Arlene asks after Sam, and Sookie offers to get some ice: "I could use a break from all this anyhow," she says and stomps away; Arlene is totally offended, hitching up her dress and wandering away: "Well, thanks for having such a great time at my party!" Sookie heads inside and fills the bucket, and just as she's reaching for the second one, the lights go out. Not the electricity -- there's still the quiet hum of the cooler, and all the neon signs are bright -- but the lights themselves. She stares around for a bit, feeling for him with her mind, and the first thought she sees is a woman: young, beautiful, choking to death on a bathroom floor with his hands around her throat. Sookie drops to the floor and there's a long chase around all of Merlotte's, jumping over things and turning over huge metal racks in his way, a chase around a stainless work table that reminded everybody of Jurassic Park, taking off her shoes in the dark, various horror movie tropes and shadows. She sees the memory again: a girl named Cindy, betrayed and dying, all alone, just a girl, sliding down the wall.
Now, what'll we put on the screen that'll make the backs of their necks crawl?
A bird, its neck broken, feathers torn from its throat.
She kicks him, hard, and jumps through the kitchen window, out into the bar -- and runs into Sam at the door. She doesn't even see him as she gasps and moans and struggles, eyes blind, mutely struggling like a deer caught in wire, or a frightened bird. He calls her back to herself, and she tells him the Killer is there, inside, stalking her again. He makes to investigate, but she's an octopus of terror, grabbing desperately at him, begging him not to leave her alone, not to go, not to risk her. He wraps her in his arms and lets her weep and shake, and the Killer escapes.
Georgia couldn't even see straight, she was crying so hard. She got in her car and sped away from that house, from the scandalous whore and all the pain she represented, all that history of cheapness and self-destruction she thought she'd exorcised. It was raining. The last time she tried to kill herself it was a different girl. That was before the parties and the glory; that was a girl who had not yet been saved.
Tara's crying so hard and so desperately it sounds like screaming, her childish clown makeup running down her face, hair disheveled; she raises a plastic bottle of vodka to her mouth and sucks it down. Snake juice, for a mad girl. If she'd danced with the demon she could be free, and now it rides upon her back. She could have made peace with the pieces of herself, but chose to bury them instead. You forget to pray for the angel and then get angry when the angels don't pray for us, as though that's fair. As though you're allowed to forget your soul and the wonders inside it, until you get selfish and curious on your own timetable. She could have laughed, and really laughed with joy when she was happy, and cried when she was sad, and laughed about it again after that. She could have lived out a life as it was intended: one step at a time. But Tara's too smart for that; Tara deserves magic. And when she found out that crooked witches in crooked houses in the forest don't exist, she was disgusted. Where was the real magic? It felt like magic. Smelled like it, tasted like it. But in the sunlight it was all a mistake, a fake, a terrible betrayal. She wanted real magic, because she has no idea what that is. The madness and the wildness of real magic, Herne and Dionysus, the night that made you: true magic is abandon.