Chapter 13: Seeing

It was very early in the morning, when I, leaning against a wall, was standing in your room. Outside the sunrise just began and it dipped the light in a glowing pink that couldn't reach your room without windows. I made a few steps through the room and eyeballed your things. The weapons on the wall, which you had hung up there as some kind of decoration, as if you loved them, as if they were what you find beautiful. And probably there was a part of you that actually valued them, this collection of tools, which are made to kill, or at least to hurt. That part desired them, watched them, took care of them like they were children, like they were worth something. But I know, even when you are undeniably good at it, you're not destined to kill. You're destined to save. And even when those weapons are a necessary instrument for that, you don't need them to save me.

I kept on wandering around and found the few photographs on your table. The picture of you and Mary. You were so little and innocent on it. Hadn't known, what would come, what burden would be put upon you. You hadn't even known about all the monsters there were in the world. You hadn't known about me. And still, you had known about angels and that they would watch over you, because your mother had told you every night before you had gone to sleep. And here I was and watched over you.

I went on and took John's diary. Felt its brown leather cover and the weight of the pages, which hold so much history inside them. And just when I wanted to open it, like I do it every now and then to remember all the things I know about you and your family, I sensed your breathing changing and your body moving. I winced, put back the book hastily and disguised my presence with invisibility. I would scare you to death, would you open your eyes and find me in the middle of your room. You sat up and looked around. I found insecurity in your eyes, even when it was too dark to really interpret it. I sensed you had the feeling someone was here, the fear that flared up inside you for a little moment. But you shook it off and dared to have a look at the clock. One minute after six.

"True terror isn't being scared; it's not having a choice on the matter."

(John Green, "Turtles all the Way Down")

And I didn't, and still don't. I have no other choice than to watch over you, like your mother has promised to you. A promise must be kept, even when I am not the one, who's made it. I have to do everything, know everything about you, learn everything about you, because only then, I think, can I be the protector you need and deserve. I admit, it's not the whole truth. I enjoy watching you, no, I love it even. And I have this feeling inside of me, it's hard to explain. A feeling that demands to be with you, that demands to be a part of you. Like a drug it pushes me and demands for more and even more, and I don't have the strength and even less the will to withstand it. Because you are my monster, and I need to study you. And I need your closeness like I need air to breathe. And so you're right after all. I need you.

I am not sure, if I know what love is. But if I had a vision of it, perhaps a small idea or an assembled puzzle out of experiences and observations I had made, had I all of that, I would fear that it is you. And if I had the courage to quicken it all, to fast-forward our story to see, where it went, and did I know what I had to do for that, I would have done it. But then again, sometimes the road is much more beautiful than the finish line. And so I observed your story and saw how I was able to become a part of it, and I realized, that everything I did, as horrible as it sometimes was, and as much you would hate me for it, if you knew, was right, and fantastic. Because I have seen the road and changed it in a way that made you go it right. Like signs, which lead you to the right direction, like guideposts, which made your road better.

"I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell. Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. (…) You think that you're the painter, but you're the canvas."

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

You rubbed your eyes and got up. Sleepily you slurped into the hallways and towards the kitchen. You would get yourself coffee and start the day how I latterly ended it. With a bittersweet taste on your tongue. I followed you unnoticed and found you in that very kitchen, stopping, as if you searched for something.

"Cas?" you breathed into the room with a gravely voice.

"Cas?" a bit louder. I did a few steps backwards into the hallways, made myself visible, first for the world, then for you.

"Yes?" I said, as if I just now appeared here. You turned around and the corners of your mouth winced, as if you held back a smile.

"Coffee?" you asked after a couple of seconds.

"Yes"

You turned on the coffeemaker and got two cups out of one of the cupboards. As we sat down at the table, our gazes met again and the green of your eyes took hold of me, like it does every day. You stared at me, but didn't stare me down, but into me. At least that's what it felt like. And it was as if I finally saw all of you, as if I could see directly into your head, into your soul, into every single of your molecules. And it was, as if you could, too.

"I mean, anybody can look at you. It's quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see."

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