FACADE - eren yeager

one

You were used to it by now— the blood going doing the drain, the scrubbing, even the twisted, distorted images flooding your brain— after a dozen or so times, it felt automatic. You washed your hands until they burned, the cheap soap bubbling on the surface of your skin but failing to remove the stains turned to scars. Truthfully, you could only ever wash the surface. The blood would go down the drain with the sound of the running water, leaving your hands intact for the world to see. But to you, they would permanently be stained. No matter how hard you scrubbed, you'd always see blood. You were used to it, but you hated it nonetheless. The act of killing had somewhat lost all of its significance; you no longer saw it as taking a life but rather as saving your own, and that mortified you. You could slowly sense yourself becoming entirely numb; your humanity hung by what seemed to be a thread, and every bag of coins earned thinned that thread further.

Life in Marley was hard.

If it weren't for your shitty, underpaid job serving drunken men in a tavern, you wouldn't have a roof over your head. You could feed yourself twice a day, clothe yourself, and sleep off the ground, but that was it. The winters were still painfully long and cold– most days, you lacked food and relied on the tip you made at the tavern. You hated it. You absolutely hated having to rely on strangers to fulfill your basic needs. Your nights were filled with polite nods and bitter smiles; you'd become so used to biting your tongue for the sake of a few coins. But that was the world as you knew it; life here was unfair, and unless you were of royal descent, chances are you'd struggle your entire life.

That is why you and your only friend, Pieck, started eliminating people for money. It started out theoretical, a simple what if. But you were easy to convince; the target was a criminal, all-around terrible human being, and the money was good— so good, the thought of taking a life didn't seem completely horrid. After all, you were miserable, starving, and freezing during the colder seasons. You desperately needed the money, and as the years progressed, you were ready to do anything to stop having to chase rabbits around at dusk in 20 below zero weather to have food on the table for the week.

That day, it seemed even colder than usual. The sky was clear and turning into hues of lilac, the sun slowly following its trajectory below the horizon. That was another thing you hated about winter: it got dark relatively early and made your wanders into the woods a lot scarier. You finished chopping another tree trunk into smaller pieces, placed them onto your carrier, and secured it to your back, ready to hit the road.

The snow crammed under your boots as you made your way down the path you'd previously taken. Steam escaped your lips, and as you walked, you revelled in the contrast it created with the sky. Winter was pretty, but it was tough. You particularly enjoyed the snow's brilliance when it met with the sunlight– it garnished treetops and made evergreens glimmer. Still, beauty was rather hard to admire when you had to ensure your survival.

The silence was peaceful; it allowed you a few hours with yourself, and you enjoyed the serenity. It was a moment away from the chaos, from reality.

You swung open the door of the tavern, saluting Hannes with a nod of your head. You were met with an instant wave of warmth as you approached the fireplace to drop the wood you had just chopped. The comfort emanating from the flames made it tempting to spend the night sitting in front of it with a cup of tea, but the clink of glasses reminded you of where you were. You frowned, backing away from the soothing heat of the fire.

"You're late. Hurry," he said calmly from behind the bar, not raising his gaze from the beer pint he was wiping dry. There was no one else in the tavern, but judging by the darkness that had set outside, it was only a matter of time before they'd come swarming in.