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Iris.
That's the simple, short word that struck his mind. Iris. It’d been the color of the water, reflecting on the too-bright bulb that sat above the bathroom mirror. It was iris— the color of his knuckles as he let his fingers grip the sink with fervour and memory.
Iris.
Pigment. The first time he’d dipped those same hands into the ocean– right along the invisible corpses of his comrades, what he’d longed to see since they were children. The salt lakes, the book he held, the same. Sometimes the ocean was so beautifully blue, he’d wished to drown in it.
Iris.
When he looked at me, is that what he saw? His were similar to the ocean as well, but the glint behind it were more so like the fiery lakes he’d read about with him so long back.
Sacrifice.
Their lives. Your dignity. My will— somebody with a body, a small, lanky body like mine was never destined to be in a position of honour like this. Will they ever understand you like I did? Do they know how you were when you were nothing?
Sacrifice.
I wish I knew what you were like now, when you were nothing. I don’t. She doesn’t, either. Maybe it was the sins of our ancestors, and the sin of the power you were forced upon— that fated it to be this way. Your suffering was the greatest sacrifice we had.
Sacrifice.
Do you remember when she’d hold you from behind like your mother during your episodes? Do you remember when you’d hold me from behind like your mother during your episodes? I wonder how you’re doing– I wonder if you guys have met in hell, just yet.
You.
Your life was full of contradictions. You who hated oppression more than anything, an oppressor. Do you remember how passionate you were about ending titankind? Only to be one yourself, and soon you became on good terms with her who made them. Cattle, I remember you called me right after we entered Maria.
You.
I know I’ve never been one to value the good or bad ideology when it comes to our morality, but I miss you– and I feel like that's something I should be ashamed of. I should be. I’m not.
You.
I still feel your hand. I still remember heaving in the dark of the barracks– I still remember the feel of your hand. The regrown one– I wish I remembered the feel of the hand that’d been bitten right off in front of me as I watched you die for the first time.
Did you feel the same way as me at that moment? The first time you watched me die?
Me.
We were the last people who should have ever been granted that power, I’ve come to realize. The first time I’d transformed, I realized how different we were. I didn’t want to hear the screams of the people I’d trampled on, while your ears were elongated as if you wanted to hear more. You had no lips, while mine were still intact. I had no throat, and yours was full– like I’d been the words, and you’d been the voice.
Me.
The more we grew, the more your fire died down. The more you died, the more dignity you lost, the more remorse and guilt that laid on your stained shoulders. I remember when it was soft— its flame angry, but you were more like a campfire. I’d been golden brown with your innocence, and now you’ve burnt me black.
Me.
The door’s just opened. I know she’s home, but I don’t want to leave the familiarity of this state. So terrified– but the adrenaline is so authentically like you.
Let me stay. Just for a minute more, okay?