Tangibility by InsomniaticDreamer
(I always forget this -) disclaimer: I do not own Suite Life
Warning: This story includes self-harm...
She's running and running
and she doesn't know why.
(And it's strange because she's London Tipton, and she does not run.)
But she keeps on running,
even though
she doesn't know where she's running
or what she's running from.
(She wakes up and there are tears in her eyes and she doesn't know why)
She can only keep running
blindly, hoping she's going
in the right direction.
(Even though she doesn't know what the right direction is.)
She can feel his presence at the
end of her subconscious and she
cries out to him but he
never hears her.
(She didn't expect him to, anyway.)
But now
she's crying.
(though by now she's used to this kind of pain)
Why won't he listen?
Why can't he see her tears,
feel her pain? Why is he
so distant?
(And she knows the answer though she's sick of hearing it.)
He's too busy. Too
busy for her? His
daughter? His own flesh and
blood?
(Blood runs thicker than water.)
And oh, how it flows when she presses
the blade into her arm, savoring
it's blissful agony, the edge
glistening and sparkling.
(And we know how much she loves sparkles)
The light bouncing off the blade
is hypnotic and the
blood trickles satisfactorily.
And she loves this pain
because it, at least, is
real,
palpable,
tangible.
(Unlike her father)
Because she's running and
running with no direction.
She doesn't know where she's going
or where she's coming from.
But that's all right.
(Because even her dreams are more tangible than her father)