Chapter 12

The image of Trunks collapsed on the floor was burned into Vegeta’s skull like a sick tattoo. His son was lying in the middle of broken material, his fists were bruised and grazed and his arms had been littered in scars and fresh wounds. Beside his lifeless body was a pool of his own liquid vomit. Gohan had rushed to his aid.

“Call 911!” He yelled and Bulma reacted.

Vegeta simply stood and watched the terror unfold before him. He had never seen anything like it. Gohan pinched at the boy’s wrists, then at his neck, searching for vitals. He spoke but Vegeta could barely hear over the ringing in his own ears. How could his wife be so calm about this? Their son had done this to himself. Suicide. Only something the prince had read about in books and seen on TV; Maybe that’s why it scared him so much?

Now, sitting in the family room at the hospital, Vegeta buried his head in his hands. Goku sat beside him, Bulma sat by Chi Chi and Gohan and Goten were outside; the elder brother had rightfully deserved a cigarette. Goku patted the princes back.

“It’s okay. It will be okay.” He assured, but Vegeta didn’t want to grasp the false hope.

Bulma was crying into Chi Chi’s shoulder. Kami, how Vegeta wished he could do the same but it was not the time. Seeing her strong and stubborn husband break down would, no doubt, scare the woman even more.

Truth be told, Vegeta was tired. He no longer cared about himself nor did he care about his ‘pride’, his son was hurting and he wanted, no he needed, to help him.

“What the hell happened?” Vegeta asked quietly, “He was supposed to be improving, your son said that himself.”

“I know. But these things happen.”

“But why, Kakarot? Why do they happen?”

“You’re better to ask my son that question.” Goku looked away and gazed down at the top of his boots, “Humans are made up differently than us.”

“Not so differently. We still have the same hormones in our bodies, if not a little more testosterone and oestrogen.”

“Yeah. I know.” He leaned over Vegeta, “Look, “he whispered, “Let’s not discuss this here. Bulma is right over there.”

Vegeta nodded and stared into the distance. The door of the room suddenly opened and the Son brothers entered. The smell of stale smoke hung around Gohan.

“I spoke to Trunk’s doctor. They’ve pumped his stomach and hooked him up to life support. The next 48 hours are extremely circuital.” Gohan sighed and leaned against the door frame.

“So. We wait here?” Bulma sobbed.

“No. We go home. They’ll call us if anything happens.”

Bulma nodded solemnly as Chi Chi gently pulled her up by the elbow. Vegeta stood to his feet and exited the room ahead of the group. Goku sprinted to catch up with the prince.

“What now?” Goku asked.

“I don’t care what you do, Kakarot, but I’m going for a drink.”

“Vegeta is beating himself up over this.” Goku sighed.

He sat by his eldest son on the porch of the family home. The sun was long gone and only the glittering stars cast specs of light onto the ground. Gohan had a cigarette between his fingers and a cup of coffee by his side.

“Have you tried talking to him? Telling him that it wasn’t his fault?” Gohan asked.

“No. But I think I need to convince you first.”

“What do you mean?” The younger saiyan took a drag on his cigarette.

“It wasn’t your fault either you know?”

“I never said it was.”

“No, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re blaming yourself.”

“I should have seen it. There were so many signs and yet I did nothing.” Gohan ran his fingers through his hair; the smouldering tip of the cigarette held safely from his scalp, “I felt like I was looking at myself when I saw him on the floor like that.”

Goku remained silent. He lifted a stone from the ground and skimmed it across the grass. It hurt to know that his son had perhaps felt like Trunks at one stage and it terrified him to know that Gohan had more secrets to hide from them; Kami knows what they were. His eldest sat there, staring a head at the dense forest. Ash dropped from his cigarette on to the leg of his pants but he didn’t so much as flinch.

“I’m sorry, son.” Goku whispered, “If I hadn’t of been such an idiot and left you for all those years, you wouldn’t have gone through that.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s in the past now Goku. I doubt even you could have stopped me from my downward spiral.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Gohan stood up and turned towards the door way. He flicked the butt onto the porch.

“No.” his tone was harsh and final.

With that he retreated inside, leaving his father to sit alone in the dark.

Self mutilation. It was a funny thing. Piercings, smoking, drinking ect were all self mutilation but they were accepted by society. So, why not deliberate cutting? Or burning? What really was the difference?

Goten mused over the question, turning it over and over in his mind. He twirled a drumstick between his fingers as he mused. The younger son did not harm himself in the way that Trunks did but that didn’t mean he was blind to it. In fact, he did self mutilate but in an entirely different way and, if he was being honest, a worse way. 

Heroin.

His job at the local leisure plex kept him well paid which in turn kept him well supplied. When stressed or just suffering from cravings, he would shoot up. However, the affects were beginning to show.

Like Trunks, he too had lost significant weight, mostly because of the lack of appetite that comes with a heroin addiction. He also slept little and could go no more than 14 hours without a hit. The crook of his elbow was covered in small bruises where the needle had continually pierced his skin and his muscles felt inflamed, as if they were burning.

So, yes. He understood about self mutilation. The pair of them, together, could fill a nut house with enough trouble to do a life time. He knew this. But it was nothing new. Trunks and he had experimented with all sorts of things from the ages 11 to 13. They had smoked, drank and done drugs together. They were just destined to be trouble makers; it was in their blood.

But overdosing? Suicide? It had never crossed the younger mans mind. Especially not Trunks. Not even in the last few years, months or weeks had it so much as flashed a single alarm bell in his mind. And for that, he hated himself.

Growling, he crawled down onto the floor and retrieved and box from under his bed. He used his leather belt to clamp his bicep and pumped his fist a few times to raise a vein. His hands were shaking as he filled the syringe with the clear liquid. Biting his lip, he carefully pierced the skin with the pointed tip and sighed as he watched his blood mix with the liquid in the syringes container.

“Trunks,” He thought, “Oh what fuck ups we are.”