Shovels crunching through dirt. I had never considered how trying to dig a hole deep enough for a tree while wearing a suit would make me sweat, especially in this mid-July swelter. Armin had already shed his suit jacket before we started digging. Suddenly I remembered, as I had periodically throughout the ordeal, the small crowd behind me, watching us labor. They were here to watch us plant a willow with Marco's ashes, to commemorate his past life and see him off for the next. But, in my mind, they ruthlessly counted the beads of sweat collecting on my neck. I couldn't take off the jacket, that much was certain.
After what felt like hours but was probably just a few minutes, the hole was finished. Eren emerged from the crowd with an urn, handing it to Armin and I. Together, we tipped over its contents and watched the ashes fall into the earth. My best friend's body. Now just a pile of ash brusquely deposited into a hole. Robotically, I mirrored Armin's movements as he grabbed the sapling by the trunk. We tugged it free of its plastic pot and placed it on top of the ashes. I wondered if Marco could feel it. If he even liked willows, and if he would even want to become one. These thoughts opened the taps behind my eyes and made the tears flow again. But it wasn't sadness I felt. I couldn't understand exactly what it was. Anger?
Once the sapling stood inside its hole, we took up the shovels again, filling the gaps back in with dirt. Sealing Marco in the ground. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming – something I could no longer control in any other way.
Vision blurred with emotion, I could hardly find my way back to the crowd. To my one light left in this life. To Eren's side. I was vaguely aware of Armin saying something as he stood there, next to the tree. I couldn't pay attention to what he was saying, only to the grotesque wound the tree was now expected to grow into. It was so ugly. I bit my cheek harder. So ugly.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, barely. Turning my tear-streaked face towards the hand, I saw Mikasa there. I had always had a kind of distant respect for her, though admittedly she hadn't crossed my mind in months. I knew she was an important person in Eren's life though, some kind of foster sister situation, so I tried not to reveal my disgust for this whole ceremony. Armin's words from a few days prior echoed constantly in my skull. He's dead. He was killed.
"Jean, I am so sorry for your loss," she said, and I knew she was genuine. Still, I felt my stomach churn. Loss.
"Thanks, Mikasa," I managed, trying to hold the flood of bitterness behind a dam in my throat before it reached my voice. It wasn't her I was disgusted with. And I knew better than to assume that she had never felt this way.
Another squeeze of my shoulder, and then she was gone. Just then, I noticed that most everyone had already left. Armin wasn't standing next to the tree like I remembered. He was standing with Christa and Mikasa, the perfect picture of the grieving widower. But why? Why did he get to feel sad? So simple. So straightforward. He cried, but never so much that it made people uncomfortable. He spoke eloquently but heartbreakingly about Marco's life and death. He was good, right. So different from myself. It was like I couldn't accept that my friend was even gone. I knew that he was, of course, but seemingly this was not true of my body. I kept thinking I saw him at the grocery store, or on campus. I heard his voice calling my name. Heard him scream. Heard him telling me that he hates me. Every vile thing existed inside me, just underneath the skin, waiting for the day that it would finally swell up enough to break me open and escape.
Iron on my tongue let me know I had bitten my cheek too hard. I released for a moment, but then I could feel the air filling my lungs and I had to bite down again. I'd just have to deal with the taste of blood. Better that than revealing myself. Eren was the only one who knew. The only one who could know. Something in this thought made my stomach churn again. I pushed it away before a new fear could reveal itself to me.
I looked over at Eren, who had stayed quietly beside me as I was eaten alive by the thoughts. He raised his eyebrows at me. Want to go? They asked, and I was glad he knew I couldn't handle words. I nodded.
In the weeks that followed, I hardly left our bed. The thoughts, those depraved monsters, never left me alone. Dreamless sleep was my only escape, though I often awoke screaming. I could see the toll it took on Eren, having to take care of me. I tried not to; it only left me more full of thick, oily shame. The bags which had appeared under his once-bright eyes when Marco was in the hospital only grew darker as I worsened. Both of us left impressively large clumps of hair on the pillows and in the shower drain. Our fridge had been nearly empty for months, and when we held each other in the night our bones touched.
In early August, I woke up screaming again. When I opened my eyes, I could see that Eren had been crying for some time already before. I reached out my hand to wipe the tears, but he flinched away. A sharp pain in my stomach.
"Jean, I can't do this anymore. I can't be the only person to help you through this. It's…it's killing me."
My stomach again. I bolted up and ran to the toilet to let the feelings bubbling up within find their place inside the porcelain. I couldn't even bring myself to understand his words. All I knew was that I felt sick. Body, mind, and soul. Sick.
He appeared in the doorway to the bathroom beside me.
"Please, my love. You need help. I'm scared for you." A pause. "And scared of you."
I heaved again. For some reason I was reminded of Marco's funeral. Ah, yes. The fear I had pushed away that day had become real. Eren was afraid of me. Shame poured out of me and into the toilet. More shame than I thought possible. But eventually there was none more left. Finally, I wiped my mouth and turned to him, still sitting on the ground by the toilet. His hair was oily, thin, and messy. His eyes were gray and rimmed with a deep purple. Even his skin was gray and dry. I stood up and walked to the sink. After rinsing my mouth out with some water, I saw my reflection. I looked skeletal. Rotting. Wasting away.
After a moment, I turned away to face Eren again.
"I know," I replied, softer than I intended. "Thank you for helping me this far. I'll start calling people after breakfast. How about the café down the street?" I couldn't look at him, though. The fear still rung loud in my ears as I offered this olive branch.
"OK," he said. It was enough.
I approached slowly, wrapping him in my arms. His body was so much smaller, and more frail, than I remembered. I couldn't bear to think of how my body felt to him. After a moment, I felt myself shaking from Eren's sobs. We stood there in the bathroom doorway for a while, him crying and me just holding him. It was then that I saw, perhaps for the first time, how my undivided need had hurt him so deeply.
I realized then that what I thought was love was so far from the real thing. But, miraculously, it was also at that moment that I felt love, real love, healing love, for the first time.
"We'll get through this, Eren. One step at a time, we will," I whispered into his hair.
Faintly, I felt him nod against my shoulder. "I love you," he breathed.
