Sookie sits on Gran's porch in Gran's blanket -- her porch now, her blanket -- and watches the rain come down. Any other night he'd be coming here, she'd be going there. A week ago she didn't even know what it felt like. Now the night smells like him. She lights a candle in the kitchen, and makes a bouquet. This is a funeral. Roses, is that foxglove? I'm sure it means something but I don't know flowers on sight. She puts the candle in the window, to call him home. She heads out.
In the graveyard it's not raining anymore. She's wearing a yellow dress and no shoes; the bouquet for him is a riot of color. She kneels and clears away the rest of the leaves of ivy from his tombstone. "BELOVED HUSBAND - BRAVE SOLDIER." He died for neither, this time. She weeps and says goodbye: Another one gone. She takes it in, all alone. Again. No brother, no sister. No Bill. Just the rest of a life, back to being a monster, crazy Sookie, touched by grave dirt. She could be a fangbanger as long as he was there, making it worthwhile. Now she has nothing, even less than she had before he came. She'll go home to an empty house, and live there all her life, and no man will ever quiet the voices again. It was better before she met him, before she knew what it could be like, what it felt like to be free. It was better to live only part of a life, if the alternative is having parts of it ripped away. Without him, none of it was worth it. She's dirty after all.
She walks away slowly, at home in the night, looking around at the dark, and a hand reaches up from the cold ground, strong around her ankle, pulling her down. Down, where she belongs. Down into the dirt. She struggles, finally fighting, away from the mud and the filth and all the death, back into life, fighting for it... And he calls her name. He wasn't pulling her down at all. He was pulling himself up.
Do you feel my heart beating?
He's covered in dirt, naked as a dead thing. She stops struggling and looks at his face, covered in the cold, wet earth, and grabs him, pulling him toward her. He pulls her dress off as they kiss, wildly, and their hunger is a song to life and a brutal one. It's too passionate to watch, in the grave dirt, saying no to all that and yes to everything else. They're not pulling each other down; they're pulling each other up. And all the questions she was asking melt away in the air. The fangs come out and he darts at her neck, eyes on fire, hungry and nearly mindless, but she resists. "No, not the neck..." He looks around, panicking, hungry for release, and plunges his fangs into her shoulder, or her breast. It's a different kind of love this time, that they're making. He screams into the night.