I do not own Attack on Titan

Sasha helped me layer my hair after she cut off forty-six centimeters of it. The hair that was cut off I anointed with oil and burned with herbs as a blessing for the deceased. Gathering the ashes of the hair and herbs, I put them in a glass bottle the size of my finger and released any remaining into the wind.

When the rest of my friends saw, they were speechless at the sudden new look. The initial shock faded as we went on about our duties.

During the next few days after Trost, I hardly saw anybody. We were all assigned different duties in the clean up. Eren was nowhere to be found, most likely taken into custody. Once again, I felt alone like I did the day of the battle. At night, I collapsed deep into sleep after long days. When all the titans were dealt with that remained in Trost, we had to identify and dispose of all the bodies.

The day before we set out to do that, I bought several different herbs and arranged them in one bundle so I could shake it over the dead. Doing this helped ward evil spirits from inhabiting their bodies.

Inside the city, little particles of ash floating in the air from the funeral pyres were like a twisted version of snow. To keep the ash out of our noses and mouths, we wore cloths that covered parted our faces. Gloves that reached as far as our upper arm were required while dealing with the bodies.

Blood crusted the ground and walls in spatters, alluding to the death that followed. Soldiers carried the fallen and laid them shoulder to shoulder in a line. The ones that were identified were carted away unceremoniously with wooden wagons piled high with decaying corpses. Two days of lying exposed in the sun brought out the stench of rot, stinging my nose.

That day, Jean and I happened to be assigned the same area. We worked near each other for reassurance as we identified comrade after comrade, reporting to the nurse who was recording names of the fallen. Every time I came across a body, I shook my herb bundle over them before handling their lifeless form.

Jean was unnaturally subdued, hardly speaking to me at all. I wasn't in the mood to talk either, feeling that silence was the best way to pay respect to the dead. Many others felt the same way as we worked on disposing the bodies.

I was loading a body with the help of Bertolt onto a wagon when I noticed Jean stopped in front of a body. At first, I thought he was trying to remember who it was, but the longer he stood motionless, the more I became concerned. Disquieted, I stepped over to him.

Softly, I asked, "Is everything alright?"

Jean didn't hear me, and instead muttered to himself. I inspected the body closer.

The body was distinctly male. Half of his face was visible and pale, well into decomposing. His weak form was slumped up against the wall in a somewhat peaceful position unlike some bodies we'd found. The eyes were cast down in a compliant gesture of resignation. Through the decaying flesh, of his face, I spotted freckles. Everything fell into place at that moment, and I realized why Jean was staring at this body for so long.

It was Marco.

It felt like I just got smashed by a titan and was slowly dying on the inside. All my eyes could see was Marco's corpse, motionless. I might as well have been bleeding to death because any confidence I had left just died and made me feel lifeless. The comrades I'd loaded onto the wagons were different in the sense that I was never close with them, only recognizing their faces and feelings of camaraderie connected all of us.

But Marco… I never got to say goodbye. I spent the last three months feuding with Jean when I could have been spending it with Marco. Because of my pettiness, I missed the last moments I had with him. The reality sunk deep into my gut. There was no one to blame but myself for that. If I could have just looked past my hurt from Jean, this never would have happened.

I felt like glass—breaking and shattering onto the ground. My knees hit the pavement, and uncontrollable tears streaked my cheeks as I crawled towards the corpse. It was no longer a decaying body. It was Marco.

Jean was paralyzed on the spot, not moving an inch from where he stood. He just stared, muttering incoherent thoughts.

Whimpering, sat down beside the body, repeated sorry over and over. I sniffled and hiccupped as I shook the herb bouquet over Marco's head. Saying a prayer, I tucked the bouquet in his one hand that rested over his midsection. From my own pocket, I gave the vial of ashes I had made and placed it in his.

I became aware that the nurse was talking to me.

"Cadet?" she said. "Can you identify him?"

I croaked, "Marco Bott: member of the 104th Cadet Corps, Captain of Squad nine."

After scribbling that down, she answered, "Thank you. May he rest in peace."

I didn't make a move when she left to go identify more bodies. All I could do was stare at Marco. Over and over, I kept thinking it was all my fault. I should have been there for him.

Meanwhile, Jean started wandering aimlessly around the area, continuing to mutter to himself, gazing at his hands.

When he passed by, I stated, "We need to move the body."

He continued to drift on.

In a voice that didn't sound like my own, I snarled, "Help me, Jean!"

It was enough to make him stop. He turned to me, eyes wide in fright as if he was a lost child. Together, we hauled the body to the nearest wagon. Marco's body was the last one before the wagon took off for the funeral pyre.

At first, I held on to the wagon like it was a crutch. When the driver commanded the horses to move, I followed a few meters before finally releasing my grasp. I watched as Marco disappeared around a corner, taking a piece of me with him.

*O*O*

After dinner, we had free time. Some soldiers played checkers. Others went to bed. Some went on dates with other military personnel. And then few of us went out to drink.

I was never one to get drunk. There was something unappealing about someone so drunk they made a complete fool of themselves. But I felt crushed inside, like my soul just got torn to shreds. It hurt to look at anyone. To remember. Never before had I ever had such a strong desire to wash away the pain.

A few blocks from the tents, I found a bar. The bar was rowdy and loud with soldiers sloshing beer across the table and bellowing fits of laughter. All the bodies created humidity that clung to my clothes, causing a layer of perspiration to appear on my face. Disregarding the bawdy interactions around me, I made a beeline for the bar.

Sitting down in a stool, the bartender came up to me and asked, "Whatcha want, darling?"

"Hard liquor."