A/N:) Yes, its me---beautiful::irony. This will be my pen name now. Explanations will only come if requested. Its a private thing. I'm very sorry, but I am discontinuing all of my previous fics, including "Unpretty". I couldn't be more disappointed about it, and I'm sure some of you will hate me for it and never read any of my stuff again, but plz at least hear me out. I've been through what nobody should have to go through (some horrible shit, DO NOT bother me about it unless you wanna be flamed right back), and a period of depression followed, so nobody say a word about how sorry they are that I'm deleting those stories. Besides, the ones I am planning on writing now will be much better, guaranteed. I'm working on getting some of my work (outside of ff.net) published, so updates might be few and far between at times, but most of you have come to expect that of me...:-). Thank you all for your incredible patience. And don't worry, I don't bite hard. Feel free to review as usual w/o worrying about me flying off the handle. I'm not a head case---at least not much of one.
Anyway, the idea for this fic is inspired by events in my own life. (No, I didn't get depressed about my love life...its just other things that will be in the story..) I tried to make all the characters slightly more, well, human. I think that the way that I previously wrote Vejita, and that most other ppl write about Vejita, makes him seem so impossible to get close to, and I don't think that anybody could really survive that way, not even the 'Prince of all Saiyans'. And I also took this into consideration when writing about Bulma's character. (Those of you, such as my dear cousin, will notice that I've sort of based her on myself!) I've read back on all my stories, and I'm taking a different approach on her this time around. Not dramatically different, but changed still. I guess you could say that is a sort of experiment, to see if I really want to get back into this. But never fear, I promise I'll at least finish this one! On with the fic! ;-)
...........................................................................................LITTLE BLACK DRESS
.........................................................................................................................Rhapsody~*
"Come back down here, you asshole!" Bulma shrieked, throwing her spike heels down onto the marble floor. "I'll show you who's the blind one! You're a bastard, you hear? A lying, cheating bastard!"
Yamcha's grizzled face appeared from atop the staircase. "I've told you a million times, Bulma--our lifestyles are different. This," he pointed to himself, then to her. "would never work."
"We could make it work," she offered quietly, dropping her clenched fists to her sides. "We always did before."
"I can't take it any more, Bulma!" Yamcha shouted, stepping into clear view now that Bulma's shoes weren't on hand. "I can't keep up with you anymore. Its like all you care about is partying and...whatever it is you're on these days! I'm gonna be a ball player, baby, and I can't be around that kind of stuff. You know that."
"I told you, Yamcha--I'm quitting. I'm settling down, I swear I am," Bulma began desperately, shaking her crimped hair out of her face. "If its a serious girl you want, I can do that! You have to believe me!"
The forlorn look on Yamcha's face told the whole story. It was over. He tried to reply, but Bulma cut him off with a wave of her hand. She bent down to pick up her shoes and flashed him one last smile, a fake, tight smile that would have to last them both a lifetime.
"Thanks for the best years of my life," she mumbled, stumbling over the front door. "You're gonna be a star. You know that, right?" She slammed the door behind her, shutting Yamcha out of her life forever.
Yamcha watched the door of his apartment close behind her. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of the thunderstorm getting worse. He would have offered Bulma a ride back to Capsule Corps., but he knew that she would refuse. She wasn't the kind of girl who would except a ride home from the man who had just dumped her after four years. The thought that he would never go out with her again was a sad one. He had practically watched her grow up--or try to, anyway. It was anyone's guess what had happened to the sweet, innocent chatterbox that they had all knew and loved.
It was in twelfth grade that Bulma had begun to change. Nobody could define what it was that had shook her so much, but had come home from her prom that night and nothing was the same since. He could see her in his mind's eye now, her makeup running down her face, mixing in with makeup. The pretty sash that she had worked to earn for her entire high school career hung lopsided over her princess dress, the words 'Prom Queen' all twisted together like she had taken it off and then hastily thrown it back on, as if she didn't care, which Yamcha knew she did.
He had been too head-over-heels in love to believe it then, but he realized what it must have been now--rape. It was the only logical thing. If there was one thing that Bulma hated, it was being violated. Yamcha could easily see how that would have changed her. But Bulma was a strong girl, and for her to still not recover was unusual. It must have been bad, really bad. He shook the disturbing mental images out of his head and gripped the stairwell tighter.
Yet no matter how bad it might have been, he told himself, it wasn't his problem anymore.
Bulma wrapped her arms around herself, protecting herself from the pouring rain. She was grateful for the rain; it covered the trails of tears that now ran steadily down her face. She hated crying. Probably because she had done so much of it in the past couple of years. She was twenty-two years old, for Kami's sake, couldn't she get a hold of herself already?
She looked back one last time at Yamcha's apartment complex. The lights in his apartment had been shut off, as if they were meant to run her off or something. She stopped for a moment, looked down at her shoes, and made a decision. Suddenly she ran back towards the complex, her bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. She remembered all of the baseball tips Yamcha had forced upon her in eleventh grade, when she had thought that it would be cute for her to try out for the girl's baseball team. Of course, she had only wanted to join so that she could wear the adorable outfits, but she had never told him that. Anyhow, she was here now, and she meant to put the tips to good use.
She wound up, took a step forward, and hurled her shoes, one at a time, through his picture windows.
"Bulma, your behavior is unexcusable," Mrs. Briefs scolded. "I cannot believe you would do such a thing! You're lucky that your father knows the sheriff, or else you could be in some real trouble right now."
Bulma kept her gaze firmly fixed on her mother's tapping pink flats. She had expected to be punished in some way, but she wished that her mother would wait until Vejita was out of the house. She was sure that she would hear about this later. But not now. Vejita sat quietly at the kitchen counter, watching her with those unreadable black eyes. She hated how she could never tell what he was thinking.
"Your mother is right, honey," Dr. Briefs began. "But it'll take us a little bit to think of a proper punishment. For now, try to get some sleep. You look like you need it."
Bulma touched a finger to the dark circles under her eyes and lifted her sapphire gaze to her mother. "I'm twenty-two years old, Mom, you can't boss me around anymore."
Her father answered for her mother. "Twenty-two or not, Bulma, you obviously still need guidance."
Bulma watched as her parents silently left the kitchen, shaking their heads in disapproval at their failure of a daughter. With them safely out of the way, she looked up and was surprised when she found herself staring right back into Vejita's eyes.
"Well, aren't you going to berate me now?" she demanded, tugging at the bottom of her little black dress. "This would be your cue."
Vejita raised an eyebrow and regarded her seriously. "It would be difficult to do so, especially since you are berating yourself for it now." He never broke their eye contact as he stood up and exited from the room.
Alone now in their overly-elaborated kitchen, Bulma dropped her head into her hands and let out a deep, discontented sigh. She reached into her tiny purse for a mirror to see what her parents, and Vejita, must be seeing. As she was pulling it out, a small bag of loose white powder, like glimmering crystals of Christmas snow, fell into her open hand. She closed her delicate fingers around it, gripping it like a lifeline, craving its comfort. She remembered her many promises to Yamcha about dropping her habit, but quickly pushed them aside. After all, a girl needed a break every once in a while, didn't she?
She mechanically lined the powder out into little rows and let her mind and body unconsciously do the rest. She felt the familiar head rush, the hyperawareness of colors, sweep over her and smiled. Nothing could compare to what she was feeling now--nothing. No boy had ever made her feel this way; what had she been thinking, trying to use them to ease her pain? She didn't need anybody.
"I don't need anybody," she whispered huskily. "Nobody, you hear me Yamcha? I have this, and I have myself. That's all I need."
She swept the remainder of the powder into the bag, and shoved the bag back into her purse. Suddenly, with the high leaving her rapidly, she felt dead tired, as if she hadn't slept in days, and thirsty, so thirsty. She stood and reached weakly for the faucet, but her legs wouldn't listen and wobbled from beneath her. Just as she was about to collapse, Vejita stepped out from the shadows and steadied her on her feet. He watched as her beautiful blue eyes rolled back into her head, then back forward again, as if she was on the verge of consciousness. He had seen such behavior before, back on his home planet. The soldiers of Vejitasei had often resorted to drugs to ease the pain of their everyday life. Hell, he had even tried it once. He had hated himself for it immediately after. Such things were a sign of weakness.
He secretly knew that Bulma wasn't weak, but he would have never told her. He had been watching her with special interest since he had come to stay with her family, and it hadn't taken long for him to get a sense of what was going on. It was only now that he could be sure, having seen it for himself. He shook his head, muttering foul curses, and slapped the girl awake.
She blinked up at him, her face melting into an expression of disbelief, and then settled back into her deep, drug-induced sleep. Though he could have carried her all the way up to her room, he decided against the bold move and instead unceramoniously layed her down on a chair in the common room. He allowed himself one more look, and then stormed up the stairs, angry at himself for even bothering.
Anyway, the idea for this fic is inspired by events in my own life. (No, I didn't get depressed about my love life...its just other things that will be in the story..) I tried to make all the characters slightly more, well, human. I think that the way that I previously wrote Vejita, and that most other ppl write about Vejita, makes him seem so impossible to get close to, and I don't think that anybody could really survive that way, not even the 'Prince of all Saiyans'. And I also took this into consideration when writing about Bulma's character. (Those of you, such as my dear cousin, will notice that I've sort of based her on myself!) I've read back on all my stories, and I'm taking a different approach on her this time around. Not dramatically different, but changed still. I guess you could say that is a sort of experiment, to see if I really want to get back into this. But never fear, I promise I'll at least finish this one! On with the fic! ;-)
...........................................................................................LITTLE BLACK DRESS
.........................................................................................................................Rhapsody~*
"Come back down here, you asshole!" Bulma shrieked, throwing her spike heels down onto the marble floor. "I'll show you who's the blind one! You're a bastard, you hear? A lying, cheating bastard!"
Yamcha's grizzled face appeared from atop the staircase. "I've told you a million times, Bulma--our lifestyles are different. This," he pointed to himself, then to her. "would never work."
"We could make it work," she offered quietly, dropping her clenched fists to her sides. "We always did before."
"I can't take it any more, Bulma!" Yamcha shouted, stepping into clear view now that Bulma's shoes weren't on hand. "I can't keep up with you anymore. Its like all you care about is partying and...whatever it is you're on these days! I'm gonna be a ball player, baby, and I can't be around that kind of stuff. You know that."
"I told you, Yamcha--I'm quitting. I'm settling down, I swear I am," Bulma began desperately, shaking her crimped hair out of her face. "If its a serious girl you want, I can do that! You have to believe me!"
The forlorn look on Yamcha's face told the whole story. It was over. He tried to reply, but Bulma cut him off with a wave of her hand. She bent down to pick up her shoes and flashed him one last smile, a fake, tight smile that would have to last them both a lifetime.
"Thanks for the best years of my life," she mumbled, stumbling over the front door. "You're gonna be a star. You know that, right?" She slammed the door behind her, shutting Yamcha out of her life forever.
Yamcha watched the door of his apartment close behind her. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of the thunderstorm getting worse. He would have offered Bulma a ride back to Capsule Corps., but he knew that she would refuse. She wasn't the kind of girl who would except a ride home from the man who had just dumped her after four years. The thought that he would never go out with her again was a sad one. He had practically watched her grow up--or try to, anyway. It was anyone's guess what had happened to the sweet, innocent chatterbox that they had all knew and loved.
It was in twelfth grade that Bulma had begun to change. Nobody could define what it was that had shook her so much, but had come home from her prom that night and nothing was the same since. He could see her in his mind's eye now, her makeup running down her face, mixing in with makeup. The pretty sash that she had worked to earn for her entire high school career hung lopsided over her princess dress, the words 'Prom Queen' all twisted together like she had taken it off and then hastily thrown it back on, as if she didn't care, which Yamcha knew she did.
He had been too head-over-heels in love to believe it then, but he realized what it must have been now--rape. It was the only logical thing. If there was one thing that Bulma hated, it was being violated. Yamcha could easily see how that would have changed her. But Bulma was a strong girl, and for her to still not recover was unusual. It must have been bad, really bad. He shook the disturbing mental images out of his head and gripped the stairwell tighter.
Yet no matter how bad it might have been, he told himself, it wasn't his problem anymore.
Bulma wrapped her arms around herself, protecting herself from the pouring rain. She was grateful for the rain; it covered the trails of tears that now ran steadily down her face. She hated crying. Probably because she had done so much of it in the past couple of years. She was twenty-two years old, for Kami's sake, couldn't she get a hold of herself already?
She looked back one last time at Yamcha's apartment complex. The lights in his apartment had been shut off, as if they were meant to run her off or something. She stopped for a moment, looked down at her shoes, and made a decision. Suddenly she ran back towards the complex, her bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. She remembered all of the baseball tips Yamcha had forced upon her in eleventh grade, when she had thought that it would be cute for her to try out for the girl's baseball team. Of course, she had only wanted to join so that she could wear the adorable outfits, but she had never told him that. Anyhow, she was here now, and she meant to put the tips to good use.
She wound up, took a step forward, and hurled her shoes, one at a time, through his picture windows.
"Bulma, your behavior is unexcusable," Mrs. Briefs scolded. "I cannot believe you would do such a thing! You're lucky that your father knows the sheriff, or else you could be in some real trouble right now."
Bulma kept her gaze firmly fixed on her mother's tapping pink flats. She had expected to be punished in some way, but she wished that her mother would wait until Vejita was out of the house. She was sure that she would hear about this later. But not now. Vejita sat quietly at the kitchen counter, watching her with those unreadable black eyes. She hated how she could never tell what he was thinking.
"Your mother is right, honey," Dr. Briefs began. "But it'll take us a little bit to think of a proper punishment. For now, try to get some sleep. You look like you need it."
Bulma touched a finger to the dark circles under her eyes and lifted her sapphire gaze to her mother. "I'm twenty-two years old, Mom, you can't boss me around anymore."
Her father answered for her mother. "Twenty-two or not, Bulma, you obviously still need guidance."
Bulma watched as her parents silently left the kitchen, shaking their heads in disapproval at their failure of a daughter. With them safely out of the way, she looked up and was surprised when she found herself staring right back into Vejita's eyes.
"Well, aren't you going to berate me now?" she demanded, tugging at the bottom of her little black dress. "This would be your cue."
Vejita raised an eyebrow and regarded her seriously. "It would be difficult to do so, especially since you are berating yourself for it now." He never broke their eye contact as he stood up and exited from the room.
Alone now in their overly-elaborated kitchen, Bulma dropped her head into her hands and let out a deep, discontented sigh. She reached into her tiny purse for a mirror to see what her parents, and Vejita, must be seeing. As she was pulling it out, a small bag of loose white powder, like glimmering crystals of Christmas snow, fell into her open hand. She closed her delicate fingers around it, gripping it like a lifeline, craving its comfort. She remembered her many promises to Yamcha about dropping her habit, but quickly pushed them aside. After all, a girl needed a break every once in a while, didn't she?
She mechanically lined the powder out into little rows and let her mind and body unconsciously do the rest. She felt the familiar head rush, the hyperawareness of colors, sweep over her and smiled. Nothing could compare to what she was feeling now--nothing. No boy had ever made her feel this way; what had she been thinking, trying to use them to ease her pain? She didn't need anybody.
"I don't need anybody," she whispered huskily. "Nobody, you hear me Yamcha? I have this, and I have myself. That's all I need."
She swept the remainder of the powder into the bag, and shoved the bag back into her purse. Suddenly, with the high leaving her rapidly, she felt dead tired, as if she hadn't slept in days, and thirsty, so thirsty. She stood and reached weakly for the faucet, but her legs wouldn't listen and wobbled from beneath her. Just as she was about to collapse, Vejita stepped out from the shadows and steadied her on her feet. He watched as her beautiful blue eyes rolled back into her head, then back forward again, as if she was on the verge of consciousness. He had seen such behavior before, back on his home planet. The soldiers of Vejitasei had often resorted to drugs to ease the pain of their everyday life. Hell, he had even tried it once. He had hated himself for it immediately after. Such things were a sign of weakness.
He secretly knew that Bulma wasn't weak, but he would have never told her. He had been watching her with special interest since he had come to stay with her family, and it hadn't taken long for him to get a sense of what was going on. It was only now that he could be sure, having seen it for himself. He shook his head, muttering foul curses, and slapped the girl awake.
She blinked up at him, her face melting into an expression of disbelief, and then settled back into her deep, drug-induced sleep. Though he could have carried her all the way up to her room, he decided against the bold move and instead unceramoniously layed her down on a chair in the common room. He allowed himself one more look, and then stormed up the stairs, angry at himself for even bothering.