Old Love
She hesitated for a moment as she ran her carefully manicured finger over the old lock. In it feelings, memories, and thoughts from her past laid carefully, and orderly in stacks. Lowering her eyes she could almost feel that old feeling again, smell his smell, taste his touch. Shaking her head she felt her heart feel with that old familar ache, and with the same yearning passion. Feeling her breath blow against her hand, as it had unconsciously come against her mouth, as if the lock was stinging her she tried clearing her mind. Walk away. She told herself simply but here she knelt, remembering. And almost wanting. Letting her eyes flutter open her aquamarine eyes stared at the old chest, it was not in any way modern, but her love for him, was old, and lost. Just as this chest was. Blowing over the top of it the dust scattered and disintergrated into the air, as her love for him eventually had. With her hand shaking and growing cold she reached into her pocket and felt the cold key fall into the palm of her hand as she closed her fist tightly around it. Clenching it so tightly that she was afraid the rugged edges would cut into her skin. She had seen him, often, but since that night, she never let him feel her love for him again. NEVER. And here she was. . .years later, a family and new love later, and the feelings surfaced. Like waves of a monsoon. . .reminding her why he had become the love of her young heart. Tearing her eyes from the chest she looked up at the fading light coming in through the tiny window of the attic. "Do you want to do this Bulma?" she asked herself aloud as she could still feel the key weighing heavily in her hand. Hugging her heart with her soul she slipped the key into the lock and turned slightly, and slowly as she heard the clicking echo back the beatings of her still heart. The lock falling from the rings of the chest she didn't jump as it clattered noisely to the ground as the chest now laid before her. With admittance granted to her. Feeling the dust particales settle around her like a blanket of nostalgia she opened the chest slowly. Gently. Tenderly. Welcoming back that love she had tucked away so silently. Spilling in front of her eyes, were pictures, and leafs of paper. All she had left of that old love. When she was a different woman. When she was still just a child. Feeling tears burn in her heart they spilled through her eyes and landed tenderly on the glass of a frame. Taking in a sharp breath she reached her hand down and pulled the frame up and stared curiously at it as her old memories and feelings 'ranged themselves quitely around herself. Moisting her lips slightly for she could feel them cracking, as if they were about to let her old love seep into her veins and blood again she shook her head.
She was younger, and brighter. Her eyes held the look of passion and obession.
There he stood. Tall and aloof. As he had always been. She never felt secure. Never understood. But always in love. Always. He smiled up at her from that frame. . .with his half cocked grin. She could almost hear his voice, asking her that simple question that made her love him, "Bulma. .. will you dance with me?"
He asked her that question when they were out on the beach. No music. She had looked at him sharply with a sharp retrot, but as his eyes caught hers she knew. It was right. And the music was in their hearts. And no strings could ever play the song of heart.
Feeling her heart almost reach out to the picture she wrapped herself in the old scent and love--but as quickly as it came--it left. Just as he did. Just as he always would.
The shrilling cry of her child, Trunks, reminded her that she-Bulma Briefs-no longer loved Yamacha. She wasn't allowed. And someone else needed her. Not for the passion, or obession, or familiar scent. Only for the fact that he loved her. Completely. And now~she knew that~Yamacha never did. He only thought she did. And the ghost that had been calling her back into the past was finally silent. And sad. Letting the picture frame slip from her hand she watched it, as if it was in slow motion, slip from her hand and onto the wooden floor as it shattered into a thousand pieces and the silent splittering of the glass overshadowed her childs cry as she felt the slight piercing of a stray glass on her bared thigh. Not a single tear slipped past her soul, as she gazed down at it. The blood has dripped slowly, gently. Just as her dying love had for him. And then it was over. The cut stopped. The glass settled, but her child still cried for her.