Chapter 11

I don’t even know what date it is. Hours are running into each other, days turning into weeks. How long have I locked myself in here? How many times has Gohan shouted through the door and pleaded with me. I eventually had to turn my cell off.

Nothing really triggered it. That evening, after Gohan had left, I just watched a little t.v and drank a bottle of vodka I stole from Dad’s stash. I just decided that I can’t do this talking; it’s to invasive. Sure, I was up for it but it will really do no good. Who cares anyway? Why should anyone? It’s my problem, my body; my mental state. Not theirs. It’s up to me to sort out this problem. Me and no one else.

Sometimes I don’t want to give up though. I just want to keep quiet for the rest of my life, stay away from humanity and just do what my mind tells me to. If that means I die from starvation or from suicide; then so be it.

I’ve had enough of this god-damn shit. Living is too hard; dying is the fucking easy part.

Trunks sighed and stood up from the table. With a surge of anger he smashed his fist into a wall. His weakened muscles ached and his knuckles were grazed from the brick work; but nothing was broken. The young saiyan collapsed to the ground, hopeless and defeated.

He mouthed the words ‘I can’t do this anymore’ over and over but no sound came out. He couldn’t tell which emotion was worse; the anger or the intense sadness.

He furiously got to his feet and threw things from the shelves. He smashed the chairs and trashed everything remotely breakable.

The sound of stumbling feet and concerned voices could barely be heard over the din. His mother, now home from her trip, was screaming through the door.

Trunks sat in the middle of the mess, a tub of analgesics in one hand and a half bottle of vodka in the other. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to stop the tears as he took each pill, one at a time,and chased each with a swing of alcohol. He counted from 40 down to just 1.

Trunks’ vision became blurred and he so desperately wanted to sleep. He fell back against the floor, settled into the cold tiles and stared at the wall beside him. Colours swirled in front of his eyes, butterflies were dancing in his stomach and he got that familiar watery feeling he always got when nauseous. But it all felt good. It all felt real.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Bulma asked her husband.

Vegeta sat up right, his elbows resting on his knees and his brow furrowed. Bulma knew her stubborn husband enough to know when he was thinking; and thinking damn hard. The man was deeply concerned; there was no doubt about that. He, Goku and Gohan had all become closer over the recent weeks and had discussed every possible angle for dealing with Trunks. But yet, the saiyan still pondered; like a scientist trying to find the meaning of life.

He glanced up at her, “Perhaps we give him space?”

“No. No way. We gave him enough space. We need to get through to him!”

“Alright.”

That was it. His simple, two syllable reply; Alright. In the past the prince would have fought to get his own way, he would have blasted down his son’s door, took him by the shirt collar and shook sense into him. But he obviously saw the pain and the horror of the situation. He understood that violence would not answer this question.

There was a loud bang up stairs, directly towards Trunks’ wing. Everything was silent for a few moments, then the smashing and crashing of furniture started. Bulma ran from the room, closely followed by Vegeta, and dashed towards her son’s wing.

“Trunks!!” She yelled, “Trunks are you okay?”

More thundering.

“Trunks!” Vegeta hammered on the door.

Bulma placed a hand on his shoulder, “No. Don’t knock it in. We should get Gohan.”

“We should call a fucking asylum.” Vegeta snapped.

“Vegeta! Don’t talk like that. We are not putting our son into a mental institute.”

“I didn’t mean for him onna, I meant for me.” Vegeta sighed and took out his cell phone, “I’ll call the boy. You stay here.”