Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Syndrome ❯ Say it ( Chapter 3 )

Akira Toriyama wears pink underwear.

Syndrome: 3

Vivisection:

The cutting of or operation on a living animal.

Or person.

Vegeta'd looked it up in a computer once, when he was younger. He'd wanted a name for it.

Monday night arrived faster than he would've liked, but that was life for you. Dinner with the Briefs family had started out in tense silence, giving way to tense normalcy when Bulma fell out of her chair while reaching to pick up a fallen spoon from the floor. This caused her mother to burst into a fit of giggles, as she was sporadically prone to do, and her father to smile behind his coffee cup. Vegeta took little notice of the scene, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, but that was to be expected. Going under the knife does that to one.

Though he refused to discuss his hesitancy towards the procedure with any of the table's other three occupants, that didn't mean he denied himself the luxury of self-examination. He admitted, it wasn't the chopping-up-his-extremities part that bugged him. It was being at someone's mercy while he was completely out of it that got him a bit bothered.

After a dessert composed of some sort of fluffy, sweet, sugary substance, each diner went their separate ways. The older couple retired to the living room to catch a movie on the classics channel, something about a robot named "Johnny Five" that, for some reason, considered itself to be alive. Bulma withdrew to her bedroom and grabbed her nearest banned book; soon she was completely engrossed in the question, "Where do the ducks at the pond go in the wintertime?"

Acknowledging that he wasn't going to be getting much sleep that night, for whatever the reason, Vegeta went to bed early, in hopes that the extra time set aside would assuage any ill effects brought on by recurrent sleeplessness.

And nightmares.

He was ten years old, small for his age, but powerful. It took two of Frieza's full-grown cronies to hold him down on the table that he'd long-ago broken the straps off. A tank of anesthesia sat in a corner of the room, deemed unnecessary, at least for use on just a pathetic monkey. Why try to prevent pain when it was your goal to cause it?

Squirming as a cart scattered with various sharp medical implements was wheeled into view, someone hit a pressure point in his neck to stay him. He bit back a scream, refusing to give in to the urge to cry out, no matter the degree of his physical and psychological suffering.

Frieza approached. The bane of his existence terrified him twice over, once just by being present, and again by holding up a shiny, steel, rather painful-looking serrated instrument.

His fear made him forget himself. He cried out, in an almost extinct, now forbidden language, an act that would surely cause him more pain later on. "Co je tohle? Co chcete? Jdete pryc, Frieza! Ne tak rychle, neco je v neporafku strasny nemocnice! Do prdele! Nechci! Do prdele! Jdete pryc!"

Accompanied by a loud thumping noise, was a feminine voice calling, "Vegeta! Wake the hell up!"

Now aware of his surroundings, and the present year, he became quiescent as Bulma's pounding on the wall they shared soon ceased. The silence took prevalence in the atmosphere for a minute, then was broken by, "Good. Now try to actually get some rest, we have a busy day tomorrow."

He did not reply. Though the nightmares were infrequent, it still angered him when they occurred. Granted, no one had ever entered his room to awaken him from one, for which he considered himself extremely lucky. But he knew that the entire household was aware of the problem. Not that he should care.

Though he did.