Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Ever Let Go ❯ Chapter 7 ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ or any of its characters. Those are property of Toriyama Akira.

 

Chapter 7

 

Vegeta

 

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP….

 

Cracking my eyelids open, it's all I can do not to blast the fucking alarm clock to pieces, but such behavior on my part would be completely meaningless. Especially since I was the one to set the stupid contraption to wake me up at five o'clock in the morning. Rolling over onto my stomach, I reach out with my arm and turn the device off before it wakes everyone else up in the household. The last thing I need is to have someone come and start banging on the bedroom door for me to shut the annoying thing off. Yawning slightly, I close my eyes for a few moments and pull the pillow underneath my head closer to my cheek. I'm still exhausted from last night's confrontation with Piccolo, but although it frustrates me to think that I was made to listen to the convictions of a Namek-jin, his words to me made sense. There is no point in denying such a truth, even if such a denial would make me feel like less of a fool and more like the Saiya-jin Prince I claim to be.

 

Rolling over onto my back, the conversation I had with him circulates through my head. After he left, I tried to piece everything together, especially how to turn around the depression I've been suffering from and that of my mate's. Before this moment in my life, I have never sought to cure my own emotional deficiencies and certainly not the deficiencies of someone else. However, it was made very clear to me that if I don't take some measure of responsibility and at least try to work out some sort of solution, I'm going to continue in this horrid rut until I once again find myself losing everything that I have gained, whether I wanted those gains or not. Knowing myself, I cannot afford to continue losing, because eventually, I'll lose myself to the despair that has been a constant companion in my life since I was a small boy. And then they would win: the demons of my past and present life.

 

I spent half the early morning hours out in that desert, trying to think of someway to reconnect with the family I never wanted but somehow ended up gaining once I became a permanent addition to the planet I once sought to destroy. The only thing that I could truly come up with was that I needed to get back into some sort of routine and that I would have to put my differences to the side and start to act more interested in the day to day caring of my son. Though I have been avoiding Capsule Corporation since Bulma returned from the hospital, I know that he is not receiving the coddling that he is used to getting. Though it burns me how mushy Bulma has been treating him, I know that the lack of attention from his mother must be having an adverse affect on him. And I need to come to some sort of understanding with him before it is too late, before he feels the loneliness of rejection settling into his heart. Although I will probably never be the type of father who indulges in sentimentalism, I also realized last night that I do not want my son to feel for me what I feel for my father. I know I told Bulma that I never cared what my father thought of me, but that was not the truth. I wanted his respect and I'm sure that my own son, though he is still very young, is feeling the same way.

 

Pushing the covers off of my body, I sit up and stretch my arms out above my head, trying to get rid of a kink that has made itself known in my neck. It is still somewhat dark out, although I can see the sky lightening in the east where the sun will inevitably make its appearance. Standing up, I stumble towards the closet and pull out clean undergarments and my training gear: my running shoes, a tank top and a pair of nylon running shorts. I think I only probably slept about two hours, but I've gone with less sleep over a longer extension of time in the past. Still, I've become used to my laziness and complacency. Getting up to force my body into training after only getting a few hours of sleep isn't something that I've done since before Kakarrot died. Swallowing another yawn, I yank on my clothes and then make my way out of the bedroom I've recently taken occupancy in.

 

Walking into the hallway, I close the door behind me and then slip next door to the room I had been sharing with Bulma before…before she lost our child. Perhaps it is strange that I have moved back into my old domain. However, the fact remains; I will not subject myself to staying where I am not wanted and Bulma has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with me, or the rest of her family for that matter. Still, I am drawn to her as I have never been drawn to another person before in my lifetime. Again, I find the words of the Namek-jin floating across my consciousness. That I, the great Prince Vegeta, have fallen prey to that ridiculous emotional sentiment known as…love. I know that he is correct in his assumption, but the thought alone of having such a weakness within me…it terrifies me. But it explains a great many things to me that I have never understood, first and foremost why I chose to stay here of my own free will with a woman who at times infuriates me beyond anything I have ever known. Why I stayed to raise a child I never wanted and why I sacrificed my own greatness to live a life that I would have at one time considered mediocre at best.

 

Walking towards the bed, I notice that she's huddled in the middle with the blanket wrapped protectively around her like a cocoon. She looks so small and breakable lying alone in the large bed we were sharing. Creeping up to her, I can feel a lump starting to rise in my throat. In many ways, seeing her like this reminds me of half-forgotten memories of my suffering underneath Freeza when I was very young, before I became the brute that part of me wishes I still was.

 

Her face is still tear stained as it has been every morning since she came back. Leaning over the bed, I push some of her hair back away from her face just to look at her. There is so much damage between the two of us that I wonder if it will ever be repaired, if she will ever trust me again. This newfound realization about my own evolving and growing feelings is not making this morning any easier. Again, I wish for the simplicity that I once had in my life before I started allowing myself to experience more then anger, hate, and my pride. Though I will probably never bear my blackened soul to her, I hope that the experiment I'm about to undertake will clear up some of the decay that has started to rot between the two of us, driving apart a relationship that was never good to begin with. But for one such as myself, to have never had anything of the like before I met and mated with Bulma, I need her to come back to the way she was.

 

Closing in the gap between our faces, I hesitate before planting what she would call a `kiss' on her forehead. I know that I have never been clear to her about my thoughts of her and the importance she has in my life. Until recently, even I did not really know or understand, except to acknowledge that she is what has kept me sane since the death of Kakarrot. Knowing what I really feel though, would she even believe it, especially after how things have been between us? And another question also looms heavy in my thoughts: would I even tell her such a ridiculous sentiment? I don't think that I can ever lower my pride to such an extent to tell her something both dangerous and weak. Yet somehow, I must prove to her that she is important to me and that I do care what happens to her if I am to help her recover from the torture she is inflicting upon herself. Straightening up, I pull part of the blanket up over her shoulders and then take my leave from our bedroom. Shutting the door behind me, I quietly step over to my son's room and open the door.

 

There is a nightlight on in the corner of his room. Crossing my arms slightly, I can already start to feel irritation over how overprotected my son is. How will he ever grow up to face his fears if he's given a safety net to protect him from something as ridiculous as a fear of darkness? It frustrates me, yet I am beginning to realize that part of this frustration I have with Bulma and her family's rearing methods are because they are foreign to me. Yet, when it all comes down to it, my own childhood experiences are so far removed from what my son has to contend with, I feel as though I cannot relate to him just as he cannot relate to me. Walking into the room, I find myself compelled to stand near his bed, just as I had done with his mother. Looking at his sleeping figure curled underneath a blanket, holding onto one of those stupid stuffed toys he has in abundance, I lean over and peer into his innocent looking face.

 

We are so different from one another yet at the same time, I can see so much of myself in him that I wonder how my life would have been different had not my planet and people been destroyed. It is a question that has haunted me ever since I discovered I was to be a father for the first time. How could I create something when I was so damaged? At the time, I pushed those thoughts to the side. I couldn't afford to think like that, especially when I was striving to finally become a Super Saiya-jin, to prove once again that I was the chosen Prince, the inheritor of my people's legacy and legend instead of some trash third class baka. However, since the discovery that I was to add to the progeny I had already created with Bulma, and since that child's unfortunate death, I have once again found myself asking how things could have been had I been left my ultimate inheritance. And should I find some answer to those thoughts, will it be enough to bridge the distrust and animosity between myself and my son, the only inheritance that I truly have?

 

I can feel my mind racing off to explore these thoughts but I know that now is not the time to be having a philosophical conversation in my head, not in my son's bedroom at any rate. Folding my arms, I turn to leave when I hear the rustling of bedding behind me. Turning around, I stare into the blurry blue eyes of my son as he lets out a tremendous yawn.

 

“Papa, watcha doin'?” he asks me sleepily, pushing himself up and sticking his thumb into his mouth.

 

I don't really know what to say to him. I don't even know why I'm in his room except that perhaps it has something to do with the awareness that I can't abandon him any longer, that I have to be responsible for him beyond protecting him from unnatural death. Instead of verbally answering him, I just shrug my shoulders and turn to leave. He apparently has different ideas though.

 

“Is Momma gonna play with me today?”

 

Clearing my throat, I turn back towards him, watching as he looks at me uneasily, his fear of me at the moment being overrun with the need to understand why his mother is avoiding him.

 

“Get dressed.”

 

He glances at me, his thumb dropping out of his mouth, a thin line of saliva dribbling over his chin. Slowly, he pushes his covers back and then he just sits in the middle of the bed, both looking curious and nervous at the same time.

 

“Why?”

 

Rolling my eyes heavenward, I think to myself that I don't have time to deal with the inane questions proffered by a four-year-old. However, I realize that this impatience of mine has partially led to the void that separates me from Trunks. And if I am to follow Piccolo's advice, no matter how much it galls me to take his words to heart, I have to alter my own conscious behavior. How to do it though, without pretending, will be the difficult part. Even now, I am not sure that I am up to the impossible task that looms before me. I find myself wondering how it was that Kakarrot had it so easy with his family, but I quickly try to change my direction of thought. I truly must have had some revelation last night to be comparing myself to him.

 

I want to just say to him “Does it matter? Do what you are told,” but I know that if I truly want to make a difference to him and bridge the barrier between us, then I cannot speak to him like that. I can tell that he is waiting for me to say something, so I utter the first thing that comes to mind.

 

“We are going to the park.”

 

Instantly, his eyes perk up and his demeanor changes from one of cowering insecurity to that of a child who has been given the best gift in the world. To say that such a reaction surprises me is an understatement. However, I also realize that my son is not as jaded as I was at his age and he still retains a childish innocence about things that I have never had in my entire life. Again, the differences between us and how things might have been different had I not been sold into slavery reveal themselves to my mind's eye.

 

Shaking my head, I watch as he quickly jumps out of his bed and runs over to one of his closets barefooted. He throws the door open and then just stands looking at all the clothing choices he has before him.

 

“Brat, what's the problem?” I ask, my voice level.

 

“Momma helps me.”

 

Fuck. This is not what I had in mind when I came up with this ridiculous plan to take him with me to the park for a run.

 

“Well, can't you just pick something out and put it on? We don't have all day.”

 

He shakes his head slowly and then he looks as though he is about to cry. I can already feel my frustration rising slowly but surely. Walking over to him, I cross my arms and peer into the closet over flowing with clothing my son certainly doesn't have a need for.

 

Grabbing the first short sleeved shirt and pair of shorts I find, I throw them at him and then step away.

 

“Papa?”

 

“What now?”

 

“I need undies.”

 

Undies? What the hell are undies? Letting out a snort of breath to relieve the building tension and irritation in my body, I ask him what he means.

 

“Umm, stuff I wear under my shorts.”

 

Running a hand through my hair, it clicks in my brain what he's talking about, although I have never in my life heard anyone refer to undergarments as `undies.' It's probably some ridiculous word his mother made up and since I have never before helped my son to get dressed, I have never heard it before. Walking over to his dresser, I open the top drawer and am relieved to find an ample pile of them. Grabbing a pair along with a pair of socks, I throw them to where Trunks is now seated on the floor, playing in some ridiculous fashion with the clothes I took out for him.

 

“Get dressed.” I tell him and then stalk over to the door, watching to see what he will do.

 

Immediately, he carefully puts the shirt in his hands down. Watching me anxiously, he starts to pull off his sleeping clothes so slowly that I think a snail would be faster. Still, he hasn't asked me to help and even if he did, I wouldn't help him seeing as putting on clothes at his age should not be a problem. Again, he picks up the shirt he was holding a moment earlier and pushes it over his head. I grimace slightly when I see that his head is moving towards the vicinity of his right armhole. Without thinking, I step over and right it so that his purple haired head pops quickly through the correct hole. Backing away and feeling foolish for reneging on my plan to not help, I try to convince myself it was only because had I not intervened, it would have taken twice as long for him to put his damned clothes on.

 

After his shirt is on, his old pair of undergarments quickly joins the pile of his discarded sleepwear. He sits down again and I watch with a mixture of amusement and irritation as he pushes his feet through the holes provided and then stands, pulling his clean undergarments all the way up to cover his ass and his private area. It's absurd how idiotically he puts his clothing on. No wonder the woman helps him all the time. Then again, perhaps that could actually be part of the problem. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I step over and grab his shorts before he has a chance to repeat the performance I had just witnessed.

 

“Papa!” Trunks wails as he unsuccessfully tries to take back his shorts.

 

“Listen up. You are not doing this in an efficient manner. Whoever taught you was an idiot.”

 

I suddenly want to blast myself when I see tears threatening to spill out of my son's eyes. His tendency to be overly emotional is another problem I blame on Bulma, but it has also occurred to me that his human blood along with his age and general inexperience could also play a large role in my son's behavior. That is one thing I tend to remedy, for my sanity more than anything else. Already, I'm on edge and I wish he had never woken up when I came in to check on him. I know that this task I have to undertake is not going to be easy, but this is ridiculous. Gritting my teeth, I move in closer and dangle the garment in front of my quailing brat's face.

 

“Give em' back Papa!”

 

“Not until I tell you the proper way to put on a pair of pants.”

 

He stares at me and then sniffles slightly. Wiping his nose disgustingly on his arm he soon crosses them in a manner similar to my usual stance and then steps back slightly. Handing him his shorts, I grab his arm when he tries to sit his ass on the ground once again, effectively preventing from wasting even more time. Letting go I start explaining what he needs to do, feeling extremely foolish for training my brat in the art of putting on clothes the correct way.

 

“Don't sit down and put your feet in the holes and then stand up. Hold them in front of you and put one leg in at a time. Then pull them up.”

 

He looks at me dubiously before he attempts to follow my instructions. It is apparent to me that the task is not going to work. Almost as soon as he tries to put one foot in the hole of his shorts, he trips and lands on his face. Growling, I watch as he rights himself and then stands up again. Thankfully, he isn't crying. Instead, he looks determined to accomplish the simple task I have set before him.

 

After about three tries and many more minutes later then what would have taken had I let him put them on the way he normally does, the task is accomplished. Frustrated at my own sense of pride and dismay at my son's inability to put his clothes on, causing even more wasted time then I normally would have allowed for, I see a pair of running shoes on a rack in the closet. Grabbing the pair, I walk back over to Trunks and bodily pick him up, sitting him on the edge of the bed. Without saying a word and trying to hold back my disgust for doing such a…such a womanly task, I loosen up his shoelaces and push them onto his small feet. Tying them tightly, I straighten up and head for the door to his room once again. Once more, I try to convince myself that had I not helped him with his shoes, it would have been lunchtime before we would have made it outside of the house. Stepping into the hallway, I start walking quickly down the stairs, feeling the tension inside me start to seep away as my body finally is involved in some sort of physical activity.

 

Walking past the living room, I turn and look at the clock. It's already 6:00 am and the only thing I've accomplished so far is waking my son up and helping him to get dressed. Disgruntled over this fact, I turn my head over my shoulder and see him practically running behind trying to keep up with me. Turning around a corner, I walk into the kitchen and find myself face to face with the nit-whit.

 

“Oh Vegeta! How lovely that you're up so bright and early! And is that Trunks with you?”

 

Again, her knack for stating the obvious amazes me. Stupid bitch. Baring my teeth at her, trying to forget her helpfulness both during and since Bulma had her miscarriage, I tell her to pull something out that Trunks and I can eat quickly. I already know that my son, if given the chance, will eat his breakfast extremely slowly and messily. And I don't have time for that.

 

“Sure Vegeta. I have sticky buns almost ready to come out of the oven. You might have to wait for them to cool a bit, but you can eat them on the run if you don't mind having sticky fingers!”

 

Almost immediately to my relief, the oven timer beeps and the idiotic female pulls a pan out of it, containing what must be those `sticky buns' she was talking about. As soon as she puts the pan on countertop, I grab a few, making sure to cool one off for my son using my ki. Handing him the breakfast concoction, I don't let him say goodbye to his grandmother as I'm out the door before he has a chance to.

 

Almost as soon as we are out the door, I stuff one of the rolls into my mouth, chew it and swallow it. Thankfully, Trunks follows my example. Once my mouth is empty, I explain what we are going to be doing.

 

“We are going to run to the park. This is a training exercise. I will make sure that nothing befalls you, but it is your duty to try and keep up with me as best you can. Once there, you will have twenty minutes to entertain yourself as best you can before we head back to this place. Understood?”

 

He nods his head uncertainly and that's all I need before I take off. Jogging down the driveway and out onto the sidewalk, I check back to observe the progress of my progeny. He's trying his hardest to keep up with me, but our sizes are so different that even running at a slower pace, he's having trouble keeping up with me. Slowing down even more, I watch as he catches up with me. Soon, he is running level with me.

 

Watching him try his hardest to live up to my standards, I can feel guilt starting to creep into my heart about my earlier treatment of him. Certainly, it is exasperating and irritating to me that my son's Saiya-jin abilities and traits seem to be so far below where mine were at his age. But again, why would I want him to be like me at that age? I hated my life then as I have most of my entire life. Perhaps…perhaps this softness to him is a blessing, no matter how much I dislike it. And in reality, how difficult would it be for me to…to perhaps, loosen up some of harshness and expectations until he is a bit older? Certainly this morning proved, if nothing besides how annoying it has been up until this point, that I can be more patient then even I would have thought possible. It doesn't mean that I have to like it or change who I am internally. Still, this process to repair the wounds between myself and Trunks and myself and Bulma are going to take much more patience and tolerance then I have ever had in my entire life.

 

Sighing under my breath, I round the corner and check over to Trunks who is still determined to keep up with me. Turning back to the path in front of me, I pick up the pace slightly and pray that there won't be a crowd when we get to the park within the next ten minutes.

 

Bulma

 

My head hurts and so do my eyes. Blinking slightly, I sit up slowly and look at the clock, surprised to see that it isn't even eight in the morning yet. Laying my head back down on my pillow, I try to fall back asleep, but images of my dead baby from the strange dream I had had keep flashing in front of me, mocking me. Snapping my eyes open, I sit up and then lean my back against the headboard.

 

Toma.

 

I can see him as clearly as if he were standing right in front of me. My son who would never be. I know that in all probability, the dream I had of him was most likely drug induced and had he actually been allowed to live, he might not have turned out that way. But part of the dream rings in my heart as though it really was my dead child talking to me, showing me a sequence of events that might have occurred had he lived. Now that he's dead, does that mean the happiness in that dream will never come to pass?

 

My depression wells up from my core, convincing me that I'm not meant to have a happy life. Haven't the events from my past showed me that already? Just looking at my relationship history is enough to make the horrible thoughts in my head seem validated, even if I know that I'm not thinking clearly. Yamcha and then…Vegeta. Vainly, I try to stop this circular thinking of mine, even if for once, it's not related to Toma. Still, thoughts of last night's confrontation keep sticking at me like annoying insects, buzzing away when I try to swipe at them only to land back where they were in the beginning.

 

Frustrated, I push my covers away from me and then stand unsteadily, weaving towards the bathroom. Pushing the door open, I throw open the shower door and turn the water on, letting it heat up as I quickly pull off my clothes, exposing my naked body to the bare walls that surround it.

 

Stepping in front of the mirror, I look at my image. I'm tired and it shows. There are bags under my eyes and there are wrinkles of anxiety that weren't there before I had become pregnant again. My breasts are slightly fuller then they had been, but they have started to go back to normal. I've lost weight and what signs that had pointed towards my previous condition are completely gone except for a few faint lines marking where my abdomen had swollen. After all, I had been four months pregnant when I had lost my baby and I had already begun to show.

 

Shaking my head, I turn on the tap and splash my face with cold water, trying to distract myself before stepping into the shower. Drying it off, I throw the towel on the floor and then step into the now steaming water of my shower.

 

It doesn't take me long to wash myself. I've become quick and efficient as a way to combat the awful thoughts and feelings that plague me when I'm alone. In a way, it's almost funny how even though I don't want to keep dwelling on Toma's death, I have been spending the majority of my time by myself. Ironic, perhaps. Shutting off the water, I grab a towel and dry myself off, throwing on the bathrobe hanging up on the hooks provided behind the door to the bathroom. Wrapping my hair into my wet towel, I leave the bathroom without picking up after myself. I've reverted back to some of my old habits of cleanliness. Without Vegeta around to complain, who really cares? I just don't have the energy or motivation to behave in patterns that were a struggle for me ever since I found myself first having sex with Vegeta and then later sharing a room with him.

 

Crawling back into my bed, I yawn and then rub my temples. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. I realize that I could use a good cup of coffee, but I ignore that idea as well. Instead, I think back to the progress I made last night on the housewares robotics that have been in need of updating for the last couple of months. I was up until 3:30 this morning, trying to stop thinking about my dead baby and the fight I had had with Vegeta. This has become my new pattern. I sleep during the day when I'm too exhausted to stay up and then stay awake half the night, taking naps in between. For some reason, however, this morning is different. I don't want to be up, but I'm too afraid to fall back asleep. Once again, I find myself on my feet, this time heading towards the door that leads to the rest of the house and to the family I have been avoiding as a way of coping with the enormous amount of guilt and sadness I have been suffering with.

 

Opening the door, I almost run into the shape of the last person that I want to see at the moment: Vegeta. Taking a step back, I look on as he watches me warily before he opens the door to Trunks's room and then enters. Curious, I look at him just as he looks at me without saying a word. That's when I notice the reason for his sudden interest in the bedroom of the son he has been ignoring for all intents and purposes.

 

Trunks is in his arms, his head resting on Vegeta's shoulders and his arms wrapped around his father's neck. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed what was standing right in front of me. Vegeta…Vegeta would never act like this unless he had…unless he had hurt Trunks somehow. Out of nowhere, a rage starts to build inside of me. I already lost one baby and I'm not going to lose another, no matter if Vegeta didn't mean to do anything in the first place. Still, even that seems uncharacteristic. The Vegeta I know is more then capable of hurting people without remorse. Or at least, the Vegeta from the past was. I'm not so sure about Vegeta now, but I'm not really thinking logically. I like this feeling of anger because it helps me to forget my misery.

 

Not saying anything to me, he continues on his journey into Trunks's room. Following him, I watch as he lays him down on the bed and then straightens up, turning around to almost come face to face with me.

 

“What do you think you are doing?” I ask waspishly.

 

He looks uncomfortable, shifting his gaze away from my face. Stepping to the side of me, he walks around my body, heading once again towards the door. Not thinking, I grab his arm, intent on having him answer me.

 

Stopping suddenly, he yanks his arm out of my grasp and cocks his head in my direction.

 

“If you wish to get in a screaming match with me, I suggest we take it to a different place. I don't want to have to deal with your shrieking and the brat's crying at the same time.”

 

Offended and outraged, I stare at his retreating back as he crosses the hall and enters into my bedroom. I can feel my temper flaring to life, anger coursing through my veins in almost equal to the deep feelings of bitterness and hopelessness I have been feeling as of late. Taking a step forward, I march smartly over to where he is standing patiently, as if scorning me for being so…so emotional. Walking past him, I can hear the door whoosh shut as Vegeta presses the button that controls it and sets the locking mechanism so no one can interrupt our second fight in less then twenty four hours.

 

“Well Woman, are you going to yell at me or stare at me with your mouth open? Any wider and you could catch flies in it.”

 

Clenching my jaw shut, I let the first words that spill off my tongue come out without really thinking about what I'm saying to him.

 

“What did you do to Trunks Vegeta? You are such a…such an animal, to hurt a small boy like that! How could you? Do you want him to end up like you, bitter and angry all the time?”

 

Letting it all out, I watch his face flood with any number of emotions, the last being obvious disappointment and hurt before his usual sneering mask is back on.

 

“You honestly think that I would hurt my own child like that? Has it not occurred to you Woman, that had that been the case, he would have been severely injured many times over in his already short life?”

 

With that said Vegeta steps in closer to me, closing in the gap of space between the two of us. Grabbing my arm gently, he pulls me in even closer so that our faces are inches apart, his dark eyes looking directly into mine.

 

“If I hadn't become so fucking pathetic, perhaps Trunks would be even at this moment dealing with the brutality that a Saiya-jin father gives to his offspring. Yes Bulma, I am a monster, but I am not so horrid that I would deliberately hurt and mutilate my own child. You of all people should realize that by now.”

 

Looking into his eyes, I know that he speaks the truth. For once, he is allowing me to see the naked hurt and distress in his eyes that I would think so lowly of someone who I have been married to for years and have had a child with. Trying to hold back a sob, I feel relief when he lets go of me and steps back, letting in some breathing room between our bodies.

 

“I took him on a run to the park with me. He got tired out so I…so I carried him home the rest of the way and he fell asleep. That is all that happened.”

 

“You…you took him to the park?”

 

“Yes. Do not think that I did it for my own amusement. I…I just have come to some realizations about things and…Bah, forget it.”

 

With that said, I sit down on the bed and watch Vegeta has he strides quickly out of my room, intent on avoiding further deliberation, of which I am glad.

 

I don't understand. What realizations did he make and why would he do such a un-Vegeta like thing as take Trunks to the park, albeit very early in the morning? Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I wonder if part of what happened this morning has anything to do with my avoidance of our family and the things I accused Vegeta of last night. But when has he ever listened to me about anything? Still, I feel horrible for accusing him of abusing our son when I have never seen him do such a thing in the past. I wish…I wish I understood him better. I wish I understood his own fears and his own uncertainties, why he acts the way he does. And maybe, Vegeta is also wishing the same thing about me. Why I've taken to myself and why I'm having such a difficult time dealing with the grief of losing my baby. But whom am I kidding? To find such things out would require opening up the wounds of the past and present and I don't think Vegeta will ever tell me about his past life, except for the few smidgens of information I have gathered about him over the years. And the grief in my own heart is still too fresh to talk about. So we will each live in silence, never telling the other what we most need to. Never sharing our secrets, building up the lack of trust and the gulf that has been pushing us apart for the last few years.

 

A few months ago, no, a few years ago, I would have been up to the challenge of breaking down Vegeta's walls. I realized when I first became pregnant with Toma that it would have to be up to Vegeta to bridge the gap between us. Now for the first time, I have lost hope that that will ever happen. Perhaps it's my sadness talking. Or perhaps the voice of reason has finally gotten through to me. Whatever it is, it just makes me that much more miserable and alone. I am…I have become pathetic.

 

Vegeta has taken the first steps to repairing the damage to his family, to becoming a vital part instead of a bystander. But Bulma seems to be moving in the opposite direction. Will Vegeta stay with the task at hand and will it be enough to finally pull Bulma out of her grief? Find out in the next chapter. And please leave a review!