Six years had passed. Six years of pain and joy, suffering and laughter. The prince of all Saiyajins sat silently starring out of the window, just a hollow empty shell of the proud warrior he had once been. He touched the bottle to his lips pulling a long drink, both disgust and relief filling him as the alcohol burned a line down his gullet. Lately all he could do was replay his past in his head, like a home movie stuck on the worst parts of his life. His eyes burned and itched as the emotions welled inside of his chest, but the tears rarely fell anymore. Too much heartache over the years, too much pain.

A shaky hand returned the bottle to the table beside him and in the yellowed lamp light he looked in disgust at the blood coagulating on the razor blade he had discarded there last night. Or had it been this morning technically? What did it fucking matter anymore? Without thinking Vegeita lashed out flipping the small side table sending it's contents skittering across the room. He drew his knees up to his chest balling his fist in his hair as his whole body shook with his frustrations. So many broken promises, so many shattered dreams.

Feeling sick the prince stood swaying slightly as he dazedly made his way down the hallway and into the bathroom. Unconsciously he reached out and flicked his finger over the light switch but it was already on. It was always on, along with every other light in the house. The dark above all else was his enemy. The dark brought sleep, sleep brought dreams, and dreams, well those motherfuckers were just the precursors to nightmares…and memories.

He refused to let his mind wander down that well-traveled path. The dark eyed prince stumbled to the small mirror over the sink and stood quietly staring back at the stranger before him with contempt and hatred burning his chest far worse than the strongest of alcohol. The face before him looked tired and worn down, sickly and a bit gaunt, but it was still his face. No, it was those haunted eyes staring back at him, mocking him, reminding him that things would never be the same, they could never go back to how they were, no matter how hard he tried to fix them, to let go of the past. And that filled him with an all-consuming loathing for life itself.

After a few moments his eyes flickered over to the dried blood decorating his right deltoid like some sort of psycho abstract art work. Angry red welts set against old white scars. Reminders of how fucked up inside he had become. He shut his eyes and took a deep unsteady breath. This time would be the last he swore, just like he swore the last time, and the time before that. He had said the words so many times over the years that they felt more like a ritualistic passage from and antiquated bible quoted precisely on queue rather than any meaningful oath. Just something to fill the time between regret for cutting and the next incident that sent you right back to the knife and the sweet few moments of adrenaline bliss you got from the pain and watching the bright red pool up then slowly migrate down your skin, right before the cycle of guilt started all over again.

Frustration clouded his mind and he yanked open the medicine cabinet pulling out the old familiar stuff. The same routine was followed each time; scrub with peroxide, clean with antibacterial soap, Neosporin, sterile gauze pads, and wrap the whole mess up in a pretty gauze bow like some horror show Christmas present. The whole ordeal was methodical as if following some ancient ritualistic cleansing. Disgust filled him as he cleaned up his mess. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He left the room shutting the door behind him and walked down to the living room surveying his handwork with a deep defeated sigh. Mechanically he began to pick up, gathering all the trash and tossing it in the waste basket and righting all the furniture that had had the unfortunate luck to be in the way when he'd broken down. He fished the empty bottle from behind his desk and buried it in the trash can deep below the rest of the garbage. The last thing he needed was a concerned "friend" thinking he had a problem, Vegeita had plenty of problems, but drinking was not one of the. That was her monkey not his.

"Don't"

Talking to himself had become the norm for him. It wasn't like he had a shit ton of people banging down his door seeking his companionship now a days. It was his own damn fault for isolating himself from the world and everyone in it. But who could blame him? He had always been a recluse, a shut in who did not seek out others company for fear of rejection or betrayal, but his time with Goku had given him a glimpse of another world. The ability to make friends, hang out, feel safe as long as the other Saiyajin had been there to protect him and buffer him from the others. She had destroyed all of that.

"Gah- stop!"

It was too late to be letting such memories come floating to the surface like bloated bodies in a stagnate pool. Or was it too early? It had been around 10pm when the despair and hopelessness had led to him cutting this time. He found his phone wedged deep in the cushions of his arm chair and clicked the little screen to life. Fuck. It was already 5am. So much for sleep he realized, the shame and regret of his nighttime actions already starting to haunt him.

Hung over and hurting or not he still had to be at work at 6am. A crappy life draining job to fit his crappy fucked up life. Reluctantly he headed back to the bathroom. He had no desire to shower but one sniff of himself told him that if he didn't remove the smell of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and sour sweat he would never make it through he day without some asshole and their pathetic jokes about 'starting the weekend early huh?'. Fucking ass hats.

Vegeita turned his phone on again and picked a random playlist of music putting the volume as loud as he could stand with a splitting headache. Anything to drown out the endless bleak thoughts and worries that continuously cycled his brain. He stripped out of his under clothes and hopped in the shower turning it on as he leaned back waiting for the hot water to kick in.

'Go home, Get stoned. We can end up making love instead of misery.'

Bile rose in the prince's throat. Funny the reaction to a song could produce in you. He plunged his head under the cold spray not waiting any longer and proceeded to soap, shampoo, and scour himself angrily, pretending the water pouring down his face was only water and not tears. He took the toothbrush and toothpaste tossed casually on the side shelf from his last shower and loaded it up, vainly scrubbing his mouth in attempt to wash away all the horrible tastes there. He hated cigarettes, even more so after living with a chain smoker for 6 years, so why when shit got bad did he inevitably turned to the damn things. He had no idea. Never once had he finished a cigarette and thought, wow that was a really good idea.

Vegeita finished decontaminating himself from the night's activities and stood braced against the cold stone wall letting the hot water pound into his throbbing head. Maybe today would not be so bad. Maybe today he would go to work, have a decent day, and come home happy. Yup, and maybe unicorns would fly out of his ass.

With an exaggerated sigh he shut off the water and threw back the curtain, toweling himself briskly as he stepped out. He walked to the living room and grabbed a clean set of clothes from the dresser and stoically set about getting ready. The house had two bedrooms and a small dining room, all of which he had abandoned years ago, using only the living room and kitchen as his home. He glanced up into the mirror set atop the dresser and was again disappointed at what he saw. He had been handsome once, in peak physical condition and healthy as an ox. Now, on good days he looked like a well preserved zombie stumbling through life. Long gone was the exquisite musculature that had made women chase him and his eyes stared out at the world, haunted dark rimmed orbs that were often blood shot from lack of sleep. He cared little for his appearance, more often than not wearing whatever random pants and baggy tee-shirt happened to be clean covered up by his black hoody. Somewhere along the way he had completely lost himself and everything he used to stand for.

The warning alarm on his phone buzzed signaling him that if he didn't leave for work now he would be late yet again. Heaven forbid he was 5mins late a second time this week. His heifer of a boss might actually have a coronary as she attempted to alternate chewing him out for his continued tardiness and stuffing that jumbo muffin she ate every morning into her fat face. He chuckled and for a moment was tempted to fall back into the safety of his arm chair and show up sometime this afternoon just to see it happen. The smile left his lips replaced with his more familiar frown. He really was in no condition to deal with anyone else's shit this morning.

He looked around and spotted his keys sitting next to yesterdays abandoned cup of coffee. He shrugged and scooped up the mug chugging the cold bitter liquid that was sure to give him heartburn by lunch. He would make up for it at lunch he promised himself. He took the keys and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he placed the mug in the sink with the ever growing pile of dishes. Tonight he mentally reminded himself as he turned and headed out the front door. He locked up the house and jogged down to his car cursing silently as he fumbled in the cold to unlock the door, his breath pooling out of him in small white clouds. At last he got it right and threw himself into the vehicle slamming the door shut and started the engine. He sat shivering waiting for the air coming out of the vents to reach a temperature above ice cube cold.

The drive to work had become engraining into his system, the same one for the past 6 years. Just like everything else in his life it seemed was stuck in this rut of misery and regret. He turned on the radio and put the cruise on as his mind slowly began its daily decent of misery into his past.