A/N: This is in the POV of Savannah from Prince of Tides. I do not own The Prince of Tides, Pat Conroy does. Tell me what you think!
As our hands touched, I felt my shattered self existence, hidden in the deepest corners of my being, grow muddier. I put it back together once, but the stitches and seals were weak. I hate myself, but love myself all the same. My failures may constitute wallowing and self-pity, but my successes? What do they constitute in the eye of the beholder? And who is this beholder? Is it me, Savannah, or am I only a pawn in the sickened pleasures of unknown.
As our fingers caressed, I tried to attack the demons that came to haunt me when sunflowers and blue jays had been put to rest. The innocence I once knew - at least I thought I knew – was swallowed by the serpents and tides.
As our fingers intertwined, connected, a searing ache in my temple reminded me of the connections I lost with those whom I love. Plath, they call me. Plath I am not. Or at least I do not want to be. Or do I? I've done it so many times it has become a routine. In a globe covered with uncertainties, it is so hard to discern your own thoughts from the thoughts of others.
Our hands are not touching. They never did. I came so close, but found myself running from the light, again and again. If you hide from the darkness, yet run from the light, what is left for a poor lost soul?