Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Ningen or nekojin? ❯ Chapter nine ( Chapter 9 )

Ningen or nekojin?

 

By The Chichi Slaughter House

 

This was inspired by a doujinshi that one of my friends sent me and I really enjoyed it, even having ideas for a fic. Neko Vegeta's are my new obsession, so I don't want any flames about `OMG, are you sick?? Vegeta is a cat!', because he won't ever truly be a cat in my fics. I'm not a fan of animal sex.

 

Warnings: Uhh…let's see…Vegeta as uke, Goku pov, lemon, romanticishness, swearing maybe and anything else my twisted mind wants to come up with.

 

Disclaimer: Ugh! I can't believe I forgot to put this in! Bad Slaughter, bad! (cough)

I do not own DBZ, because, sadly, I am not rich. But if I did… (evil laugh) there'd be no more seme Vegeta stuff, because I'd put everyone straight! (shakes fist) ((Don't be offended by this if you support seme Vegeta, this is merely me being an idiot. Thank you.)) The `put your socks on' is not mine, it is © GogetaJr, I just borrowed it(with permission) because it's funny! I also don't own the Flora Company, or the Pussycat dolls, although that'd be nice… (rubs chin) I don't own the Resolve Company either, though I do have a box of them in my cupboard, lol. Don't own `Street Fighter' either, or anything else I will mention!

 

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Chapter nine:

 

It feels like I have been crying for hours when I finally start to calm, not having any more energy left to grieve so violently anymore. The tears were the first to stop, my eyes throbbing and itching from the loss of needed moisture, my cheeks drying stickily from the salt. My throat is burning in agony, and my voice is weak, unable to utter a single sound when I stop yelling, feeling mentally and physically drained by my grief and sorrow at the horror I have just experienced, my mind blank, yet full of pain.

 

I stare at my hands when eventually I pull them away from my face. Hands that rejected him, hands that held him…hands that loved him… Hands that wanted to protect. Hands that ended up destroying. Covered in blood. Tears. Filled with shards of glass.

 

Empty.

 

I will never feel his warm body in my arms again; hear his gentle voice speaking my name or see him smile. Never get hit, yelled at, comforted for the things that I always do wrong.

 

It's too late for all of that; he's dead.

 

Gone.

 

I feel numb all over, getting to my feet with great effort. I don't know what to do. The mess littered all over the floor and walls needs cleaning, but the dead body in my bed upstairs needs taking care of as well, and I have no idea which to deal with first. I can't do it alone, yet I don't know who to call; not feeling like I can trust anyone to believe me, especially as there are no other witnesses to this incident now, except myself.

 

Letting out a shaky breath, I stumble to the kitchen, tidying away the mess I had made from food earlier, throwing out the unused food instead of putting it away, seeing little point in doing so. Without 'Geta, I have nothing to live for. I don't have a job, my family have all deserted me, and now…my lover is dead, and I could not stop it from happening.

 

What need do I have for food if I am unneeded, unwanted and useless?

 

I don't even know why I am bothering to clean up such a trivial thing, but I cannot think straight and just throw everything into the bin: my knives, pans, chopping board; anything that I left out. There is no use for it now.

 

Like me.

 

Leaving the room dazedly, I grab a dustpan and brush, ignoring the pain of glass digging in my palms and knees as I get back onto the floor, brushing everything into the tray mindlessly.

 

I barely hear the knock at my front door when it happens, looking up from the floor in its direction blankly, before bowing my head and continuing my task, uncaring. It sounds again, louder, and I again ignore it, but this time the door just opens, Bulma walking in to my house without permission, her blue eyes widening in shock at the sight of me and my living room.

 

At the sight of her, all I can do is smile, though it is weak and there is no feeling behind it.

 

“K-Kakarott?” She sounds nervous, and I do not miss the tentative step towards me that she takes as I make an effort to get to my feet again, to greet her properly. “Wh-What happened?” Her voice is filled with dulled shock and slight fear as she speaks again, her eyes avoiding my gaze as I move toward her. For every step forward I take, she takes a step back. I frown at her behaviour and stop, some part of me getting very angry with her as I realise it is me she is afraid of. My fist clenches aggressively before I realise I have done it.

 

“I lost my temper.” My voice is low and toneless as I admit that the mess is my fault, moving to try and look her in the eye, somehow needing her to look at me, but she doesn't. The nervousness in her face and actions only makes me angrier as she looks away, not seeming to want to look at me at all. “He's dead.”

 

Her blazing eyes snap back to me at the statement, and she seems to take in the redness of my eyes and nose, the sticky wetness of my cheeks, then to the blood on my hands, seeming to panic at the sight of it. She thinks I killed him. Instead of my anger, all I feel at this is despair, pain flaring in my chest as I drop the dustpan onto the floor, the brush following not too far behind, showing her my palms; the blood obviously coming from them. Her gaze lifts back to my face, pity in her eyes even as the wariness of me still shows in her face.

 

“…Kakarott…” My eyes sting at that moment, and I know that if I had anything left, I would have started crying right then. She walks briskly over to me and grasps my wrists lightly, avoiding my earlier knife-wound, confusion and anxiety in her expression as she looks back at me. “What've you done to yourself…?” Her voice calms me a little as I look back, feeling guilty, though I didn't do this on purpose… “Let me sort this out, alright?”

 

Numbly, I nod, not knowing what to do with myself either way. Somehow I feel like a child; dependent and afraid, in need of its mother for protection and to be told everything will be alright. And Bulma feels like she is fitting that role right now, which both calms and saddens me. I know I am an adult; by the age of twenty-two I must be, especially since I live on my own and have been married, but for right now, I cannot cope, which upsets me. I have dealt with death before, so this should be something I can handle, yet it is not.

 

I feel myself be led to the table, arms pressing me to sit in a chair as Bulma collects the first aid kit she left earlier, opening it in order to clean my wounds. Meanwhile, I just stare at the floor, and I barely feel it as she removes each piece of glass and cleans my cuts with disinfectant, talking to me all the while. I can barely hear her voice, let alone the words she is saying, and I am sure she knows this, yet she continues her one-sided conversation regardless, tying a knot on top of my hands when the bandages are on.

 

As she gets up to put the kit away, I move my gaze to my hands and arms; comparing them to both a mummy and one of those strange `Street Fighter' characters. Dead and violent.

 

Bulma kneels back in front of me, placing a hand on my knee to get my attention, and I look up at her, trying to concentrate on what she is saying, finding it too hard. I shake my head when she stops speaking and she moves closer, touching my face, speaking louder. I stare at her lips as she talks, barely making out her asking something like `where is he?' before I realise what she is asking, flinching away from her hands.

 

“Upstairs.” Her grip on my knee tightens briefly; obviously a squeeze to try and calm me as she moves away, my eyes following her blankly as she walks through my living room. Feeling panicked, I get to my feet and stumble after her, grabbing her arm and causing her in turn to panic, slapping me hard across the face. At this, I let go, my mouth falling open in shock as my hearing seems to return.

 

“Oh, God Kakarott, I'm sorry!” She cries out, stepping closer to touch where she slapped before she notices I am standing in glass again, grabbing my arm and dragging me into the hall. She makes me sit on the stairs and checks my feet, but luckily, I have not cut them, hearing her sigh in relief. “I'm going to go upstairs…I think you should stay here.” She says, and I look up at her once more, not sure whether to let her or not. She runs her hand through my dirty, messy hair and sighs, hugging my head to her stomach, my arms moving to grab her back instinctively. “I'll be back in a moment…” I shake my head and grab her tighter, not wanting to be left on my own, the peaceful expression of Vegeta's corpse still fresh in my mind, haunting me.

 

She stays with me until I let go of her warmth, moving my hands to cover my face, feeling close to tears again. Her hand touches my shoulder briefly, then she mounts the stairs, leaving me to myself as she goes into my room, no doubt wanting to look at the dead body of the clone her company made. The thought makes me feel bitter and I turn, going up the stairs myself, expecting somehow to find her hands all over him, measuring his pulse and other things. When I enter, I am surprised to see her tearfully pulling some clothes out of my wardrobe for me, the sheets covering 'Geta completely.

 

Respectfully, like I should have done instead of yelling at him.

 

It wasn't his fault…

 

Bulma spots me and moves over quickly, closing my bedroom door behind her, obviously thinking that seeing him will upset me further. She uses her sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes and points to his old room instead, it seeming to be an indication for me to go inside. Somewhat obediently, I enter, sitting on his bed as she puts my clothes next to me, including a change of underwear, her cheeks going red. Her embarrassment barely manages to get my attention, and as I look at her with what I think is an empty expression, I speak.

 

“…What…” Sadness swims on her face at my seeming indifference, and her hand squeezes my shoulder.

 

“Get dressed while I clean up, okay?” I don't feel like dressing, but I consent anyway; a slight bow of my head being enough to answer her as she leaves the room, heading downstairs. How she can remain so calm is beyond me. My chest is throbbing, my heart aching like it has been stabbed, and I would swear on my life that I can feel my blood draining out of it into my insides. Usually this kind of idea would make me feel edgy and uncomfortable, but right now I feel nothing towards it, not even dislike. Standing, I pull on my clothes, thinking of nothing whilst I do so, my eyes skimming the room just to have something to do.

 

Eventually they stop roaming, and I feel a stab of pain in my chest as I realise I am staring straight at Vegeta's headband. I move over to it quietly and lift it from the floor, staring at it quite like I hadn't seen it before in my life, turning it over and touching every part of the soft material with my fingertips, feeling entranced. I don't even know why I bought this for him in the first place; I wasn't attracted to him then, and I don't think I had any sort of catboy fetish either. The idea is a mere mystery to me, and it occurs to me now that the strangeness of the way that I dressed him may have been an indication to my wife what was lurking in my head that I was unaware of. Why would a straight man bathe and dress another in tight revealing clothing without some form of ulterior motive?

 

Not that Chichi ever offered to help look after him, clean him or tell me anything he should be wearing. She never made an effort toward him in anything, though my original idea when I brought him back was to treat him as if we were our child, as I never really wanted any of my own, and she had never asked for any. If she had tried, none of this would have happened. If she hadn't left, we could have sat around the television and enjoyed another night of stupid entertainment. But no.

 

All she ever did for 'Geta was kill him.

 

Gritting my teeth, I think back to the punch I landed on her face, smirking slightly to myself as I imagine myself doing it again, over and over. Each imaginary hit makes me want to hit her for real, my anger levels rising as I know where she is and that I could easily kill her if I wanted to.

 

All of this is her fault.

 

All of it.

 

Hearing footsteps, I clutch the headband tighter in my hands, not wanting to let go of it. If Bulma tries to make me leave it, I won't care if she is trying to help me or not anymore, and in my heart, I know I will do something unforgivable. A warm hand touches my shoulder, and I jump, turning to look at her with what I assume is a guilty look, my hands grabbing tight and drawing attention to the object in my hands. After gazing at it a moment, she looks back up at my face, pitying me. Her hands reach forward, and instead of grabbing the one thing I can't bear to leave now, they curl around my bicep, tugging it. I panic a little, but she gives me a gentle smile, stroking my arm lightly.

 

“It's alright…come on Kakarott…”

 

“G-Go where?” I ask, despite her voice calming my nerves a little. Though I feel safer with her here than I do by myself, I don't want to let her lead me in to some sort of trap. What if she has called the police? Or a mental hospital? Does she think I killed him? That I'm unstable? I try and search her eyes for the answers, untrusting, but all the ocean blue reflects is sincerity and gentleness, her voice combining with them to make me relax further.

 

“My house…I think you need to lie down somewhere a little…tidier.” She says, obviously choosing her words carefully.

 

And it helps.

 

“Alright…” I give in and allow her to lead me toward the stairs, stiffening as I look at my room again, the door still closed. “But…what about…?” Tugging on my arm a few more times, Bulma realises it is useless to move me without an answer, and looks me straight in the eye as she responds.

 

“I'll sort it out, I promise.” She guarantees, squeezing my bicep reassuringly at the same time. When she is like this, I cannot help but trust her because of the way she did it. I never believe those who do not look you in the eye when they promise things, and it is usually because they cannot lie straight out to you if they can see you staring. And Bulma has never lied to me, not once since we were friends.

 

Trusting her more than ever before, I let her lead me out of the house I have lived in for years, away from the person I love and just lost, into her car and to her house, staying silent the whole time. My heart aches, and I clutch at my chest to try and stop the pain, but it does nothing except make me feel worse. Time passes, and before I know it, I am in a guest bedroom lying on a bed with a glass of water next to me as my friend's fingers comb through my messy hair, soothing and lulling me into sleep.

 

The last thing I see out of the corner of my eye is her picking up a phone, not even having time to wonder what it is for before sleepiness takes over and I succumb to it.