february • eren yeager

009 | february ninth

goodbye, my danish sweetheart

I sang your song. That lullaby. It's been in my mind for quite a while, and I was humming it under my breath. You caught me.

I was embarrassed.

I remember the heat curling to my cheeks, crawling up my neck like a cat laying on its back and stretching its paws languidly.

You laughed.

You told me I got the lyrics wrong and sang it to me again, stressing the words.

It was so beautiful.

I feel as if it could solve all my problems.

I understand why your younger sister was so soothed by the lullaby. The words flowed in one ear and out the other— I was too focused on the sound of your voice. If dribbling golden honey had a sound, it would be your voice. The sun shone a little bit brighter when you sang that song, and I'm sure the birds enjoyed hearing you. They have their own songs; you told me that. Birds like to sing to communicate with one another. You said to me that male birds sing to attract a mate—that made me flustered—and to also warn others to back away from their territory.

     It sounded all very complicated.

     I sat beside you and absorbed the new information. I wasn't sure what to do with these facts. They weren't really useful to me. But you did that— it was your trait. You told me random things and never bothered to expect the same. You thought me to be an idiot. I sincerely hope not. I am my father's son— a doctor's boy. Writing and reading were one of the things my father taught me.

     Coping with death certainly wasn't.

Like a dream out of the blue, you said we were going to the moon. That our sounds would reach the heavens if we wished it.

     I didn't know how to tell you I didn't believe that there was life after death.

     How could there be?

     Time has meshed together in my mind: the past, present and future— all of it has jumbled up into a tight ball of yarn that's hard to untangle. It would take me years to find the end, and it would take me centuries to unwind it all. Somewhere in the middle, I can make parts out. Somewhere in the middle, I can see old flashes, memories of my life.

     But I no longer understand what is mine from the past, mine from the present and mine from the future. 

     Like the sea, the tides of my mind are constantly changing. I can feel the sea's serene depths one moment and its shallow hells the next. The light above the muddy, crystal-like surface is slowly dimming. I'm drowning in these dark, inescapable waters. I can feel it enter my lungs.

     It burns.

     I need someone to save me.

     Strangely enough, when I close my eyes, ready to accept my fate, I hear a soft lullaby.

     The words snake into my ears. The calling of a canary, the bristles of a rocking cradle, the whispers of swaying loquat fruits, the chitters of restless squirrels, and the hums of a melancholy yellow moon shining down.

     I recognise it as you.

     Why do you appear when I'm drowning?

Your brown eyes bore into me. That smile curves into your face and you reach a hand out. Why do you always want to help me? Am I not your enemy? Am I not a stranger to you?

Kindness and generosity is all I see.

If I were to grasp your hand, will you pull me out? Do you have enough strength to do so? I can feel the spiked vines puncture my flesh and anchor me to the seabed. The breaths in my chest are actually not that much— I don't know how much time I have left.

     Would you spare me your voice if I call?