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Five bodies, each of them another trauma added to Levi's ever growing collection. After Petra's father stopped him on the way back into Wall Rose, Levi couldn't take it. he composed himself, and continued on. Going through the motions, memorials, funerals, talking to family. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. He's been through it a thousand times, not once is it easier.
Eventually, he's just numb. No feelings, No thoughts. They're all just memories now. He tells himself he'll get over it, just like he's told himself a thousand times. He won't. He never does. All the memories haunting him, threatening to surface from the void he's drowned them in. Maybe if he tries hard enough, the ghosts of his past will leave.
But ghosts won't leave. Levi just tries to drown them. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, since no one else can. He's alone, like usual. So he drinks. Downs the whiskey, calls himself pathetic. Slams his glass down on the table, pushes himself up, and strides to his desk.
Opening his drawer, he pulls out his old blades. Not used in awhile, he can't even remember the last time. Looking down at his arm, seeing bright pink scars still healing. Months then, he decides. He is Humanity's Strongest, yet can't even resist the temptation of some dumb blades.
Grabbing them from the drawer, he rolls up his sleeve and places his arm on the desk. Gripping his favorite blade tightly, he presses it into the underside of his arm. Violently dragging the arm holding the razor back, cutting skin open. Blood swells up, pouring over the cut. Dripping off his arm.
Rummaging around for a towel to wipe the blood off, some falls onto his desk. "Fucking shit." He curses to himself, Finally finding a towel, he furiously scrubs the blood off his desk and arm. Shit, why did it have to be him? Always the one surviving when so many more people deserve to live in his place. What he'd give to be someone, anyone else.
Too pathetic to cry, too strong to grieve. Always pretending nothing bothers him, always pretending to be a heartless cold bastard. It's tiring. He's tired, for fucks sake. Can't he get a break?! All the death, all the destruction. Not a moment's rest. Not for him, not for all his fallen comrades. So many deaths, people only left in memories.
He always thought he'd die on the battlefield, but moments like these he thinks the thing to finally take his life would be his own hands. He adds a few more cuts to his arm and starts to press the towel down on the worst ones to stop the bleeding
He bandages the cuts, making sure they're all nice and clean. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day, but all he can do is hope. Hope for the future, hope for those who died for their freedom.