The room is quiet, almost too quiet, save for the occasional clank of the ceiling fan and the sound of its nearly muted motor whirling. The plain white walls are almost too bright for his eyes as the sun peering through the window reflects against its surface. The rays of light exposing the specs of floating dust through the air. The room itself bare other than the two single beds pushed against the left and right walls, and the long 12 drawer dresser shoved under the window between them. No pictures of any sort are found in the room, only the thin layer of settled dust against the dressers surface. The bed opposite to his had been stripped of its sheets and pillow, the old box frame exposed, and under it a collection of stray hairs and whatever else made up the dust balls neglected from the previous sweeping. He had the room to himself again. At least until they found someone else needy enough to occupy it. His last roommate Armin, a short blonde who was shy but pleasant and got along well with him, had finally been granted his release into his grandfather's custody. It seemed his was a temporary stay from the beginning. Just long enough to supply him shelter till they found a relative willing to take care of the boy after his parent's untimely death. In that short amount of time the boy had grown on him, and for a short time the sparsely decorated room had a small collection of treasured belongings he grew fond of. There was a book in particular, old and worn binding, pages that felt thin enough to rip if you weren't careful enough when turning the page, and a soft scent of old ink and a musk he couldn't quite place. The book had stories of all these wondrous adventures. Travels across the sea, mountains and valleys; the people and cultures and various animals and ecosystems. Things he could never hope to see with his own eyes, not someone in his situation anyway. He laid on his bed, sheets bundled mess at his feet, knees bent, back flat and arms above his head as he watches the fan blades with a heavy sigh. There was no sense thinking about it really. It had been exciting to learn of all these new things. Someone like him who lived a life deprived of many naturally occurring events for normal children hadn't really been previewed to that type of knowledge. Ever since he had been brought to stay in this place, a definite improvement over his previous living conditions but regardless he still remained ignorant to most things.
The home he stayed at was somewhat like a shelter for children who couldn't live on their own or had no one to care for them, sometimes a temporarily roof over their heads until their families got their shit together or like in Armin's case waiting for a guardian to make the necessary arrangements to claim them. Armin was lucky in the sense that it was only a matter of time, not everyone here had that luxury, he certainly didn't and he knew quite a few too that were just as shit out of luck as himself. Whether they had no family to claim or care for them, victims of abuse, abandonment, illnesses, and a long laundry list of possibilities in between, they ended up here. Maybe for a few weeks, maybe months, even years. He himself had been here for six years now, admitted to the homes care at a ten. Six years flew by and he learned so much in that short amount of time. How to read and how to write and how to speak properly. What little he knew before he arrived he knew only because of his mother. His mother, he tried to remember her, tried so many times and tried so hard he would grind his teeth and squeeze his eyes so tight to will a clear image of her back from the depths of his memories. All he could remember is her hair was lighter than his, the exact shade lost along with the details of her face and the warm expressions he knew she had made, knew but couldn't place them anymore. He couldn't remember her smell, he couldn't remember her voice, nor her laugh, her smile, he couldn't remember her touch and how it felt for her to sooth him when he cried or felt frightened. How many years did it take to lose all those memories? How long ago was it when he woke to another day and couldn't recall a single specific fucking thing about the only one he loved and whom loved him in his entire life? He couldn't even remember what how he reacted when he came to that exact realization. That every memory of her that he held dear, that kept him stable had so easily slipped away as if it were only a dream. He wondered if he cried and when he cried if he cried harder at the loss of her hand in his hair to sooth him and even harder when he realized he couldn't remember how it felt to have that simple interaction.
Was it before or after his father locked him away in that dark and damp molded basement? Did the sound of her voice escape him before or after he memorized each creaking pattern of the hard wood and ceramic tiled floors over head? Was it around the time he lost the taste of her warm meals and was instead grown accustomed to leftover scraps tossed down the dirty steps? When? When was it that the loving memories of his mother were chased away until he was left with only his enraged father? When had it been that his father completely lost it exactly? It was a quick but gradual transformation that much he knew, but it wasn't clear anymore when the sight of him was too much for his father to bear. At least the only peace he was granted from his father during those times was when his father told him he had his mother's hazel eyes. So alike that staring at him was like looking into the eyes of his deceased wife, so much so did they haunt him that he locked his own son away without a hint of remorse. He had her eyes, he had a piece of her that wouldn't rot away, he had something tangible that could grant him the relief that she would never be completely lost over time.
Even granted that reprieve he didn't have any way to even see his own eyes. There were no mirrors or reflective surfaces where he was kept, the windows were cracked and filthy, and so little light made its way into the dark area that it wouldn't have made much of a difference either way. It wasn't until he was brought here that he first saw his eyes in the mirror as he stripped him down and scrubbed him clean, too weak to do so himself. Despite how frail he was at the time he used every ounce of strength his bones and thinned muscles would allow to get closer. He needed to see them. He needed to look directly at his reflection and stare long and hard at his own eyes. He needed to with every fiber in his body to see the one thing he shared with the woman whom he used to know so well. He needed to see her.
His first year in this place he spent most of his days in front of the restroom mirror. The bathroom at this facility wasn't a private one, so no one ever really bothered him unless it was time for activities or mandated therapy sessions. He didn't care that the small inch by inch tiles were cold and hard under his feet. He couldn't care less that the faucets dripped, or the pungent smell of urine and shit from the stalls lining the wall that stung his nostrils as it polluted the air in the bathroom. Even in the less than appealing atmosphere it became his favorite place in the home. Time burned away as he would stare and reach to touch the glass longing to reach out to her. Sometimes when his eyes hurt or burned from staring to long he would close them and lean his head against the cold surface wishing instead it was her shoulder, imagining how it would feel in contrast. Was the bone sharp or was her shoulder plump enough that it were soft? How warm was it? Would it be warm through the fabric or would it remain cool to the touch?
The second year he spent less time wondering what it was like and more time questioning why she was gone, why his father went mad, why his childhood was taken from him, why he was here in this place.
The third year had passed and he found his questions less mystified and more aggressive. He found himself growing angrier and resentful. He spent even less time in the mirror as he felt as time went on that it was his mother's fault for leaving him alone. It was her fault for his father's collapse in sanity. It was her fault he was here.
The fourth year and he avoided the mirror at all costs feeling disgusted and aggravated every time he met his own eyes in the glass.
The following year he had a breakdown. His anger redirected at himself over how childish he felt blaming the one person who had loved him. The only person who truly granted him adoration and affection. He had at some time during the night, after feeling restless and unable to sleep, in front of the mirror cursing, sobbing, and finally panicking. The only thing he really recalled that night was how his breath became short to the point he couldn't breathe. He had hyperventilated and at some point during the episode began beating his fist into his mirrored reflection until he felt hands grabbing him and pulling him away from it. He didn't remember anyone entering nor did he remember what happened after they tore him away from what was left of the mirror on the wall. He did remember, however, how much of a bitch to live with a busted hand for the next couple months.
This year, his sixth year, he was docile. He simply woke up one day to feeling quite apathetic. He still wondered, still tried to recall things, but when he came up empty he didn't have the same buildup of despair, rage, or the feeling of injustice. He simply accepted his life for what it was and what it wasn't; what it could and could not be. He accepted that he was a teenager who lived through unfortunate events. He just simply accepted that he was Eren Jaegar and he was alive and he existed, nothing more, nothing less.