february • eren yeager

010 | february tenth

my head is a jungle

     You took me for a tour of the town— said I must have been feeling restless from sitting in one place for so long. You grabbed what you called a wheelchair, a seat made of wood with wheels attached to each side, and pushed me around the bustling town of Liberio.

     You greeted everyone with a friendly smile, and they all appeared to know you.

     Why were you special, sweetheart?

      Some would walk up to you with confidence, and some would cower away. They were nervous around you— scared of you. Some looked at you with resentment in their eyes, it darkened tremendously when you came into their sights, and some didn't.

     Yet, you continued forward.

     You pointed out the scenery.

     Told me about the trees and the places you'd visit. You told me about your childhood. You said that that mundane park was where you and your younger sister would play in when your father was out of town, and your mother was busy accompanying a friend to the market. You told me stories about how you had broken your bones there, scraped your knees along the scrapped sand, and laughed too much that your stomach hurt.

     You told me about the times when you and your sister would lose track of time in your made-up fantasies, pretending to be heroes and saving nature.

     You never mentioned humanity.

     I wondered if you cared for them.

     I asked whether you dreamt of saving people. You told me you already were.

    You pushed me through the streets. I listened as you spoke of your town's history. You told me how the Marleyans took over the continent and isolated the remaining Eldians that refused to flee to Paradise Island. I was surprised you knew about that, but I didn't voice anything. I kept my face neutral, blank like unused parchment paper. You continued to say how the wall around the internment zone was created to separate the Eldians from the Marleyan zone. You looked deeply troubled by that. I can understand.

     We've both lived in bird cages.

     We both want to be free.

I suppose that's why you adore the birds now. You feed them the same thing you were fed, with crumbs of bread. You said you were alike. You and the birds. But I know that the only difference between you and them was that you could not fly. You could not sprout wings and soar through the deep blue sky, forgetting the troubles that came with greed and confinement.

You moved on from the subject very quickly. I noticed how you weren't comfortable talking about such things. Your eyes were constantly darting around, and you carefully lowered your voice when you spoke of the past. You were afraid. I realised that. Could you feel the eyes, too? The daunting, lingering gazes?

You and I are strangely alike, sweetheart.

You told me about the people of the town next. How Mr Tumnus opened his bakery at eight sharp every morning and closed at around eighteen, when the sun was beginning to set, and twilight was beginning to welcome the world. You said his pastries were the best and on Tuesday you would get discounts. You said his cakes were to die for.

I would beg to differ.

But I didn't say anything, and you never expected an answer.

You told me about Ms Ilse and her flower shop. You explained to me that she was a widow and that her husband had died in war.

You and I both know that wasn't the case.

You're not a very good liar, you know?

You told me how she grew her own flowers in her back garden, carefully tending to them and making sure they grow happily and healthily. I asked how flowers could be happy, and you answered that all they needed was tender love and care. TLC, was what you called it. You said flowers were like humans. Death picked the kindest, prettiest ones first, so they wouldn't go all rotten, and left the rest to wither and die on their own.

Then you told me about Gunter and his wood workshop. You said he spent hours chopping up wood to keep the people of this town cosy and warm— he took over from his father, you explained. His father who had grown old and tired. You confessed that you were raised together, and he asked you out multiple times, but you declined the offer.

Something in my chest tightened then.

I don't know what that feeling was, but I remember the way my nails dug crescents into my palms. It didn't hurt— such actions were mundane by now. Piercing my skin no longer ached. But my heart did.

     My heart still does.

I kept silent about my confusing emotions.

You continued to ramble on.

You pushed me through the streets and gave me a private tour. I wonder if you had done that for any of your other patients. Was I the first? Some part of me hoped I was. The first one to have a tour from you.

Because, while you were no historian, you knew your town like the back of your hand.

And I know now that the people inhabiting this vengeful island were simply that. People. People like me. People like you.

Doubts swirl through my head.

They started appearing ever since you entered my life. Any resolve I had crumbled around you. I don't understand why.

     Whenever I think about it, my heart feels like claws are tearing into it, threatening to rip the muscle tissues to shreds. These feelings— they're overwhelming me. I don't fucking understand, sweetheart.

But what is it that actors say when shit is falling apart? Ah, yes.

The show must go on.