Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Perfection ❯ Chapter 8 ( Chapter 8 )
Sometimes I scare myself.
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Psychological | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 04.16.2006 | Updated On: 04.16.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.1K | Visits: 454 | Status: Completed
I thought over him for a while, his attitude despite circumstances. It had always been something I admired about humans: their adaptability. I had long ago, as a child, met a holocaust survivor, a dear old friend of Master Roshi's. Showing me the odd tattoo in his forearm, he relayed to me stories of absolute terror, nights spent on a cot with five other men, starvation and disease rampant around them. It seemed to me at the time that the cost of life had become absurdly low, the ideas of injustice spiking my temperament.
After he'd finished, I recall asking him "how." How could he survive that? Where was the incentive to live amongst such horrors and not want to give up? He'd basically shrugged it off, telling me that thoughts of his wife and children (though none had actually survived) kept him going. "Memories," he'd said. "And the hope to make new ones."
It had dawned on me, even at such a tender age, that humans were an exceptional creation. Perhaps more-so than even their original creator had intended. The human ability to adapt to things they never imagined they could, always represented to me, a supernatural spirit within them. They never even realized their own strength of self until they were forced to find it.
A compelling idea that Sam and Jessie now showed me in every moment I spent within their simple home. So many things lost, I wondered at. So many thousand things forgotten, yet he still managed to kiss her softly before he left. The simplicities of a human life now shown for their own basic complexities. Truly, their God must marvel at them.
I wondered for a moment what a day would be like in Sam's worn out shoes? I wondered how he dared to leave his home, or dared to breathe a goodbye to his wife, knowing that every second now was as precious as his last. What was it like to imagine for a second that he wouldn't have the commodity of his wife soon? That one day, without real warning, she'd be stolen from him, shipped off like cargo and put to sleep like a terminal animal?
What world was this? True, I supposed that in the long run, and the logical contemplation of facts, there was no REAL purpose for the elderly. What did they add to the world but knowledge of what it once was? If I were to think like Kakarot, I would understand that the human knowledge of history, at this point, was a great error. Future generations would never truly know what they were missing in life (freedom being at the top of list) if they were born into one of slavery. Truly, total eradification WAS, in retrospect, a good idea.
My thinking made me ill for a moment, my brow furrowed as I realized the stupidity of it. 'Don't think like him', I warned myself. 'Don't allow yourself to understand his reasoning. It will poison you.'
I stood up weakly, rubbing my tired eyes.
So many questions.
Kakarot himself, at this point, was an enigma to me. He looked like me, he'd taken on my Saiyan name, but by all means, there was a VERY real difference between us. What paths had we traveled that had set us on two entirely different ones in life? What steps had he seen beneath his shoes that put us on parallel lines, going the opposite direction the other was?
No, there was no real proof that we were entirely two different people. I didn't have that commodity. No, he was me but at the same time, I refused to accept that IN THAT FACT... I was supposedly him.
I shook my head.
Time and age itself had taught me the lessons of sociology, enough so to understand that our childhoods, our surroundings and our lives in general could set one person on an entirely different path than he was originally intended for. But how extreme were Goku's and Kakarot's differences? Or more specifically, recalling the crude track-marks on Kakarot's arms, what had happened to him? Who was he and WHY?
I grit my teeth, tying my shoes. I didn't know what I would be dealing with only knowing that moping around Jessie's house was doing neither of us any good. I had to find answers and a gut feeling told me precisely where I'd get them.
"Castor?"
I shut my eyes, cursing my bad luck. I had realized it would probably be rude to leave without expressing my gratitude for Sam and Jessie's kindness, but I was only too aware of the things needing to be accomplished that day.
She had walked up beside me, taking my face once more into her hands and pulling me down to her level.
"You're leaving us, aren't you." She stated, not waiting for my answer. "There are things you need to do."
I nodded, grateful for her understanding.
"Where will you go?" She whispered, eyes expressing some sadness within them.
"I don't really know," I admitted. "I ....."
She smiled, urging me to continue.
"I had a wife once," I said softly. "before, you know. And.... I believe she can make me understand somethings that... don't rightly make sense."
"Like," She shrugged. "Why exactly you look identical to Kakarot?"
I almost gasped aloud, realizing that my eyebrows were higher and I was gawking at her. She laughed lightly, patting my face.
"I'm old darling," She said with a smile. "But not that old."
"How....." I shook my head. "Why would you let me stay with you both then? If you noticed that I..... look just like that bastard?"
She laughed softly again, the sound reminding me over and over of sweet clanking bells.
"Because 'that bastard', isn't you." she told me, tangling her fingers in my soft hair. "You have a good heart in you Castor. That's why I gave you the name."
She pulled me into an embrace, my shoulders slumped until I finally couldn't handle being bent so far over and just lifted her off the ground into my arms.
"I gave you the name," she whispered. "To separate you. To make you understand the difference. You aren't like him."
She pulled back, looking hard and serious into my eyes.
"You aren't like him," She repeated. "And promise me you won't forget that."
I nodded, whispering that I promised. I held her against me for just a moment longer, wondering why it was that I craved human touch quite like I did in that moment. Was it because it'd been sometime since I'd touched another person? Or because I'd seen the flaws of not appreciating the wonder that they were?
Letting her down finally, I let her kiss both my cheeks, sinking into the sublime scent of her kindness, the way sweetness seemed to roll off her body.
"I won't forget you," I breathed into her hair. "Neither of you."
"Be sure you don't." She replied sassily.
Before I left, she was sure to throw in a few more plates of food, stuffing me before letting me loose. Hugs and kisses later, I was flying into the air, loving the soft hitch in her breath. Truly, I thought to myself, an amazing creature a human was.
.................................................................. .....................................
I walked among the ashes of my home, the ground still seemingly burnt by flame, though many years had obviously passed. The burnt pieces of wood still stood, the foundations of what was once a meager home full of memories. Years must have passed over the wreckage of the house, vines covering over blackened counters that now struck me as ancient.
A blackened toy lay, half smashed the soil as I bent down to examine it. I held the old plastic bear in my hand, the soot from fire staining my fingers as I tried to clean it off. An exaggerated smile gleamed up at me, shimmering slightly in the sunlight as I moved it this way and that. It had been my son's. I remembered giving that to him years before.
What had happened here? I looked to the side. Where was Chichi? And why couldn't I sense Gohan?
I winced standing up, cringing as I lifted my foot off of broken glass, a small piece of it embedded into the sole of my thin shoe. I ground my teeth, picking it out and holding the tiny shard before my eyes. Small traces of blood glimmered over dirty, dim glass, my eye catching sight of something on the other side. The sun had hit the piece of glass just right, illuminating a burned stack of papers. I squinted my eyes, trodding lightly over towards them, limping on my tender foot.
I knelt down, picking up the small bits of paper gingerly, fearful they might crumple. They were years old, stained by smoke and brownish. Sides and entire pieces were singed and black, though the writing was somewhat legible.
I carried the stack lightly, my eyes never leaving the pages as I sat on a stump, moistened with lush overgrowth. To my surprise, I realized it was a journal, though a thin one. Some of the first pages were entirely unreadable, too stained to make out the words correctly; but as I sorted, dates became clear and finally, entire sections perfectly understandable.
I began to read.
April 3rd, 1994
Master Roshi always tells me to write in this thing. Hell, he's told me that since I was a kid. "Write it down kiddo", he swears. "you never know what you'll learn from yourself." I always tease him that he has enough "reading literature" that I hardly feel the need to indulge him further. Creepy old guy. Gotta love him. Krillin wants to spar today. Probably should though I don't exactly know what good it will do. Between us, I spend more time in my sparring sessions (and more energy) attempting NOT to accidentally take his head off than actually honing any skills in the process. Ah well. He tries and I know it means a lot that he keep up with it. Eases his mind to think if the time ever came, he could stand beside me and fight for something he cares about.
ChiChi hates when I go out, more so now than ever. I don't know why it always has to be such a process with her but I'm definitely looking forward to the usual song and dance we go through when I want time away. That was sarcasm. She'll tell me I can't take Gohan, as if I actually would. Sometimes I think his supposed 'lust for violence' (as she refers to it) is more just a plea for time with me. Like he has to have the same goals and interests as I do.
Sometimes, we're just too different. All of us.
May 28th, 1994
Saiyan. I figure I'm thinking about this right now because me and ChiChi are in a fight. She just doesn't understand me. No one does. Can't blame them, neither do I. Maybe that's my biggest downfall. I don't know who I am. Radditz told me I wasn't human and ever since then, I can only see the differences. That's all. I feel so isolated sometimes, like I'm the only person in the entire universe left that knows who I am and what I'm capable of.
Why am I so different?
Why do I love power? Why do I love to fight? Why do I have this sadistic need to sometimes destroy and conquer? Why does my heart skip a beat at the sight of blood? Why does death and destruction excite me so much?
And why do I have no one to talk to about this?
Sometimes, I just wish so badly that I hadn't killed my brother, my only link to what I am. Sometimes, I just wish there was someone else to show me. To show me something that makes sense. To show me I'm not crazy.
May 30th, 1994
See? I'm trying to keep up with this thing! Ha! Won't Master Roshi be so proud, two days in one month I've kept up on this damn journal thingie. I guess I don't mind it so much. I've never been much one for writing but I do have secrets and what else is this thing for? Besides... who else do I have to talk to? A bunch of humans, that's who. An entire race that would probably cringe if I told them the truth about myself.
That's right. I love blood. I love the way it tastes, I love the way it flies out of flesh, I love to feel it leak over my skin. A vampiric fascination with bloodshed.
They'd all be horrified. I don't blame them.
Sometimes I scare myself.
I cut my wrist the other day. Yeah, that's right. I'm not ashamed to write it here. It wasn't out of any morbid suicidal fantasy. I just wanted to see blood. I wanted to watch the way it moves and that distinct color that you can't even recreate. I loved to watch it drip out of white flesh that isn't human. God, I want someone to tell me why I liked it so much. God, I want someone to tell me why I loved it so much.
Is anyone out there?
June 8th, 1994
I cut my wrist again. ChiChi caught me this time, or more, noticed the after affects of my fantastical gory trip. It's like a drug to me or something. A kind of high or rush that makes me finally understand the human addict's need for more. I sat in the bathtub and I used her pink little razor to make tiny gouges over my forearm. It was-I laugh now--it was so beautiful. The kind of beautiful an artist can't recreate no matter how hard they try. The moving, trickling sensation of my life leaving my veins, only so quickly replaced by more of the fluid.
I don't want to die, yet that's what ChiChi is convinced I'm doing. She thinks I hate her so completely that my only endeavor is to escape her and Gohan. That's just stupid. If I wanted to, I could. What are they to me but human? I'm something so much more. I am. I know it. That's why I'm not ashamed of my fascination and love affair with the morbid.
They can whisper all they like in their tiny rooms and jaded walls. They can speak a millions rumors and theories and that's all they will ever be. Human rumors and theories.
I'm beyond that. This love affair is beyond that. Someone out there must understand me. I can't be alone.
I just can't be.
June 9th, 1994
I had a weird dream last night. I dreamt that I was standing in a room and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Shadows moved amongst me, yet I was one of them. They were Saiyans, just like I am.
Isolation melted. The undeniable inability to share myself was gone and suddenly every masochistic and sadistic thing I've ever done seemed perfectly natural. They were all laughing at my antics, laughing at the fact that I was so worried over cutting my wrist; laughing that I thought there was something wrong with me for liking the color of blood.
But it wasn't the same sort of laughter I'd heard from humans. It was more lighthearted and teasing than that. Not the withdrawn, humorless chuckling that was accompanied by tense looks and hard swallows. Humans: I hate the word.
In my dream, a shadow came up to me. Just a shadow. He touched my arm and called me the same odd name that my brother had. "Kakarot."
That's when I woke up.
June 10th, 1994
I must be going crazy but something feels like it's wrong. Something is missing.
Like... sometimes I just feel like something or someone is missing.
They should be here.
July 14, 1994
Sorry it's been a while. I looked back at my writings and saw the uselessness of it all. Why am I bothering now even? Pages and ink don't fill a void. Nothing will. I'm alone because I make myself alone. I tear myself away from everyone around me because I stupidly believe that they don't understand me. Or more, that their inability to understand me makes them hate me or something. That's stupid.
Yamcha told me the other day that he firmly believes I have an inferior complex over a superior complex. That I'm so afraid of thinking I'm better than they are that I isolate myself from them, making myself feel bad or something.
He's wrong.
I already know I'm better. I already know I'm capable of so many things that I'll never accomplish.
I'm a monster. Or I could be a monster. Or I should be a monster.
I don't even know anymore. What the fuck am I supposed to be? A dad. A husband. A hero.
How cartoonish. Can't anyone understand or even accept this need within me? Can't anyone tell me why I can't stand humans anymore?
No.
I'm alone because I make myself alone. I kind of wish now that Radditz had never come here; had never told me the difference between myself and everyone else. Because now? I want to explore that. I want to know how much stronger I am than they are. I want to hurt them, to squeeze the life out of their fragile, pathetic bodies and see blood. And I don't want to be ashamed of that anymore. I don't.
As much as I guess I wish Radditz had never told me the truth, I suppose I'm glad. At least now I understand why I'm such a freak, however inconclusive the facts are.
Meh, I have to go. Gohan caught a cold the other day at summer school (I'm sure the poor kid just LOVES the fact that she makes him go there) and he's calling. Probably a good thing. I never write anything positive in this stupid journal anyways.
I really ought to throw this out.
July 15th, 1994
Another fight with the wife. The wife. Ha. Cracks me up when men refer to a woman as "the wife", like we're tied down. Might as well call mine "the cage". 'Nother fight with the old 'iron bars'.
I gotta chuckle a little bit at that. Kind of hurts. I haven't laughed much these days.
Restless I guess.
Constant feeling like somehow, the plans of fate have been fucked with and something that ought to be in my life isn't. Such a stupid, eerie, ridiculously human feeling. Gohan hasn't gotten over that cold and now ChiChi (in all her irritableness) is starting to cough a little bit here and there.
Heh, this is an odd thought, but I think when she coughs and gets all flushed, she looks really beautiful. Yeah, odd thought.
July 16th, 1994
Yep, they both have it. Stupid colds. I guess another reason to be grateful I'm Saiyan. Such a pretty word.
Gohan has had the damn hiccups all day long and this weird rash. ChiChi claims she's too sick to do anything about it so I just gave him the calamine lotion and said to hell with it. I'm no doctor.
He said he was too tired to put it on so I guess I'll have to eventually do it for him. So odd, it's really not like him to act that way. ChiChi, yes. She loves attention. But Gohan? Nah. He's usually pretty resourceful.
With his high immune system (thanks to me) it should clear up in a few days. Poor kiddo! haha.. but at least he doesn't have to go to summer school today.
July 17th, 1994
This is getting weird. I have a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and I don't know why. The school called a few times but I didn't answer it. I've never been good with phones and ChiChi is out like a light. Oh well.
I wonder what I'll do today. I want to go out sparring. Maybe I will. I ought to call Krillin or Yamcha or someone. I have to sigh at that thought, you knew I would. What a waste of time.
I really wish I had a better sparring partner. A Saiyan partner. Someone who could ACTUALLY test my limits. My only 'testing of limits' these days is when Yamcha goes and on about how much Bulma likes him and I have to constantly coerce myself out of bashing his head in. What an egotistical dork. Honestly.
Oh yeah, and ChiChi and Gohan are still sick. Ho hum. Boring day.
July 18th, 1994
I can't shake this odd feeling. Something at the pit of my stomach is telling me I need to call the doctor. Meh, don't have his number anyways.
I worked out a bit this morning, trying to shake this strange tension. ChiChi is coughing something awful and Gohan.... man. Something just isn't right. I touched his head this morning, trying to copy how ChiChi does it (or would if she would get out of bed) and wow. I didn't think human skin or otherwise could even GET that hot naturally. High temperature.
Constant hiccupping. Coughing, rash and.... I don't even like writing this because it makes the turning in my stomach pull into a tight knot but, when I took Gohan to the bathroom today, I swear, it sounds wierd saying I looked but afterwards, .... I swear he shit out blood or something. God, it was so weird.
I'll call the doctor tomorrow. This just doesn't feel right. And.... is that....is that blood on the sheets?
July 19th, 1994
The doctor won't come. I called him 6 times now and all he'll say is that he's busy. He's lying. I don't have to be Saiyan to know that. Something has him spooked. Maybe I should call the school and see if any other kids are having weird symptoms like this.
I touched Gohan's arm today and it was so hot it almost hurt me. Like something is going on inside his body that's like... melting him. There has been brown spots on ChiChi and Gohan's sheets and I know it's blood. I can smell it.
Shit, someone is throwing up.
July 20th, 1994
Gohan is now throwing up blood. Shit, I can't take this. I just can't deal with this. Something feels so wrong here. Dende came today and I asked him to do something. ChiChi is quickly becoming as bad as Gohan is, coughing like.... like I've never heard anyone cough before. I think at any moment she's going to just barf up a lung or something. I smell death here constantly.
So I begged Dende to heal them. When I asked him at first, he thought it was an absurd request, swearing that he wasn't a doctor and shouldn't have to make housecalls. He's as white as a green man can be now. And I just have this feeling that the healing isn't working.
ChiChi started to cry only a few minutes ago and God.... God FUCK SHIT FUCK....she's fucking crying blood!
July 21th, 1994
I don't think I believe in God anymore. I think there's this big other dimension on the other side that is just as corrupt and Godless as this one. There is no God. I looked into ChiChi's eyes this morning, and I know it. I just saw that.
She's bleeding everywhere now. I can't keep clean towels. She just bleeds all over them. Like her heart is pumping enough to keep every orifice in her body leaking blood. It comes out of her nose with every weak breath she takes in. She shits blood all over our sheets and I can't keep changing them. It's like her skin almost falls off when I move her. She's so hot to the touch I'm afraid her skin is going to become liquid soon.
I don't understand anything. I don't know anything anymore.
I just know I can't lose them. I can't fucking watch them die.
How could I write what I wrote? That they're humans? That I'm above them? Yet here I am, on the floor beside her bed and I feel like I can't get up. I think I've been here for hours, just listening to her cough, weak as it is now. It sounds like rasping. Like the last rasping breaths of a dying old man.
Please don't leave me. Please don't die ChiChi. Please.
I feel my own tears. I don't cry much but I have to. I have to fucking cry. I have to believe that there is hope.
Tears give me hope that I'm still a man and that there is still a God and that there are still miracles.
A man called about an hour ago, asking if my family was sick. I don't know if he made much out of my blubbering, as I hollered and screamed for him to help us, to get us out of here.
"Send help," I screamed, sounding like a mad man. "Please send help, God, they're fucking dying!"
He just hung up. He fucking hung up.
And I'm a coward. I can't even make myself go to Gohan's room. I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid he's dead or something and that ChiChi will know. She'll follow him if she thinks he's dead. I swear, she won't hold on anymore.
I hear her coughing now and it's wet with blood. She just vomited again, pieces of her innards clotting on her chin. I don't even have the strength to wipe it off. I'm a coward.
God, I'm such a fucking coward.
July 22nd, 1994
I asked Gohan last night when he had started to feel sick. 12 days ago. 12. 12 days it took to put him into a comma. At least that's where I think he's at. I tried to pull him up to me, to hold him as he sunk deeper and deeper into a sleep that I know he won't wake up from. As I pulled him up, I felt the tissue in his arm give way and separate over his bone. I took my own son's arm off just trying to hug him.
I don't like the sight of blood anymore.
July 23rd, 1994
Gohan died last night.
July 24th, 1994
She keeps asking me to bring him to her. She wants to see his body. She knows I'm lying when I tell her he's gotten better.
"I just don't want him to see you," I lied. I think it's a cruel lie now. "I don't want him to see you so sick. So get better and I'll bring him in ok?"
She could hear the lie in my voice.
"He's dead isn't he?" She screamed. I didn't know a person could be so loud with bloody chunks of stomach spurting from between their teeth. "He's fucking dead!"
I just coward in the corner of the room and cried like a child. Cried like I'm crying now. Can't stain the paper too much.
What makes a man's soul? I thought 14 days ago I knew everything. I thought 14 days ago that my biggest problem in life was that I was missing something. But missing and losing are two different things. I can't bring myself to say goodbye to my wife. I've tried everything.
Dende couldn't heal them. The dragon won't save them or bring them back. The man on the phone never called again.
God. Fuck God.
Sorry, God isn't here right now, please leave a message.
July 25th, 1994
Well, I said goodbye. She already slipped into a comma when I said it. Her eyes are now staring at the ceiling, last bits of blood reaching down her pale, bloated skin. She died a few hours ago I think. I don't know. She looked dead for days before so I don't know. I don't know anything.
I thought I knew there was a God. I thought I knew there was a purpose for life. I thought a man's purpose in the world is to add what he can to it before he leaves. I thought that God put us here to grow upon each other, to learn what we can from our days of life and to improve the lives of those around us while we can. I thought that the purpose of life was to love.
I thought a lot of things before.
Does this entertain him? I'm curious. I really want to know.
I'm laying beside her. My wife. My iron bars. I feel more isolated now than I ever have in my life. I can't get up. I can't leave. I think I'll just lie here for a while. Yeah, I need a good nap.
I want to die. I want to die.
I want that same reckless courage I had a few months back, where I cut myself out of curiosity.
I think back now to a time when things were ok. Maybe things were never perfect but they were ok. I remember Gohan's laughter. I wish I could have heard that one more time. Yeah, that would have been better than hacked out pleas that I don't leave him.
"Stay," That's all he said for the last couple days before he sank under the comma. "Stay."
I think now on sunny times. The rays of sunlight on my wife's hair, the tears that glittered in the corners of her eyes when she laughed too hard. Picnics, naps, walks in the park. The first day I taught Gohan how to fly. The first birthday present he bought me, "Number One Daddy" written on the side of a mug. I wish he would have called me "daddy" one more time too. It always made me happy when he did.
Daddy. Daddy.
I looked in the mirror this morning, my hands still stained with the clotted blood that was splattered all over the sink. I don't care. I just stared in the mirror as I heard her last gasps, her strangled swear words, her promises she was getting better and needed to see her son. I just listened when she screamed horrible words.
"I'm dying," she screamed, the voice wet. "I'm fucking dying! Bring him. Bring me his body Goku, I swear to you! Bring me his fucking body! I want to die with my son. You bring him here! Goku, can you hear me?!"
I closed my eyes.
"I'll come back for you," She promised, voice menacing and sick with death. "I swear I will make you pay if you don't bring me his body right now you FUCKING COWARD!"
I don't know if it was her or the disease that spoke that. Probably both.
I just stared at the mirror, listening to her choked promises and vomiting. The man in the mirror just stared back. I wish sometimes that I aged like they did. The twenty year old stared back into the eyes of a man that has aged 2,000 years in 15 days. Why can't I look different? Why can't the reflection show the gapping wounds? Why can't I bare the scars that 15 days have inflicted?
I finally just knelt at her side, watching her body convulse and spit up last bits of blood as she began to sink into death, her innards puddy by now.
"I'm sorry," I told her. I think I told her that a thousand times. I think I said a lot of things a thousand times and none of them brought her back to me. I hated God, yet I prayed to him so much the last few days. It was out of morbid comfort to myself. No one was listening. No one could save them.
They're gone now and I'm more alone than I have ever been. I thought that I was missing something for so long that now that I am, I feel selfish for it. I had a family once. I had rays of sunshines and birthdays. I had a baby boy to call me daddy.
The world became ashes in 15 days.
One day, years ago, a man married a beautiful woman. He promised to love, honor, uphold and protect that woman, until death set them apart. One day, a man fell in love with a beautiful girl and made a baby with her.
And today, that man died too.
July 26th, 1994
I can hear them outside the house. I'm still laying in our bed. I hear the swishing of plastic suits and see the whiteness of their apparel through foggy windows. They think we're all dead. The whooshing of air filtering through plastic tubing comes near the window. He sees me. He thinks I'm dying.
Maybe I am.
I can hear what sounds like flames. They're going to burn this place to the ground. Let them. There are only cinders here anyways.
Besides, human flame can never touch the inferno that blazes within me now.
One day, a beautiful woman and a tired little boy died. The man soon followed. And from the ashes of a great fire tore forth a Phoenix, a monster, raging with life.
Two people died yesterday in this bed. And something else was born today.
I swear to God they'll pay. I'll make every fucking one of them pay.
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