Chapter 8: The Peanut Butter

There are different kinds of love and character traits to them, too. One. We can feel attracted to each other for bodily traits and just love to make each other orgasm and are lost in the sweaty tantalizing passionate temptation of the sensation itself, which is nice and just as addicting as love, even if it's not the thing itself.

Two. We can like each other into the depths of each other's nature, like every part and every flaw about one another, but don't ever touch or even have sexual intercourse, which is love as well, but only friendly love, not quite the thing itself.

Three. We can have our hearts being broken at the same places, feeling the same sad way about things and sharing our sadness, that's something like love, even if not the thing itself.

Four. And then we can love every aspect of one another, every good trait, every flaw, every look and every single freckle on each other's faces, be passionate about every shared moment together, even the most banal ones, be attracted to each other both sexually and emotionally, be a friend, a lover, a psychologist, a protector, a guardian and a viewer and observer of every single thing they do, just because all they do is so special and precious to you that you want nothing more than to keep them near you as close as you can and never let go. Your whole life becomes them and it's so worth losing your head over it. That's love, that's true unsuperficial, more than friendly, not just broken, devouring it all love, and that's exactly what I had with you.

"You're both the fire and the water that extinguishes it. You're the narrator, the protagonist, and the sidekick. You're the storyteller and the story told. You are somebody's something, but you are also your you."

(John Green, "Turtles All The Way Down")

When I found you, in the middle of the night and in the middle of the kitchen, I wasn't sure, if you were better or worse. At least you weren't cowering in a corner on the floor with an originated by anger pool of alcohol and broken glass next to you, but with only the familiar bottle in your hand. You were sitting on the table, not at it, staring at your hands and seeming to find something in them that bothered you. It really was a strange view I was getting, but I guess in strange times such is within the scope of normality. I slowly entered the room and eventually sat down on the chair in front of you. You were enthroned above me like a lonely king in a kingdom of sadness, your body throwing a shadow upon me I probably deserved.

I stared up at you, right into your eyes, which still didn't seem to really notice me. I discovered more color in your face than the days before, so I concluded that you must have slept at least for a few hours. I almost ached to ask you how you are, but I knew better than that, you hated that question. I don't know if it's, because you didn't want to answer it, or because you couldn't. Or perhaps you just didn't feel like it was important.

So instead I asked: "Peanut butter?"

Finally you noticed my presence, seemed to wake from whatever trance you had been in and shook your had in denial. For a moment you regarded my face, as if to discover completely new things in it. Then your hold around the bottle tightened and you led it to your mouth. I, though, put my hand half on you half on the Whiskey and stopped you, with a brassbound look that tried to advise you against it.

"Peanut butter." I then ordered and you gave up. I rose, quickly and trained made you the sandwich you needed and handed it to you. You looked at me with a likewise gaze as when we had met for the very first time, as if I was entirely insane, entirely causelessly cruel to you, as if I wasn't doing you a favor. But actually, it was clearly you, who was insane. And cruel to yourself. It was as if you were separated from your heart. Even when you were standing in the light, you always felt only the darkness.

"You're such a pain in the ass," you said with a voice like gravel, but a tiny trace of a smile sneaked onto your lips. I knew it was an insult, but I as well knew that it was much more a compliment.

"I know," I answered, when our eyes met and all the magic in them seemed to recharge. It's weird, how we always manage to share something so nice in the darkest hours and the biggest disasters and worst situations. No matter how bad we were, we could still build each other up like no one else could. As if we were a code nobody was able to crack, but us, an indecipherable cipher. And in our infinite cryptology that nobody understood we worked, in the teeth of all resistances. We were just better together.

"I know you are doing bad," it suddenly burst out of me, after a long while, and you looked up from your sandwich, which you stuffed in like you hadn't eaten in days. Then again, you probably really hadn't.

"I'm fine," you said, as if it wasn't a lie.

"No." I decided, "You are not. It's fine to grieve, it's fine you're having difficulties to deal with it, but -"

"I am dealing with it," you cut me off and even when your voice sounded calm and steady, I could hear the anger inside it like the loud buzz of an illuminated advertising board at night. Don't speak, when you should actually be yelling.

"Yes." I gave back, "No. You are not dealing with it, you drown it in alcohol. That at most counts as numbing the pain, though doesn't heal your wounds and your anger and your grief, Dean."

I let my words sink in for a couple of moments and found it hard to bear your thoughtful, but visibly irritated staring. It was as if you tried to make me explode with your mere eyes, because I had dared to disagree. And I wondered, why you were still thinking about it, when you already knew damn well that I was right.

"I thought, perhaps it's time to start hunting again," I suggested and your eyebrows knitted in incomprehension.

"What for? To get myself some injuries? To see people die? Or rather to kill someone, because oh right, I'm meant for that?"

I glanced at you for a moment, as if you had just offended me, when really, you had only offended yourself, and then said, "You know, Rowina once said, nothing makes wounds heal better than opening new ones."

"Oh, now we're listening to something Rowina, that bitch, said?" you fired back, your voice finally shaking with aggression. Your feelings were being felt, even when the wrong ones, but at least any of them.

"Just because we can't stand her, doesn't mean her words can't hold wisdom in them, Dean," I said. I really didn't want to discuss, whether or not Rowina was an adequate source for advice, but these of her words seemed to be suitable. I saw your pain and I just wanted you to see it, too, instead of incessantly only numbing it. Words weren't always my strength, so every now and then I had to use those of others. Even when language didn't come anywhere near explaining how you felt.

"One of the challenges with pain - physical or psychic - is that we can really only approach it through metaphor. It can't be represented the way a table or a body can. In some ways, pain is the opposite of language."

(John Green, "Turtles All The Way Down")