Chapter 10: Disquiet
I remember. Another couple of days had passed and we weren't even close to okay. And the bunker that should be my home, felt more like a prison. I wanted out. Break out. Flee. Inside these grey walls, which were so well-known to me and so familiar, I sometimes wanted nothing more than to vanish. And every now and then I found myself in the big garage, just sitting in my car, alone and undisturbed, and even when it's senseless to sit in a parked car in the own garage, it made so much more sense to me than everything else.
And when I sat in my bed at night and couldn't sleep, I wished for kitchen and peanut butter sandwiches and Scotch. And you. And that made even less sense. I had a foggy idea you would sit there and wait for me, but I had decided not to come. I had decided not to need it. I didn't need anyone next to me and no one with me. And even when I couldn't deny that I missed being watched and having someone, who sees me and wants to protect me and calms and damps my aggressiveness and anger I had always had in me, in a positive way, I couldn't let it happen. I don't know what that It was, but I knew I didn't want it. I wanted to be free, and I didn't want to get lied to anymore, and I wanted out of my never-ending loop of disappointment. And for the first time, since I know you, I didn't care, whether I was a spot or a giant illuminated sign. The only thing I wanted to be was something that's surrounded by truth.
My bitter disrespect ate me up, and yet, it was the one thing that actually felt real. Our We was dying, because it was time. Not eternal anymore, not forever, not even for now. Dead and dark like space and the night and like everything bad in the world. And yet, I was scared I might miss it. Because no matter how bad something is, the end of it feels just as horrible and inconvenient as the end of something good. Because the end of something means 'never again' and the reason why we can't handle 'never again' is that we desperately cling to everything we can't have, and sometimes we want it only when it seems unreachable. Only when it's dying. And to know that I might still want it was more frightening than every monster ever having threatened my life. As if there was still this little flame, this tiny spark, which in fact was hardly burning, but could still inflame it all. And it wasn't the flame, but the possible major fire I was really afraid of.
Someone had to put it out, before it was too late. I stood up and walked towards the kitchen. You were sitting at the table as always and browsed the pages of whatever book. You looked at me. And I suddenly wasn't sure anymore, why I was here. Because it was all wrong between us, like an imbalance that threatened to turn us over, and I could hardly bear the chaos and I didn't know anymore, whether wiping the slate clean would save us all, or make it all even worse.
So I did what I do best and poured myself a glass of Scotch. I didn't care, why there was a brand new bottle of it in the kitchen and where it came from. I felt your stare even on my back and it was so loud and uncomfortable, even without sound. I felt the giant lump of emotions raising inside me and how it choked my throat, so I could barely breathe. But what that lump hadn't thought of was that I'm the champion of suppression, that I would beat it back where it had come from. I braced my arms on the cold stainless steel counter and closed my eyes, while I felt the Scotch run down my throat softly, numbing, calming, masquerading. And when I turned around, I had made it, my mask was perfect and watertight. I acted as if nothing ever happened, as if it was all fine, or even better, as if nothing mattered. My pretend indifference was complete and trained, and the longer I could sustain it, the more certain I would believe in it myself. I was quiet like a person, who is caught in a daydream, when really, inside me, everything was uneasy and I had the feeling of carrying the weight of the world.
I sat down at the table and took another sip of my glass. You looked at me, as if to be surprised, and I looked back. Really looked at you. Into your eyes. And hadn't I done that for a long time, at least it felt like a long time, and did I even find something like good memories in them, I still tried to rip holes into you, the same holes my wall had, cracks and cuts, almost like by a knife. And when I thought you were now untight enough, just as untight and ripped as I was, I grabbed for the book in front of you and eyeballed its cover for a moment. Turned its pages, maybe even tried to find a reason for why you read it.
But I didn't, and it didn't matter. I threw it back onto the table, loud and interrupting the silence lying above us, and gave you another look. I lifted my eyebrows, as if I wanted to ask something, but I didn't say a word. Because really, there wasn't anything I wanted to know anymore. I knew enough. That I didn't want to talk to you. That I was still unspeakably disappointed. That I felt like an idiot, who has wished for sun, although the whole world said it would rain. And it really did. It was raining inside our own little world and there seemed to be no end to it. And maybe I wanted to tell you all this and show you how I felt. But in the end, people lack courage too much. Courage to be, who they want to be, and to show, who they are.