Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball Z or any of the characters used in this story that belong to the creator Akira.
Dr. Tazial Camden
I find it hard to write this, torn between ideas and all the thoughts that seem to cram themselves within my mind. Shall I begin as so many do? "It was a dark and stormy night"… Or does that seem rather cliché? Or perhaps the events which I alone contain, would be best conveyed in a diary type theme, dates, times, names and specific settings all placed into the pages of this tale.
I must confess, I am not a writer. I stare at these dull white pages, seeing their flatness, the lack of any 3d image taunting me, mocking my attempts. Perhaps if I could talk into a recorder of some sort, hearing my own voice speak the words, all would come clear, the emotion and the events drawn out into the crude summary they must be confined to. But isn't that where all this started? A tale and a tape recorder?
Ah, but I see I get ahead of myself, tempted to simply throw the story into motion with no fact or information leading up to it. So allow me to introduce myself.
I am Dr. Tazial D. Camden, one time college psychology professor and present therapist. At the time of this story, I was still a young man, though even then I felt the approaching mortality. It seemed that old age had crept upon me and I stared death in its dull, nothingness face, seeing my own reflection staring back at me. Tiny gray hairs tasted my brown side burns and slightly above though I had several years to go before reaching the age of forty. But like I said, I was staring death in the face and more importantly, I didn't care.
I wish I could tell you that it was a happy tale that I could write within these pages. That in the end all was well, a fairytale finish with smiles and never ending love. The last sentence being "and they lived happily ever after." But unfortunately, a dull mood has risen within me and I simply glare at this flat surface, despising that I must clutch this pencil within my fingers and thrust my feelings and experience into it. If only we could attach a computer to our minds, extracting the memories instead of trying to jot them down into words. Or better yet, perhaps we should attach such a devise to our hearts, letting the reader feel what we felt, know our emotions and bear our pain upon their own shoulders.
But alas, have I not gotten away yet again? I hear myself sigh knowing it's time to continue, watching as the candle next to me sways impatiently.
I was a young man at the time, thirty six years old and heavy with guilt and abandonment. But I carried my secrets within me, concealing them from those I loved, those I cherished more than the secret itself. I concealed my self hatred and suicidal fascination from even my wife, who stood a desolate creature that occupied my house on the rare nights when I came home, the lifeless being that weighed the other side of my bed.
The creature that had suffered more than many others, much of which I myself had caused, too young and reckless to accept such a fact.
But then, is this story truly about me? I suppose that's for you to decide. But let me continue.
It was not a strange assignment, actually a rather mundane, ordinary one. I remember shrugging and staring through the fog of my own torment at my boss, seeing the sides of his mouth wrinkle with each word he voiced. He truly was a wretched man, standing perhaps five feet and three inches tall, complexion ruddy and creased. I watched the light glisten off his balding forehead, seeing how pathetically he'd tried to comb it over.
"…killed his wife…" he was saying, each sentence as useless to me as the next. All this would be in the instruction anyways. All I was to do was enter the room, speak with the poor soul, hear his life story and idea of what he'd done and either condemn him to the death sentence or plead for his life on the account of criminal insanity. My report alone could convince a jury of his innocence, his guilt or his insanity, which so many pleaded to escape the rash system.
I numbly stood, shaking the fat, sweaty palm of the agent and exiting the boring room, the yellow envelope pressed between my fingers. This would be an easy one. I was convinced as I read through the newspaper clippings, the headings, the reports, the witnesses. Insane? No. Evil. Evil as I was.
A certain headline caught my eye's attention, my thumb pulling it apart from the others as I walked down a flight of pale, yellow stairs.
"Bulma Briefs, President of Capsule Corporation slain by husband."
Written in Doctor Tazial's point of view and spoken by Vegeta, you will enter the world of his life, portrayed in the only way I could see fit; from the first steps, to the last.
I've actually been writing this story for about three or four years. I'm currently on chapter 36 and it suddenly dawned on me that I'd never really posted much of it on this site. So I figure I'll just toss up a chapter a day and see how people gravitate to it. Reviews are always appreciated but just reading is a compliment as well.
This is Vegeta's life, by Camaro.