sounds like Bulma's backing out on us. You know what I think guys? B's going to rat on us. Isn't that nasty of her?"

"Hope? What are you … No - why are you saying this?"

Before I could carry on, I was interrupted by `Einstein' in the corner.

"Is that true Bulma?"

It was becoming increasingly obvious that although this wasn't planned, Hope and Mr Einstein were ganging up on me and stirring up the rest of the group too.

I had to stop this before something terrible happened.

"No!"

"You're lying to us now!" shouted one girl.

My eyes darted wildly around like a cat caught in a corner by dogs - and that's what I felt like! Trapped.

"You're making all this up""

I was yet again rudely cut short when I was so gently slammed into the plastered wall. I saw the dust and bits of broken off plaster fly as my weight whammed down.

I felt a light sprinkle of pain run up my spine and then down again like children on a helter skelter.

Einstein slammed his fist deep into my stomach with a well-aimed upper cut. On impact I literally felt my gut scream in agony.

Hope took control of the group like a shepardess controlling her subservient sheep.

"You lot find some white spirit and chuck it over anything flammable - but don't get it on yourselves!"

The sheep complied while the shepardess over saw. Lazy cow.

I was too winded to tell them how bloody stupid they were being and that they were being led around like donkeys.

Plus I was a little busy being beaten into a pulp. A hard slap to my left cheek and one to my right (I felt my jaw dislodge somewhat), another hit to my abdomen and a knock on the nose.

Blood poured out of my smell receptor and my assault was stopped. With a nod from my former friend Hope, I was chucked out of the open door.

My bag was turfed out shortly after, having been looted of all cash.

Then something totally unexpected happened. Hope grabbed a bottle of the combustible liquid and emptied it out onto the corridor before I could scramble out of the way.

My cuts that had been opened while I was thrashing around during my pounding practically hissed and stung in fury when the chemical invaded them.

My clothes soaked up the fluid speedily and pretty soon I smelled badly of the pungent stuff.

Before the door to the room that was shortly to be an inferno was shut I heard someone say, "Now maybe we'll all be rid of her."

The comment hit me like a ton of bricks and it stung worse than my slashes did.

In a daze I scrambled to get up and leave the school. I slipped over in the puddle and landed front down in the white spirit.

I had to get out of here. I had to get away from everything, and besides, if I got caught in the blaze I would go up like a match.

In a stupor, I got up carefully and started to walk away, just like I'd always done.

I stopped when I reached a fire alarm point, and paused.

Should I set it off?

My conscience battled for a second or two but the devil won out and I removed my finger from the `press here to break glass point'.

Why should I save this school of misery anyway?

It's not like I cared about it and as far as I was concerned, it and everything contained inside it could go up like Hiroshima [RIP], as long as I didn't do it.

And there wasn't even a fire.

Yet.

I turned and sprinted out of school as tears started to leak out of my cerulean eyes.

Reaching my car, I jumped in and, not giving a flying fuck about seat belts, raced off home.

My emotions had turned wild by the time I was home. Home to an empty house as per usual.

"I'm so lonely," I muttered to myself.

The words echoed around the vacant entrance hall and every ricochet of the phrase hit me hard.

I stormed up the stairs in a whirlwind of crazed sentiments.

I sank into the soft plush carpet and felt the guilt of leaving all those people to die wash over me in waves of passion.

They deserved it though.

Finding my knife was easy and before even bothering to clean myself up (I still had blood running down my face) I dragged the sharp steel across my bare skin.

The feeling felt good and I watched my life's blood seep out of the single cut.

But one wasn't enough.

I slashed and slashed and slashed until my whole arm was lacerated in a big bloody mess.

The pain was pleasure.

The agony was ecstasy.

And I longed for more release from all my troubles.

Cutting would never be enough to liberate me from the shackles of life.

After every slash I could still feel the isolation and the hurt.

There was only one thing that could truly break the chains of life.

And that thing was death.

But how could I go out with a bang that would cause ripples in the puddle of life?

How could I make sure everyone knew what degradation I had been through?

It would take serious consideration but I knew I could do it.

I was planning my suicide.

And it was going to be big.