Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin / Attack on Titan © Hajime Isayama
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Angel Eater
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"A break."
That is what they claim this is—
Being shipped in a creaking chariot through cobblestone allies to a house surrounded by tall stonewalls, bound with leather (a bit too tight) and wool (a bit too warm).
"You deserve it." Their velvety words had softly smothered his protests like a pillow to a child's face, and spun a web around him. "You need to take a break, from pain, from war, from everything. Relax. Breathe a little." Another treatment. Another cage. "This is for your own good, Eren." There had been razors underneath the velvet. "Please."
Eren sits on the house's porch, contemplating.
It is midday and an hour of heat, gold air and parched shadows, disease roaming overheated allies and rooms, looking for a face to lick. The garden is full of holes hosting a family of rodents. Watching them sneak out of their homes awakens something strange (awful) in him.
The house is old and full of big cobwebs, like in his mind. He could take a thread and pull and pull and pull into infinity. There are no weapons in the house. No sharp things. The stonewall around the house separates him from the world. The locks on the doors are as much for the outer people's protection as it is for his own.
On the sixth day, the feeling resurfaces, disappears, and resurfaces again. Is he better now? Have they forgotten about him, here in the house where time stands still?
The house's cabinets are stuffed with food that reminds him of his childhood, it is not home—home is on the battlefield, with smoke in his hair and ash in his mouth. Instead of such, he eats sweet dumplings, rice cakes, dry cakes and small red oranges. Mikasa used to cut a hole in the top and suck out the juice, while he'd just rip the skin apart with his teeth.
Eren thinks of his mother.
Cobwebs, collecting dust. The threads become tough then. Aching steel wire sewn into his head and hands. Stitches, hard needles, like Father used. He remembers being beastly little swine, like all children, with greedy hands, eternally shouting "More more more more—!" with his mouth stuffed full of dumplings and cinnamon rolls, grease smeared across his face. And Mother is dead.
A loud shatter awakens him from his thoughts.
On the ground beneath the window lies a bird. Its blood pours through broken glass, and feathers, and floorboards, like wine. It's a hawk. Proud, brown, fearless. Its left wing is broken. Still, it fights, twisting and turning. It is a young thing, still carrying white baby feathers.
Not all soldiers are molded from men. Some are just born. Toddling tediously over dead bodies, clinging to the scraps of a snow white dress, bare rump turned upwards for the world to fuck.
Eren lifts the hawk, careful not to strain it. He makes a nest of old and used clothes, and gets some fish stock and soft rice for it to eat. It does not, only glaring at him as he offers it, threatening to peck his eyes out when he steps forth to remove it. Eren smirks. Of course it doesn't like it, it's not common bird, it's a hawk!
He looks to the garden and gets an idea.
Fire. Fast and free and dangerous, consuming all in its path. It is therefore he uses it on the garden and smokes those little bastards out, stomping on the first escaping rabbit until it drops dead. Watching the hawk tear into the fresh pink meat is fascinating, greedily gobbling it down, juices dribbling down its beak and claws and into its feathers. The strange feeling returns and Eren grins, feral. "Eat," he says, "eat eat eat eat—!"
The next day, Eren smashes the house's mirror to pieces and buries the shards in the backyard.
The hawk grows stronger. Eren does, too. He feels something, whatever it is. It is good, to see something beautiful grow. It trusts him enough to let him near now. This confuses him. It is a bird of prey, an attacker, a killer, not a dove.
He finds a messenger bag in the garden, thrown over the walls. It tells tales of the outer world, and of visitors, and friends wishing him well.
On the day of their arrival, the feeling—or rather, the destructive compulsion—surfaces and takes complete control. A crazy calm consumes him. And Eren is dead.
(If they tore open his throat, would it crumble like dust, revealed to be hollow?)
He holds the beautiful young hawk in his hands, lifting it up towards the sky. It flutters its mighty wings, ready to take flight—
And then Eren grabs its wing and twists and twists and twists until it screams and breaks. He smashes it against the wall again and again and again, laughing as he does it, leaving nothing but a bloody mess of feathers and blood and staring eyes. It twitches, once. Twice. Eren buries its face in its feathers, inhaling the sweet smell of destruction and life, and breaks its neck with a sickening snap!
The visitors arrive later that day. He greets them with a grin, all clean and happy. They exhale, relieved, and tell him that they can bring him back now that he's better.
They especially compliment him on the nice meal he's prepared for them.
Should they dig in the earth behind the house, looking for bones and reflections, they'll only find more earth.
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A/N: Theme: loss of – – (↓) in terms of observation
1. identity
2. innocence
3. control, freedom
Thanks for reading.