Archive of Our Own ^beta

I need a father. I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to.

I talk to God, but the sky is empty.

- Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath -

With a nervous system wrecked by adrenaline and insides wrought with the sharp twist of turmoil, Mikasa honed in on her bedroom. Haunting the barracks corridor, she moved silently through the shadows until she reached her door. If no one saw her, and she made no sound, could she cease to exist? 

Passing the threshold of her bedroom, entering her safespace, she shut the door behind her.

Mikasa felt out of place.

She took off her uniform coat, throwing it at the chair by her desk, and removed her boots, dropping them haphazardly onto the floor. Surrounding her, those familiar four white walls were stained orange and pink by the dwindling sunlight bleeding through the window. 

Yesterday, Mikasa watched the sunset with her friends out in the horse fields. Under a cloudless sky, accompanied by a warm breeze, they bathed in an endless sea of green. The grass was soft beneath their palms, and it didn't matter that their hands would get dirty. Chains of daisies linked them together as one.

Tonight, Mikasa turned from the window and slipped into bed. She pulled the covers up as high as she could.

Tonight, in the dinner hall, amidst chatter and laughter that followed her here, it hit her that those men… 

Mikasa felt sick. It winded her like the recoil of a gun, and she took the nearest exit with a festering pit forming in the bottom of her stomach.

How punishing it was to have a body- to feel- to exist. To be seen. She trembled, on the brink of tears and paralysed by the lumps of ice clogging her veins. For their deaths, was living the hell she’d been sentenced to? 

Over the years, Mikasa overheard whispers of the truth of that day, but she ignored them, rejected that reality and focused on her duties. They were kidnappers and murderers and nothing more. 

Now, though… The Survey Corps had sealed Wall Maria and seen the sea. What more was there to do? To focus on? Anxiety of the future loomed, pressing harder on Mikasa with each day, but tonight, for whatever reason, that didn’t matter. No amount of distraction would be enough to keep her past at bay.

Ghosts called out to Mikasa from an open tomb that would not close (no matter her strength) until she lay with them. 

Why? Why did it matter? So many years had passed, and they were dead. Yet, even from beyond the grave, they taunted her, and in her memories, they thrived, alive and well. They wouldn’t die until she did. 

As much as Mikasa wished she could forget, she could recall what he’d said like it was moments ago:

“We’re gonna auction her off to the rich perverts at the capital’s underground market.”

Back then, she didn’t understand what he meant. She was a child- why would she?  

Mikasa couldn’t say she felt like a child anymore; she wanted to grow up as fast as she could to become as strong as her mother, who fought without hesitation. 

Still, she curled up smaller and pulled the covers over her head, pressing a palm to her mouth and wishing she could talk to her mom and dad. In the aftermath of waking up, she just wanted to follow that familiar path to their room, climb into bed between them and cuddle up, safe and sound. 

Yet, here Mikasa was, fighting to ignore how annoying it was that her hair was touching her cheeks and condemned to how her clothes felt too close to her skin- she wasn’t overheating, but her uniform shirt and pants overwhelmed her in a way that made her want to rip them off or scream or both. 

Throwing her covers aside, she got out of bed, grabbing a hair tie off the bedside table. Running her hands through her hair, Mikasa tied as much of it back as she could. Still, her bangs fell in her face. Of course they would. Why would today be different?

Yanking open the bedside table drawer, she rifled through it in search of hairclips, huffing out her nose. What was all this shit anyway? When did she get so much stuff? Did she even need all of this? 

Gritting her teeth, Mikasa began grabbing things at random and throwing them onto her bed. Bits of paper, a seashell, coins, dried flowers, pebbles, small balls of wool and knitting needles- where were her hairclips? She always kept them in this drawer, so why couldn’t she find them? 

Why was today different? Why did it matter? It didn’t happen because she and Eren killed them. So why did it matter what could have happened? It was stupid. How irremediably stupid she was being. 

Maybe, she just wanted to be more of a victim than she was. 

Shoving the drawer closed, Mikasa gritted her teeth, unwrapping Eren’s scarf and tossing it onto her bed. Too much- it’s too much- like the burn of rope on her skin, and she pulled her shirt from her pants, undoing the buttons as fast as she could with shaking hands. 

If only Sasha didn’t have such good hearing, Mikasa would thrust everything from her bed and scream into her pillow until her throat was raw. 

Wasn’t that a bit dramatic, though? They never got the chance to sell her, so why was she so upset? 

No one touched her. No one hurt her. How could she feel violated when nothing happened to begin with? And they were dead, so what use was her anger? 

Throwing her shirt to the floor, Mikasa buried her face in her hands. There was no use being upset about hypothetical scenarios when there were people- women and girls suffering that and so much worse. 

Still, she couldn’t help replaying it in her mind, how close they were to her- in the same room, within four feet- one of them manhandled her, hit her, tied her up and kicked her. They were right there, and if it wasn’t for Eren…

If only she could’ve been the one to kill them all. No- did she mean that? Did she want them dead?

What was the point in thinking about it? She was upsetting herself more and more, and for what reason? Why was she so angry? Shouldn’t she be glad they’re dead? They can’t hurt her or anyone else again. 

Why wasn’t that enough?

Still, in death, they escaped punishment, while Mikasa was forced to live on and suffer for the crime of existing. How was that fair?

Skin flushing hot, she shoved her pants and underwear down, kicking them away along with her socks, before she removed her bra and threw it to the floor. As Mikasa moved to her closet in search of looser clothing, she caught a glimpse of her naked self in the wall mirror and cringed, repulsed by her body, from her breasts to mere skin.

Every feature her body claimed defied her, caging her into womanhood. 

If only she could shed herself into nothingness. Would that free her from her curse? 

Opening her closet, Mikasa found a nightdress, long and loose-fitting; she pulled it over her head, slipped her arms through the sleeves and let it drop around her. 

“She’s the girl who got kidnapped by sex traffickers.”

It was a statement uttered behind her back by comrades and superiors alike, always preceding discussion about how ‘strong’ or ‘talented’ she was, because Mikasa could never be without a flaw that devalued her too. 

In the end, was that all that defined her? Suddenly, it felt as if the past seven years had been dictated by those three men, even in death. Even now, they were upsetting her. With every passing second, she realised more and more what they'd robbed her of. 

Her parents; her girlhood; weeks, months and years of her life swallowed by that endless well of mourning. It overflowed, and it drowned her.

Now and then, Mikasa wished she could go back to before that day, wanting nothing more than to be her whole self, not the husk of anxiety she’d become. 

She whimpered, sniffled, and cursed the hot tears trailing over her cheeks, catching in her bangs that now clung to her skin- her skin that burned and itched in a way she couldn't scratch. Not even a shower could free her from the remnants of dust claiming that abandoned cabin and all within it, filling her lungs until she coughed and choked. 

Dinner was being served, yet here she was, abandoning her duties to have a meltdown because those words had finally stripped away her grief-hardened skin, clawing into sinew and muscle and perforating the surface of her organs.

If she died tonight, would that be so bad? 

If Mikasa were a better soldier, would she be able to grit her teeth and bear the humiliation?

To be labelled the victim meant that person had conceptualised that reality- considered what happened and what could have happened.

Dressed in many or few words, with or without context, but always laced with judgement, over and over, Mikasa got reminded that in the heads of others, a version of her existed, living the hell she narrowly escaped.

Herself, as a child, whom she could not protect, even now. Herself, stolen away, held captive in unreachable places. 

It wasn't real. It was all in her head. 

Maybe the jury was right, though. She was the girl who got kidnapped by human traffickers- three men who decided her fate was to be an object, bought and sold and raped for profit until she died. And if she bore children, would they be people? 

It defined her. It always would. There was no escaping their noose. At any moment, the ground would drop from beneath Mikasa, and her neck would break.

Would that be enough to free her child self? Or would that damn her to an eternity of suffering in yet another world where she couldn’t escape? One more permanent than fleeting thoughts in the minds of others.

A tap at the door startled Mikasa. 

Why the fuck couldn’t people leave her alone? Her skin prickled as she clenched her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest. If she stayed quiet, would they go away?

Slowly, the door opened, and Eren poked his head around the corner, her name dying on his lips as he caught her gaze. 

God, Mikasa wanted to scream- to throw something at him- tell him to leave her the fuck alone- but why? He’d done nothing wrong. 

If anything, she brought him suffering. If not for her, Eren would never have dirtied his hands with blood, forced to bear that necklace of bruises around his throat because she couldn’t react quickly enough. He almost died to save her, but Mikasa could never understand why. She wasn’t worth saving. 

From that day onwards, her existence was no more than a punishment to everyone around her. She was just that kind of person.

Eren frowned, about to speak when Mikasa cut him off.

“What?” She winced at the harshness of her tone. How fast could she make him hate her? She’d learn the answer soon enough. 

“I came to see if you were coming back for dinner,” he said, voice low as he stepped inside, hands buried in his pockets. The sunset painted him rosy and golden, softening the dark circles under his eyes and the deep black of his hooded jacket. 

Eren had a day off today. He said he spent most of it sleeping, and he ate a little for lunch, but he wasn't very hungry. On days off, he never was. 

Pushing her bangs out of her face, Mikasa wiped her cheeks. If only she’d never listened to those damned whispers. “I was looking for hairclips.” Her jaw ached, chest painfully tight, crushing her lungs. 

Glancing around her room, Eren walked over to her desk, picking up her green coat and straightening it out before he folded it, setting it over the back of the desk chair. Then, he lifted a small glass jar, now visible to them both. 

Turning to her, Eren said, “These?” Nothing about his expression (concern) nor his tone (uncertainty) conveyed amusement, but Mikasa’s cheeks flushed, and she recoiled as if he’d openly mocked her.

Firmly, she said, “No,” and looked at the mess on her bed. Yes, those, but to admit that would only further cement her as pathetic. 

What kind of person gets so upset that they storm off to their room and take off their clothes? How ridiculous was it that wearing clothes- something she did every single day overwhelmed her? 

Approaching Mikasa, Eren held out the jar of hairclips. “Use these for now, and I’ll look for the others.” He humoured her, but they both knew she didn’t have others. 

Without uncrossing her arms, Mikasa reached for the jar, keeping her gaze low. If she had the energy, she might banish him- tell him to get the fuck out her room and stop touching her shit- prove to him the mistake he made in saving her. 

Eren held onto the jar for a split second longer than necessary before he relinquished it. Mikasa could feel the weight of his gaze, studying her, washing over her skin. 

The silence dragged in eternal seconds before he turned towards her bed. “Are you not feeling well?” Carefully, Eren began gathering her mess in steady hands. 

Closing her eyes, Mikasa took a shaky breath, working up the strength to whisper, “I’m fine.”

Returning her items to the nightstand drawer, he sent a pointed look her way, softly speaking, “Liar.” 

She wasn’t sure how to react or respond, bound to a paralysed silence by forces bigger than her. Crushing her. Burying her. Now, they’d stolen her voice, too. 

With her belongings tidied away, Eren closed the drawer and returned his attention to her bed. “Are you going to bed already?” He looked at her. 

Mikasa half-shrugged.

“They haven't finished serving dinner, yet, but-" He paused, glancing away, and she followed his gaze to her clothes scattered across the floor. "If you’re not feeling well, I’ll let the Captain know and take on whatever duties he gave you for the evening.” 

Mikasa nodded, and then silence descended upon them, trapping them in a stalemate.

Was Eren going to ask her what the problem was? Should she be grateful he hadn’t? But why hadn’t he? Didn’t he care? 

Movement caught her eye, and Mikasa lifted her gaze to see him sitting on the edge of her bed. Picking up his scarf, he pulled the worn cotton material into his lap. It pooled in Eren's palm and across his thighs. “Where do you want this to go?”

Taking a deep breath, she moved to stand in front of him. With newfound strength, Mikasa unfolded her arms to hold out her free hand. “I’ll take it,” she said, recovering some of herself. 

Humming, Eren lifted the scarf, and she took it in her hand, revelling in its softness against her palm and fingers. 

It was yet another reminder of that day, but never a burdensome one. Even splashed with blood or muddied with tears, his scarf kept her warm, down to the bones. 

Holding it to her chest, Mikasa settled beside Eren on the bed. His scarf was an extension of him; wearing it meant keeping him close, always wrapped in that familiar safety and comfort he offered in her grief. 

More than a scarf, it was a lifeline, holding her together like the stitching of a stuffed doll. 

In a murmur, Mikasa spoke, “Did you know who they were?” Her stare fixed on the wooden floorboards, hard and cold beneath her bare feet. 

Tentatively, quietly, Eren asked, “Who?”

“Human traffickers.” She turned to him, heart aching, bleeding out of her chest. Anger swelled in her stomach like the turn of a tide; stress and tension lit like fire in her muscles. 

Eren’s eyes widened, then he bowed his head and averted his gaze. “Not back then.” 

Shutting her eyes, Mikasa set the jar of hairpins on the bed beside her to grip his scarf tightly with both hands. 

His voice lowered, and he dared to glance her way. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you.” 

A shuddered breath escaped Mikasa, shaking her as a wave of exhaustion wiped out the remains of her resolve. It was her fault, wasn’t it? How could she blame Eren for not telling her when she’d chosen to ignore it? 

If anything, he was the one person who knew the truth of what happened, beyond gossip and speculation. Eren saw the bodies of her parents, the desecration of what was once her house. He saw the cabin they’d hidden her in; her, tied up on the floor. Eren killed two of them, too. For her. And he gave Mikasa the strength to kill the third man. 

Why was it that she wanted nothing more than to push him away? The one who accepted her new self; the one who risked his life for her; the one she loved. 

“I should’ve told you,” Eren said, clenching his fist in his lap, and his voice wavered, “I’m sorry.” Condemned by his own struggles, Mikasa realised this was the most emotion she’d seen him express all week. 

“It’s not your fault.” Shifting closer, she placed her hand on top of his fist. 

Did he suffer for that day, too? By looking at him, she couldn’t tell. Below the surface of Eren’s skin, like her, did other marks of that day remain? Ones that lingered past the healing of his bruises? Did it scare him, too, thinking about what could've happened if he'd failed? 

Relaxing his fist, Eren turned his hand to meet hers, palm-to-palm. 

Back then, Mikasa was too young to understand it all. To face the truth now was to relive the violation of her autonomy and to face that there was no chance of returning to before. 

That day, she died, alongside her parents. Mikasa would never get them, or her old self, back. 

A chill ran through her, and she settled her head against Eren’s shoulder. He squeezed her hand. 

Swallowing the heavy lump in her throat, she whispered, “I wish it had never happened.” Mikasa’s voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes, and that lump pressed on her chest as she added, “I just want it to be over.”

But it would never be over. Not for as long as she lived. Even in death, Mikasa wasn’t sure she’d find peace. It was an isolation more painful than growing up in the mountains alone. 

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Eren pulled her closer, speaking softly into her hair, “Me too.” 

She let go of his scarf, nestling into his chest in shuddered breaths. The pain in her chest was insurmountable. It was a flurry of fear and grief in the form of a knife, stabbing and twisting, cutting her open and leaving her to bleed.

In the end, what use was it to be upset about what was only a possibility? It didn’t happen, and they were dead, so it didn’t matter.

But life wasn’t so black and white- Mikasa knew that. Just because it didn't happen then didn't mean it could never happen in future. Maybe that was what upset her most of all.