Nowhere: 1

Nowhere: ten

My name.

My name is Vegeta.

Vegeta.

Vegeta is my name.

What's in a name?

What is its purpose?

What is my purpose when everything of me is gone?

Why do I think of this instead of concentrating on how I'm choking on my own blood?

Are memories more important than living?

I don't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I don't remember my parents - what they looked like, how they raised me. I don't remember if I had siblings - older or younger. I don't know if I had a profession. I'm not even certain of my hobbies and whether I was an amateur or an expert at them.

Every bit of my past has been devoured by me, or this place - by both or neither.

Faded. Leaving imprints. Holes. Amnesia?

Once I knew a man whose name was Kakarot, but he wasn't the Kakarot I knew.

I knew, or I know?

This makes no sense.

Maybe this is surrender. It feels like how my blood tastes. It reminds me that there is nothing to call my own, save these companions that are my nightmares. Glimpses of irrationality, fear, shame. Or maybe these are my memories. Maybe not knowing who I am is better than who I was.

Then why do I lack the ability to aspire, to ascend?

Kakarot... you warned me of this, didn't you? And I was too blind to see.

But not now.

I don't know if this place proves the existence of a god. Only a god could make this, but no god would make this. What's the opposite side of a god? What's the balance? What's beyond mortal and immortal? Every living thing can perish.

Please, I yield. Let me succumb to my antagonist. These emotions are too much to bear.

I'm losing faith.

Everything is reverting.

Forgive me.
…

Kakarot, I wonder if you can hear me. I'd like for you to. I wouldn't want you to suffer alone, like me. Even if you're a liar, even though you withheld the truth from me, I believe that you cared. You protected me from death itself. You managed to make a different kind of darkness. Maybe I resented you for it. Seeing you, I saw everything I lost – no – misplaced.

It is as if I've neglected parts of myself to the point where they're so rotted and in such disrepair that they can no longer be distinguished from one another. It's as if I'm merely shambles on the inside, the hollowed shell of a person. The skeleton of a soul.

Oh, the sensation that arises at that particular thought... it is you, Kakarot. That feeling of lost equilibrium. The pitfall. I'll never be rid of you.

I'm glad of it.

You linger inside my head, like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Or an angel disguised as a demon.

Can angels be cryptic? Do they bend the truth to spare pain? Would you tell me this wasn't all in my head even if it was? Would you lead me to believe this is a dream? That I could awaken anew? That the rain, fatigue, pain, and blood was just a benign mirage?

What a blissful image.

But what if I am dreaming and cannot wake? What could be done that hasn't already been done? What avenues could I attempt to explore then? How could I prevent myself from being further misguided?

Struggling for the possibility of a possibility...

And there's no one to help me but me. There's no one to save me except for myself. No family. No friends. Maybe they're dead. Maybe they're farther away than I could ever possibly imagine.

And if I had a family, then what kind? Were we close? What kind of extended relatives did I have? Maybe I had a wife. Maybe we had kids. Maybe it was a good life where we had a game night and always ate dinner together. But maybe it was bad. Maybe I hated the bitch, and maybe we fought all the time in front of the kids. Maybe I hit them, or she hit them, and maybe they hit us back. Maybe we took advantage of each other, verbally jabbing on a daily basis, too wrapped in our own worlds and priorities and too self-absorbed to take care of one another and work in a harmonious unit. It could've been a loving arrangement, or it could've been a cycle of abuse. Or better. Or worse.

Ah... my blood is thick... never noticed how thick before...

...Kakarot?

Can I give up so easily? I'm so tired. My will is evaporating as quickly as my memories.

I don't think I can walk. My lungs burn, my throat is hoarse; a metallic tang is on my lips and tongue. My nose inhales the scent of decay. My figurative slow-death implanted into my senses by my mind?

How long has it been? How long have I been lying here? It's so hard to tell when the sky is the same bleak grey all the fucking time. Does it... even matter?

I'm... losing ground.
Breaking inside...

Breaking...

...again?