Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Phoenix ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the song lyrics I put in my fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

Part 1: Death

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Seven Years Later

 

“Well, Mother, I thought that was lovely.” The ride home had been rather silent and Bulma had to say something to break the tension.

 

Mrs. Briefs raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. I suppose it was, compared to all the other luncheons you've ruined.” Bulma bit her inner lip, wishing that she had kept her mouth shut instead. “However, you were really quite dull today. Why, at times you were so vapid that I'm sure Mr. Lewis was about to fall asleep! Really, Bulma, a proper daughter of mine would not have behaved like this.”

 

Bra wouldn't have behaved like this. Heat kissed Bulma's cheeks as the unspoken thought fluttered around her head. It really is amazing, thought Bulma, how Bra could be dead for so many years, and yet mother can bring her up as if she was sitting in the car with us. To her own disgust, she felt herself shrinking again, becoming filthy and horribly flawed in comparison to the angelic Bra. Her chest constricted and she felt that sinking, breaking, drowning feeling inside—the feeling of the cold water dousing the flickering warmth of the lonely candle within.

 

Mrs. Theadora Briefs adjusted the satin bow of her cream-colored cloche hat, seemingly oblivious to the emotional turmoil of her daughter. However, she did cast a critical eye over Bulma's form and tsked impatiently.

 

“And how many times must I remind you how important your appearance is? Clearly, you haven't been maintaining a proper diet up at that university. That skirt looks positively snug on you.” Bulma turned away, her face now as cold and placid as polished marble, donning the pretense that her mother's remarks slid off of her glossy surface like water. In truth, the acidic comments burned away her soul. “Handsome, well-to-do young men like Mr. Lewis court ladies who are charming, coy, and beautiful. You are beginning to resemble these `modern' women who are not only opinionated and overbearing, but do not take care of their bodies and thus destroy any hopes of a proper marriage.” This was delivered in that cool, slightly contemptuous voice that Bulma had come to hate.

 

The limousine cruised past the wrought iron gates of the Briefs' residence and sailed up the long gravel path until it reached the main house. Once a robot manservant opened the door for her, Bulma quickly escaped from the car and headed up the front steps, past the imposing white columns that decorated the mansion's exterior while her mother followed at her own sedate pace. Yet there was no comfort for the blue-haired girl in her new surroundings; changing the environment would not change the cold loneliness in her heart.

 

 

 

 

With a dull throb aching right above her eyes, Bulma wearily entered her room—half of the upstairs portion of the east wing. Kicking off her stilettos ungraciously, she dragged herself to her king-sized bed and flopped onto it in a manner that her mother would have considered “most unladylike”.

 

“Fucking bitch,” she growled into her numerous pillows at the thought of her mother. Theadora's icy viciousness attacked her psyche full force now and the emotion she had hidden earlier was unleashed. Half-sobbing and half-shrieking, Bulma tore at the pillows with her well-manicured fingers and hurled whatever object she could get her hands on against the bed frame.

 

“You bitch! I hate you! I fucking hate you!” she screamed, aiming her malevolence at her mother, the dead-but-perfect Bra, and perhaps even herself. On and on she screamed, knowing that nobody could hear her since her rooms were at the other end of the mansion. Still the wails echoed down the hall, eerily creeping about only to be overlapped by more cries.

 

After heaving several more objects around the room, one of which was a small vase that had shattered on impact with the door, she collapsed against the bed again, hiccoughing and letting out an occasional whimper. Slowly, the sounds issuing from between her lips died off into shaky breathing. She wanted to sleep; she wanted that unadulterated escape from reality. She wanted—no, needed the dreams—the fluffy, pink cotton candy dreams—that allowed her peace and happiness.

 

But that kind of sleep had long since been lost to her. They had died a long time ago along with her sweet childlike innocence. Many parts of Bulma had died a long time ago; when her father had immersed himself into his work and her mother became a hypocrite who modeled herself as the perfect female specimen while hiding her drinking habits behind closed curtains.

 

When Bulma realized that she wasn't enough to hold the family together.

 

Pulling herself out of her bed, Bulma began shedding clothing to prepare for a long relaxing soak in her Jacuzzi tub, which was located in the downstairs portion of the east wing. In fact, the entire east wing was at Bulma's disposal. She had her bedroom, her study, her exercise room, her private entertainment center, her private dining room, and the Jacuzzi/spa room. She had the ultimate privacy. The ultimate solitude. The ultimate silence.

 

Completely nude with her aqua tresses caressing the base of her spine, Bulma descended into the heated Jacuzzi room. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she paused and examined her own form, carefully avoiding looking into her own eyes.

 

A slender neck, currently being cradled by her long, pale fingers, sloped off into two slightly squared off shoulders. Her index finger traced a straight line through the valley between her well-developed, up-tilted breasts, noting how the strawberries and cream tint of her porcelain skin accented the dusky rose hue of her nipples. Drifting lower still, her fingers tickled the toned planes of her abdomen and then swept to the side where her hips flared outward in a sensually pleasant curve. A tuft of aqua curls capped the downward apex of her pelvis and long, slim legs flanked her womanhood on each side.

 

Bulma knew her body well. She had examined it many times, looking for the flaws and imperfections her mother always criticized. However, Bulma knew she was beautiful. It was not arrogance or ego that compelled her to believe so, only pragmatic truth. Her beauty and her brains were the two things in the world that Bulma could rely on. Most of the time she could convince herself that they would be enough.

 

Finally allowing her gaze to wander back upward, she nearly laughed at the site of her own face. The cheeks were dull and wet with splotches drawing trails down the sides of her pinched, heart-shaped face. The tip of her pink tongue crept out to moisten the thin pale lips that were usually so plump and pouty.

 

And her eyes? The supposed windows into her soul? She had long ago shuttered them. They were unfathomable, sapphire pools that hid her true heart and soul from even her own gaze. Bulma was afraid to confront the girl that was jailed within her and so out of fear, doubt, and shame she had constructed the fragile, beautiful mask that she presented to the world.

 

She did not know who she was. She did not want to know what lay inside.

 

A condescending laugh burst from her throat. “Poor lamb; she's lost, isn't she?” The cool, mocking voice was an accurate mimicry of her mother's. Still chuckling darkly to herself, Bulma turned away from the mirror and padded softly to the pool's edge. Normally she would have scrambled to fix herself, to hide the ugly creature inside, but today she wanted to rest. She would reassemble the mask tomorrow.

 

As she slowly immersed herself in the warm embrace of the water, she allowed a soft song to escape her lips; the words quivering in the air, the melody haunting her mind.

 

“If…….I…..smile and don't……..believe…

…Sooon…I know….I'll wake……from this dream…

….Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken…..

Hello….

I am the lie…..living for you….so you can hide……

…don't cry…..”