Which, I mean, is simply not true. A run of fifteen shitty years is impressive. But then the next day comes, and the day after that, and there's no amount or kind of love that should keep you in a house where they brain you with liquor bottles. Demon or not. You can't wipe away the past or stab the demon to death, but it's still your responsibility to keep walking. You can dance with her; you can take her into your body; you can tell just yourself the secret if no one else will do; you can love her, because she is you, and you can remember that there isn't a room in your house that is closed to you, or too painful to eventually walk around inside. These are the options, and they have nothing to do with anybody but you, and the covenants you make with yourself. That whole speech was in the past tense, and that's not where we live now.
Lettie Mae weeps, horrified to hear it, knowing twenty years of guilt and shame, but stays strong in the onslaught. She knows she's doing the right thing, and she is doing the right thing. She begs Tara to stop, but Tara won't; Tara unleashes everything she has like Pandora's Box: "And the first time I'm in trouble, you turn your back on the one person who's always stood by you. And you call yourself a Christian? Fuck you. You're not my mother. Get out of my sight, you evil bitch. You don't love me, and you never did." That's all of it. Every thing she ever feared; every thing they ever feared separately and together, out on the table: that's the demon. This is the exorcism. Because I'll tell you this -- as Lettie Mae's stumbling away through her tears, promising that one day Tara will she's doing the proper, the loving, the motherly thing -- you look down in Pandora's Box and there's one thing left, and that's hope. Tara didn't say "Nancy," to her mother, and left her with hope. And that is good enough for me.
Amy and Jason kiss, on his black sheets; the sun and rain come together, pouring down on them in bed; he feels it on his lips; she jumps on the mattress, like an earthquake; they run out, through the walls that no longer exist, into a lovely green field, and in the dining room, the candles are still burning on the table -- because they are idiot druggies -- when the Killer enters -- he walks slowly through Jason's house as they dance, in the rain and the sun, him in his underwear and her in a simple white shift, playing love games, zooming through the lush grass and the warm rain and a thousand rainbows, and the Killer enters their bedroom, crushing the V vial and stopping short; he watches them on the bed, holding hands across the sheets as they sleep; they cheer, and play like children, rolling in the grass, laughing at the wide-open sunshine; he puts her on his shoulders and runs through rainbows, driven by love in this house and this bed and in the infinite unfurling of the beauty and the light within them both, and the Killer removes his belt as Jason kisses her in the rain, and their love is a song as loud as the world, and the Killer loops the belt around her neck, and she strangles as Jason kisses her, in the sun and rain, and he tosses her into the air, because they can fly, and she rises on the breeze in the sun and the rain and he falls to the ground, laughing, with the sun on his skin. And then she's gone.