Obviously, I don't own Attack on Titan. If I did, I'd be writing the actual story and not fanfiction.
Every single one of them is stuck through with shards, like cushions for pins.
Some of the shards are huge and red, cutting and stabbing and leaving the most visible scars. That is, if they don't completely dismember you.
Some of the shards are thin and translucent and green, and they are terrifying. They pierce slowly, agonizingly, and they revel in the agony they cause, prolonging the pain for as long as is possible before finally relinquishing their hold once the body is drained and lifeless.
Then there are the black ones, the long, straight arrows that pierce only at your weakest points. They are calculating and they fly with effortless grace, and the worst part is that you can see them coming from a mile away. You steel yourself, brace yourself, but when they hit it hurts all the same, and you still are no more prepared than you were before.
And yet, the most dangerous is this:
The most horrible of them all are the smallest, the little colorless ones so small that to see them coming would be impossible. They strike from anywhere, at any time, at any place, and sometimes you don't notice their little pricks until they penetrate you completely and run you through. Their pain is the worst because it never heals, and though the scars they leave are no more visible than they are, one thing is for certain.
You will carry their scars with you until the day you die.
You see their faces in the morning, at noon, and especially at night. Their voices whisper to you from the shadows, and sometimes the blinding light coming through your window at dawn casts their shadows on the wall. You see the shape of an arm or a leg in the left over puddles from a midnight shower, or perhaps the echo of your own footsteps reflects off of the walls.
Maybe you hardly knew them. Maybe you only caught a glimpse of them with not even a name to attach to a face. Maybe you knew them growing up, or maybe they were even your friend.
Maybe they were your lover.
They are heavy, these homeless souls. They cling at your ankles and back and shoulders, running their hands over your scars. They pull at you, dragging you down. They sag your shoulders and hood your eyes, grabbing and twisting your hair.
You will carry them with you until you join them.
Of course, there are ways to cope. Some build walls around themselves; thick, solid plates of armor that block out the little shards. Some retreat, becoming less of a human and more of a shell, a husk, fighting their silent battles while simply surviving in the outer world. Some grow louder and turn into little fire-balls of kinetic energy, fizzing and sparking around, but underneath they are tired, blackened, burned-out wicks, and they know it.
And some just snap, or end it all. I suppose they'd like it to happen on their own terms, somehow reminding themselves that they have a semblance of control over their lives.
They are the hardest souls to dilute, the ones who died by choice. Though in the end, there is no cure. There will always be marks, scars, dents and cracks. They become yours, a part of you, these violations. They become your treasured secret, locked deep in your hollow heart.
And there is no way in hell you'd ever set them free.