A Son's Regret
Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ.
Gohan sat in the corner of his room, his head bowed, knees pulled tightly against his chest.
His father was gone. He'd died for their planet. He'd died to defeat Cell, a job that was supposed to be his.
He felt terrible, a deep pit feeling in his stomach . . . empty, an eternal loss.
He was supposed to kill Cell, not so show all sorts of sadism, and claim that the monster needed to suffer more. That wasn't his place to decide.
The way his dad had looked at him when he'd said that . . . . Gohan punched at the ground below him, squeezing his eyes shut as salty, distressed tears streamed down his cheeks. He must've thought he was a raged, revenging-seeking monster.
He'd wasted time dancing with his opponent when he was supposed to finish him off, accomplish what his father couldn't.
And his dad, the man who'd believed he could do it, beat that sick, insect-like bastard down, had to step in and save the day, had to die for them . . . had to get blown up . . . in a futile mission.
Gohan's body shuddered as the truth dawned on him again. Harder, this time:I killed him.I killed my father. It's my fault.
His fault. All his fault. For being so reckless, haughty, and selfish. For being so idiotic while he should've been smart.
The young demi-Saiyan's voice was hitching in his throat, him taking heavy, ragged breathing. His daddy was dead. He'd died for everyone. To save the world. And his method hadn't even worked. But goku had still tried. Because he was a hero. Gohan had practically killed his father, and yet, his dad still had to help him fight because he was weak. Pathetic out there after he'd died. He'd still helped him fight, with his courage, with his wave and energy.
Nobody was supposed to die but Cell. Nobody was supposed to be sad at the end. Everyone was supposed to be glad . . . relieved. Not grieved.
Gohan had screwed up. He bit his bottom until he tasted blood, his tears surging mais freely down his cheeks.
Dende had healed him externally, sure . . . but internally was still a matter for him. He was still bleeding inside.
Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ.
Gohan sat in the corner of his room, his head bowed, knees pulled tightly against his chest.
His father was gone. He'd died for their planet. He'd died to defeat Cell, a job that was supposed to be his.
He felt terrible, a deep pit feeling in his stomach . . . empty, an eternal loss.
He was supposed to kill Cell, not so show all sorts of sadism, and claim that the monster needed to suffer more. That wasn't his place to decide.
The way his dad had looked at him when he'd said that . . . . Gohan punched at the ground below him, squeezing his eyes shut as salty, distressed tears streamed down his cheeks. He must've thought he was a raged, revenging-seeking monster.
He'd wasted time dancing with his opponent when he was supposed to finish him off, accomplish what his father couldn't.
And his dad, the man who'd believed he could do it, beat that sick, insect-like bastard down, had to step in and save the day, had to die for them . . . had to get blown up . . . in a futile mission.
Gohan's body shuddered as the truth dawned on him again. Harder, this time:I killed him.I killed my father. It's my fault.
His fault. All his fault. For being so reckless, haughty, and selfish. For being so idiotic while he should've been smart.
The young demi-Saiyan's voice was hitching in his throat, him taking heavy, ragged breathing. His daddy was dead. He'd died for everyone. To save the world. And his method hadn't even worked. But goku had still tried. Because he was a hero. Gohan had practically killed his father, and yet, his dad still had to help him fight because he was weak. Pathetic out there after he'd died. He'd still helped him fight, with his courage, with his wave and energy.
Nobody was supposed to die but Cell. Nobody was supposed to be sad at the end. Everyone was supposed to be glad . . . relieved. Not grieved.
Gohan had screwed up. He bit his bottom until he tasted blood, his tears surging mais freely down his cheeks.
Dende had healed him externally, sure . . . but internally was still a matter for him. He was still bleeding inside.
