Devoured

Chapter 4

Years had passed since that encounter between Bulma and Vegeta. She was no longer a wide-eye scientist staring at him afar, and he was no longer the cold warrior with a devilish streak. Instead, their traits rubbed off on each other. Bulma sometimes caustically joked that marriage can do that to people, although it never occurred with Goku and Chi-Chi. “Then again,” she said, raising her eyes towards the ceiling in a mocking manner, “Goku was barely around.”

Bulma was more cynical now, no longer young and feeling it in her body and features. She was still lovely, but the brightness of her eyes and the luminosity of her skin, once attributes so visible and alluring, had faded. Older and more demure, even matronly, she kept her hair (still that atypical blue) short and wore business-woman’s clothes. With Capsule Corp. under her complete control with Dr. Briefs’ final retirement, she held the reigns in every aspect of the business. Dr. Briefs’ transfer of leadership to Bulma broad-sided her, since she knew her father was a stubborn old coot. She had heard him remark to Vegeta, raising a fist in defiance towards Mrs. Briefs’ pushes for stepping down, that he’d “be buried with my machines, dammit!” Vegeta was failing at suppressing a smirk; he would also be buried with all of his naughty magazines as well.

Managing the company took up her time, and she could no longer experiment day in day out. She spent nights at the office, going over projects with fellow scientists and, every once in awhile, asking Vegeta for technical advice (the Saiyans were quite advanced, this she knew). By now, Trunks was almost out of high school, but Bra still had some time left in the house. Some days, when the lights in the house were dim and she was sitting in the kitchen (the same kitchen where she left Vegeta pondering her words), pouring over stacks of papers and files, she wished that the house was truly empty, that the kids were fully grown and gone, and that she had reconsidered “settling down.” With a weak smile, she remembered the days when her life was a rollercoaster: helping to save the world one day, cowering in fear the next, dying and being resurrectedÖThose experiences were exciting, even if they caused stress, some of which was undue. Now, life was just stressful, and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else.

Besides work, she primarily worried about her family. Having Vegeta as a father led to tension among all the family members, even Bra. Trunks, just like his father, was obstinate and immensely prideful. Bra also resembled her father in stubborn-ness and that royal attitude, stomping her pre-teen foot angrily at the ground when she did not receive what she wanted. Vegeta seemed to put all pressure possible on Trunks to succeed, but doted on Bra and spoiled her. She had numerous shirts in her closet bearing the slogan “Daddy’s Little Girl” in variations, and used her power over him to get what ever she wanted. At times, Bulma wondered if she should take Vegeta’s credit card away, but knew she would get hell for it later. As for Trunks, he was an angry young man, a bit distant and cold towards his younger sister (most likely out of jealousy) and constantly fighting with Vegeta, but he and his mother had a strong relationship. He had a penchant for technology just like her, but, just like his father, possessed about as much patience as a Labrador retriever. Usually, he would get bored or irritated and moved on to some other project. Thus, his room was littered with random objects and instruments, to Bulma’s chagrin.

Sometimes Bulma wondered why the kids had more traits akin to their father, and during those many nights where she pushed the files to the floor in frustration and exhaustion, she blamed herself for their problems, for their flaws. The idea was ludicrous, as most one A.M. thoughts are, but it still haunted her, reappearing at the most inopportune times in the night, like when she craved deep sleep. One such night, after finally giving up on trying to figure out some technical problem in a new invention, she picked up the files, placed them neatly (as possible) on the table, and ponderously headed up the stairs. Feet dragging in pink slippers, she made it to the bedroom, but scowled at the sight of the bright lamp on the night-stand. Upon entering, she saw that Vegeta was awake.

“What the hell are you doing up at this hour?” she snarled, cranky as a hungry badger. Expecting a snarky remark, she sighed, stepping out of her slippers, and removed her robe, letting it fall to the floor carelessly. Vegeta was in bed, slouched forward, the blankets up to his navel. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his head hung in a stiff forward position. Apparently, something very absorbing was occurring on the blankets over his knees, for he was staring at them intently.

Bulma slipped into bed, yanking some of the covers over herself and snuggling into the mattress. Vegeta did not move.

Turning over, she rested her head on her palm and looked at him. “What’s going on with you?”

No answer. He didn’t even appear to be breathing.

“Vegeta?” She pulled herself up into a seated position and waved a hand in front of his face. No response, besides a slight bat of the eyelashes. Annoyed, she turned back around, wrapping herself in a cocoon of blankets and shuffling into a comfortable position.

The light was still on.

“Ah goddammit, Vegeta, turn off the light! I actually have to work tomorrow, you know,” she said, her voice hoarse. She heard a click, and the room was dark. “Thank you.”

Just as she was settling into sleep, she was brought back to the conscious world by the click and a burst of light. Shifting again, this time with a violent, annoyed flair, she glared at her husband, clutching the blanket with a tight fist. He was still in the same position, besides that he had sunk a little lower down the headstand, and his expression was more tense, his muscles tighter.

“Hon, you could at least tell me you want the light on. Then I could deal with it better and not be a crabby bitch, all right?”

She saw his lip twitch, but he remained silent. “Oh hell, forget it.” Once again, she turned away from him and buried herself in blankets. She shut her eyes tightly, furrowing her brow, and attempted to at least feel comfortable.

Minutes passed, and she felt that wonderful sensation of sinking and floating at the same time; sleep was coming. Smiling, she nuzzled the pillow and waited for darkness.

“Bulma.”

Her eyes snapped open, but she refused to move again.

“Do you remember that night when you asked me about my family, or, at least, attempted to?” His voice was oddly weak, almost timid, as if he had an awful sore throat.

Sighing in exasperation, she replied, “Yeah.”

“I never answered you, did I?”

“Nope.”

“Do you want an answer now?”

Perturbed, she rose up quickly, leaning against the headstand, and stared at him with wide eyes. “Y-yes, yes I would.”

He looked like he had reached a threshold beyond exhaustion; he closed his eyes. “I had a family, but they’re dead. What else do you want to know?”

The room was abuzz with sudden tension. She grasped the sheets in a mixture of fear and awe. Something was different about Vegeta; something was keeping him awake, and causing him to regress into the frightening man of long-ago. Turning his head towards her, he asked again, “What else do you want to know?”

With a shaky voice, she replied, “Everything.”