Archive of Our Own ^beta

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DISCLAMER:

All original SVM Characters belong to Charlaine Harris I’m just messing with them.

All lyrics belong to the artists mentioned to the best of my knowledge.

Some context and events have been directly taken from SVM pre DEA ending to be able to tell my narrative from other POVs but everything else including Fanart is my own unless specified.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Don’t sue me, I’m just having fun here.  Don’t bind and sell this, don’t download and distribute for profit.

I shouldn’t even have to say this but do not profit off this, it is bad to do so. Please don’t post this Fic on other sites, I like it here.

This Fanfic contains graphic violence, sexual and triggering content.

It is not intended to be read by anyone under the age of legal adulthood. All characters depicted herein are over 18 years of age.

This is not to be used as a resource, the activities, scenes, characters, and relationships depicted within are purely fictional.

In real life scenes and relationships within should not be romanticise, they would be considered dangerous and harming, both physically and emotionally.

Your mental health is important to me so please consider your well-being before falling down this rabbit hole with me, as it can be triggering and harmful.

Reader discretion is strongly advised if you find the following triggering:

Graphic Depictions Of:

Violence, Domestic abuse. Degrading relationships

Physical, mental and emotional abuse

Mental Illnesses, Depression, Suicidal thoughts and Suicide.

Grief, loss, terminal illnesses and death

Sexual assault, non-consent

Kinks and Fetishes

Vulgar and Derogatory language

Blasphemy.

Dear Nana,

You may have passed on, but your memories will always live on,

They will be our stories now.

🖤

PART ONE: THE BEGINING OF OLD ENDINGS

Once upon a time considered telepathy as a disability, this cursed thing that made me different but the truth my mind was the disease not this thing that involuntarily touched others, poisoned to believe the lies, the untruths, trained by sickness. I grew up sick—sick with yearning, sick with the weight of dreams that were never mine to carry. The fairy tales I clung to were poisoned chalices, their sweetness masking the bitterness beneath. I was taught that love was a crucifixion, that only through suffering could it be sanctified, that love could only be black and white that it could be defined only by the standard of others beliefs. And I believed it. I believed it so fiercely that I carved the belief into my soul, turning my heart into a sacrificial lamb, bleeding for a love that would never heal, only destroy. That sickness—rooted not in my body but in the marrow of my being—became the silent architect of my undoing.

I didn’t see the tragedy as it unfolded. To me, it was life, it was love—it was all I thought I deserved. I mistook the pain for passion, the wounds for proof that I was alive. And so, I fed the beast within me, that insatiable, ravenous thing that thrived on my suffering. Every betrayal was a feast, every lie a banquet. It grew stronger with every piece of myself I surrendered, until there was nothing left but the hollow echo of who I used to be.

Bon Temps was a mirage, a cruel illusion that promised salvation but delivered ruin. The men I trusted, the ones I gave my heart to—they weren’t saviours. They were storms, tearing through my life with reckless abandon. I thought I could hold onto them, thought love meant bearing their secrets, no matter how they corroded me from the inside out. But those secrets were chains, and I was their prisoner. Keeping them cost me everything—my innocence, my hope, and the fragile remnants of the girl I once was.

That’s the cruelty of reality. Unlike the stories I adored, there are no second chances, no rewrites. By the time you realize you’re living a love story, it’s already over. The flames have consumed it, leaving only ash and regret. That was my story—the story I wrote with trembling hands and a shattered heart. I thought I was chasing love, but all I found was a slow, excruciating punishment.

Looking back, I see it clearly now: the sickness wasn’t something that happened to me. It was something I chose, something I invited in. I wanted the pain, craved the heartbreak, begged for the tragedy. And when it came, it was merciless. It didn’t just destroy me—it destroyed everyone who dared to love me. It left us all broken, haunted by the echoes of a story that should never have been told.

It began with a single, innocent choice—a curiosity, a whisper of temptation. Like the first domino falling, it set off a chain reaction that I couldn’t stop. A curiosity, a death, a murder, a bond, a twist in fate, a wish, a kiss, a sentence to devastation. Each moment, each decision, was another domino, toppling the next with relentless inevitability. I watched it all collapse, powerless to stop it, as the life I knew crumbled into ruin.

The weight of those falling dominoes crushed me, each one a reminder of the choices I couldn’t take back. I wanted to reach out, to catch just one before it fell, but it was too late. The cascade was unstoppable, a torrent of destruction that swept away everything in its path. Relationships shattered, dreams dissolved, and the fragile foundation I had built my life upon was reduced to rubble.

As the final domino fell, I stood amidst the wreckage, hollow and broken. The silence that followed was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed me. In that silence, I understood the truth: the smallest choices can unravel the grandest dreams, and the weight of regret is a burden that never lifts.

I’m Sookie Stackhouse, and I am the wreckage of my own making.

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CHAPTER TWO: BIG GIRLS DONT CRY

Twenty-one years earlier: 22nd October 2002, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE:

I sat in my usual booth at Merlotte’s, the familiar crackle of the worn leather seat grounding me, though it did little to quiet the storm inside. The coffee in front of me was lukewarm, the cream swirling into patterns that seemed almost mocking. Everything felt off. Stale. Wrong. I tried to tell myself it was just another night, but the truth was etched into my bones: nothing had been the same since Eric left.

No, Eric wasn’t dead—not in the way people mean it, well I guess they do with him being a Vampire an all but not dead, dead, anyway. But he might as well have been. Freyda, Queen of Oklahoma, had stolen him from me, her and Eric’s sire Appius Livius Ocella wrapping him up in an arranged marriage so cruel, it felt like a punishment. And all I could think about was the moment I made the wish—the wish that brought Sam back from the dead, saving his life at the expense of Eric’s freedom.

The wish I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was saving us both, his life, my conscience. But as the power of the wish rippled through me, Eric’s safety slipped away, chained forever to Freyda’s side. The moment she claimed him was like a dagger to my heart—a dagger I had wielded myself.

The fluorescent lights above hummed relentlessly, casting a sterile glow over the diner. It was quiet tonight, almost eerily so. I traced the rim of my coffee cup, my wrist brushing against the sleeve of my shirt. The bruise was still there, aching, a physical reminder of everything I’d sacrificed. Or destroyed. The green and blue mark taunted me hidden beneath the heavy cotton fabric, it was an accident, an over reaction but still Sam’s grip on my wrist had been so tight, his desperation so palpable, it was a mistake, he, Sam.. Sam would never hurt me, this morning we were both tired, so so tired and I.. Joe was just a nice guy maybe I seemed to friendly, Sam’s been through a lot I’ve been through a lot.. maybe.. Tara slid into the booth across from me, her face a mixture of concern and frustration. “Still having nightmares?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence and psychological noise plaguing my mind.

I nodded, staring into the swirling cream. “Every night. Same dream. Same regrets.” My voice cracked as I spoke, and I instinctively rubbed my wrist. I couldn’t shake the image of Eric’s face when I told him what I had done—the shock, the anger, the betrayal. He hadn’t said a word; he didn’t need to. His silence was louder than any accusation.

Tara leaned in, her gaze unwavering. “You know it’s not your fault, right? What happened to Eric—it wasn’t your choice. It was Freyda. She’s the one who did this and uhh Occa Appa.. His sire. And I’m sure Eric could have found some way out of it surely Sookie” that’s what I thought too, but Eric never wanted to be imprisoned again he would get out of it.. No, I knew he couldn’t I always knew he couldn’t his desperation, it.. he needed me. He really fucking needed me, I laughed bitterly. “I made the wish, Tara. I brought Sam back. And in doing so, I let Eric go. Freyda might’ve sealed his fate, but I handed him over willingly. I thought I was saving a life, but all I did was ruin one.”

Tara’s hand settled over mine, grounding me. “You did what you thought was right. You were trying to save someone you care about. That doesn’t make you the villain.” I didn’t agree, I thought but I didn’t disagree either I couldn’t stand by and let Sam die, I still wouldn’t but I should have help Eric first I was.. Jealous maybe, petty and cruel, I had something so precious in the palm of my hands but still I didn’t help him, I refused to save him, I never returned his favours.

I pulled my hand away, the guilt too heavy to bear. “But maybe it does. I keep thinking... if I’d been stronger, smarter—if I’d wished better—” My voice faltered. I wasn’t sure anymore if I was talking about Sam, or Eric, or myself.

Tara sighed, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Stop it, Sookie. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this. Eric’s in Oklahoma now, but he’s alive. He’s out there. And Sam... Sam’s here, with you. He loves you. He’s trying.”

Does he? The question rose unbidden, tangled in the ache of my heart. I thought of Eric—his strength, his fire, the way he made me feel more alive than I’d ever thought possible. And then I thought of Sam—safe, steady Sam. The man who held my hand but bruised my wrist. The man I told myself I loved, even as my heart screamed for Eric.

I forced a smile, the lie sticking to my lips like tar. “You’re right,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I’m just... I’m just tired.” And I was. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Tired in a way that seemed to seep into my very bones.

“Sookie! Tara!” Abigail’s cheerful voice broke through the haze of my thoughts. She was wiping down my table, her bubbly energy almost jarring against the quiet gloom I carried with me. “It’s real slow today! Wonder what’s got ‘em so distracted that my tables are squeaky clean,” she laughed, her laughter bright and genuine—Abby was all brightness, all hope.

She was nineteen, a fresh face who’d been a godsend these past few weeks. "I dunno, Abby, but it’s sure been pleasant," I said, forcing myself to muster some cheerfulness for her sake. The smile I gave her felt brittle, as though it might shatter with too much effort. “Hey, do you think you could manage for an hour until Sam gets back? I think I might head home—I’m not feeling too great.”

This wasn’t a lie. I really didn’t feel great. Tara gave me a look, her eyebrows raising in silent question, asking if I was ok. I nodded back, a subtle reassurance I didn’t deserve. I wasn’t ok, not by any stretch, but Tara... she’d listen. She’d listen because she cared. And then she’d defend Sam like she always did, telling me I was overreacting, that Sam loved me. I didn’t doubt his love—it consumed him, heavy and overwhelming. Sometimes I thought he loved me too much. And me? I couldn’t say if I loved him back the same way. All I knew was how tired I felt. So tired.

“Oh my goodness, yes! I can do that for you, Sookie! I promise I’ll take care of this place like it’s my own home. Oh, my mama’s gonna be so proud of me! Thank you so much for trusting me!” Abby burst out, her excitement spilling over as her words tumbled out in an unstoppable stream. Her enthusiasm, her sincerity—it was almost painful to watch. Still, I managed a genuine smile. Abby was sweet to her core, a girl who reminded me too much of myself at that age, when hope still felt within reach.

Straight out of high school, she and her mother had arrived from Georgia just a couple months ago, looking to start fresh. When she came in asking for a job, I hired her on the spot, drawn by her wide, hopeful eyes and sun-kissed blonde hair. We could’ve passed as sisters, the resemblance uncanny—right down to the way she searched for something to hold onto, something that fit, just like I had back then.

“Thank you, Abby,” I said softly, sliding out of the booth. I needed to leave. The atmosphere hurt tonight, the reminder of everything I couldn’t find within myself—hope, happiness, the simple joy I used to feel. I wasn’t sure anymore if I’d ever feel those things again..

 My old clunker sat at the edge of the parking lot, a relic from a bygone era. Its paint, once a vibrant shade of lemon, had faded into a patchwork of rust and dull creams. The hood was dented, and the bumper hung precariously, secured with a haphazard tangle of wire. The car’s tires, worn and cracked, had seen better days, barely holding onto the rims. I really did need a new car, but out of spite and pure stubbornness, I would drive this thing until it fell to pieces.

I climbed into the driver’s seat. The upholstery greeted me with the unmistakable scent of aged leather and a hint of mildew. The springs creaked under my weight, and the dashboard, a mosaic of faded dials and cracked plastic, seemed to sigh with the burden of decades.

Starting the engine was a ritual unto itself. With a turn of the key, the old clunker groaned to life, coughing and sputtering as if waking from a long, restless sleep. The engine’s rumble was deep and uneven, a symphony of mechanical protests that echoed through the empty parking lot. Each rev was accompanied by a belch of smoke from the tailpipe, a reminder of the car’s many miles and hard years.

The drive felt endless, the kind of journey where time stretched and blurred, leaving me adrift in a haze. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as I eased the old clunker along the driveway, its transmission groaning in protest. The steering wheel shuddered violently in my hands, demanding every ounce of focus just to keep the wheels aligned. The brakes, soft and unresponsive, tested my patience with every press. Patience—I was so tired of patience.

When I finally parked, the driver’s door refused to budge. I jiggled the handle, frustration bubbling up like a pot about to boil over. My shoulder slammed against the door, the loose metal parts rattling and clanging together in a cacophony of scrapyard percussion. At last, it gave way, swinging open with a groan that echoed my own exhaustion.

“Darn hunk of junk,” I muttered, rubbing my shoulder. The ache was sharp, and I knew another bruise was already forming. “Oh, for fu—” My words caught in my throat as my eyes landed on the figure standing on my porch.

Sam.

He startled at the sound of the door, his head snapping up as though he hadn’t noticed my arrival. “Oh, hey, Cherr... I...” His voice faltered, his expression lost, broken. Whatever anger I’d felt moments ago evaporated as I rushed up the stairs, my heart pounding.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” My voice was sharp with panic, my mind racing through possibilities.

“I... I’m so sorry, Sook!” His words came out in a choked sob, his eyes red and raw, his whole body trembling. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice cracking as he dropped to his knees and clutched at my waist. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sam...” I whispered, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

“I fucking hurt you, Sook. I did that.” His tears soaked through my shirt as he buried his face against me. “I never wanted to hurt you, but I did. I fucking did.” Each word was gasped out between sobs, his anguish spilling over and drowning us both.

“Hey,” I soothed, sinking to my knees beside him. My fingers threaded through his hair, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. “I’m ok,” I whispered, though my heart shattered with every sob that wracked his body. His pain was a living thing, clawing at me, threatening to pull me under with him. I tried to block it out, to shield myself from the weight of his regret, but it seeped through the cracks.

“I’m ok,” I said louder, forcing the words out as his tear-filled eyes finally met mine. “I’m ok,” I repeated, though I wasn’t sure if I was saying it for his benefit or mine.

“I love you,” he gasped, his hand—the same hand that had hurt me—cupping my cheek with a tenderness that felt like a contradiction. “I never want to hurt you. I love you, Cherr. You’re my endgame, Sook. My happily ever after, baby. And I... I...”

“I love you too,” I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. And I did love him—Sam was my friend, my safe harbor. It wasn’t the reckless, all-consuming passion I’d known with Eric, or even Bill. But Sam’s love was steady, dependable. He would never intentionally hurt me. I had to believe that.

“Move in with me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with hope and fear. His eyes searched mine, filled with sadness, regret, and a desperate longing for redemption. He was terrified of rejection, and I could feel the weight of his plea pressing down on me.

“Ok,” I whispered, the word slipping out like a wish. A hope for something better. But even as I said it, the taste of it was bitter on my tongue. My stomach churned, a turbulent sea of doubt and unease.

Seven days. That’s all it took to box up my life, my childhood—every corner of memory that tied me to this old farmhouse. Now, I was moving in with Sam. Actually moving in with him. The thought sat heavy in my chest, pulling me apart in opposite directions. Old endings and new beginnings blurred together, leaving me unsure if I was making the right choice. Sam and I hadn’t been together long, just a few months. Was that enough time to build a new life? I didn’t know. What I did know was that I’d spent nearly my entire life here, within these worn walls, surrounded by memories that felt like ghosts.

Gran’s Afghan was clutched tightly to my chest, the fabric soft and comforting against my fingers. It smelled faintly of home. I sank into it, letting the memories wash over me, one by one. I thought of Eric—of the weeks he stayed here when he’d lost his memory. He had been so precious to me then, so vulnerable and tender, and yet, somehow, he was still Eric. Different, yes—his sharp edges softened—but there was something unshakable about him. And oh, how I had loved those edges. The jagged, dangerous parts of him that made me feel alive. I tightened my grip on the blanket, holding it as if it might somehow hold him too, even just for a moment.

But the memories weren’t all good ones. My gaze drifted across the room, landing on the spot where I found Gran’s lifeless body, her blood staining the floorboards. My stomach churned at the sight, even now, so many years later. She’d died because of me, because of my choices. My decisions had pulled her into danger, and it was a guilt I carried everywhere. A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and heavy, and I didn’t bother wiping it away. Maybe a new beginning would be good for me, I thought. Maybe it was what I needed. But the hope in that thought felt fragile, uncertain. I didn’t believe it—not fully.

Boxes covered every inch of the farmhouse, stacked in every corner, and yet I felt like I’d barely made a dent in the weight of my life here. Exhaustion pressed down on me, though it wasn’t just from the packing. It was the kind of exhaustion that burrowed into your soul, the kind that no amount of rest could fix. I feared sleep anyway, knowing the nightmares would greet me when I closed my eyes.

I turned on the TV, letting its faint blue glow fill the room as I curled up in Gran’s Afghan. My fifth cup of coffee sat untouched on the table, the warmth long gone. The silence in the house was deafening, save for the static hum of the screen. As I sat there, the weight of it all pressed heavier and heavier against me. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the television. “Jack, come back!” Rose’s voice echoed in the background as I sank deeper into the couch, Gran’s Afghan wrapped tightly around me. My body was heavy with exhaustion, the kind that seeped into my very bones. My eyes drooped as the soft flicker of the TV lulled me further, the remnants of my lukewarm coffee forgotten on the table beside me. My eyelids grew heavy, my body sinking into the couch. Despite the fear of what sleep would bring, I couldn’t fight it anymore. Slowly, reluctantly, I drifted off, my mind surrendering to the pull of restless dreams

I didn’t even notice the moment I slipped under.

..My body swayed with the rhythm of the ship, the world around me bathed in a golden, hazy light. A Border Collie snapped viciously at the hem of my dress, barking and growling, its teeth catching the fabric and tugging me back from the edge. I could feel the sharp tug and the tear as the hem gave way. “Stop!” I said, my voice firm, but the dog’s aggression vanished like smoke in the wind. I glanced down at the tattered skirt of my favourite sundress, the one with the little red flowers against white fabric. It looked out of place against the grandeur of my surroundings.

I stood at the top of a marble staircase, the intricate gold ivy of the banister glinting in the dim light. My bare feet ached, though I couldn’t remember walking. Below me, Eric waited, his tall frame unmistakable even in the surreal oddity of the moment. The sight of him, dressed in that ridiculous pink lycra he once wore undercover, to a sex party to uncover a murder should have brought laughter to my lips. Instead, my heart ached. I turned to look for the dog, the shadow of its form already fading from my mind. It was gone.

“Min älskare,” Eric’s voice purred, familiar and intimate. ‘My lover,’ just like he used to say. My chest tightened at the sound, the phantom sting of old wounds fresh again.

I startled, whipping my head forward to find him suddenly inches from me. The stairs had disappeared. I couldn’t remember descending them. Now we stood in a vast ballroom, the ceiling impossibly high, the chandelier above swaying with a weightless sort of grace. People moved around us like ghosts—blurred faces and muffled voices blending into a cacophony that made my head spin.

“My lover, I’m glad you’ve joined me,” Eric murmured, taking my hand. His smirk was soft, knowing, as if we had all the time in the world. He led me onto the dance floor, spinning me in slow circles. But we kept spinning and spinning. Water splashed at my feet. My shoes were soaked, my toes icy.

“Eric?” I called out, his name slipping from my lips like a plea. In an instant, he was bleeding. Bullets riddled his chest, his lifeless body collapsing into my arms. I shook him violently. “Wake up, Eric! Wake up!” I screamed. The ship beneath us groaned, tipping precariously. My breath hitched as everything tilted—a loud boom reverberated through the air. I was sliding, the world around me blurring as water rushed up to meet me.

“I wish...” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut, willing the chaos to stop.

“This is best,” Eric said softly. His voice cut through the haze, grounding me. I opened my eyes to find myself floating on calm waters, cradled against his chest. His cool fingers traced gentle circles over my abdomen, where the scar from a stake should be. The touch was soothing, and I didn’t want him to stop. My gaze drifted to the remains of the sinking ship in the distance, its twisted skeleton silhouetted against the horizon.

“I don’t want to be a kept woman, Eric,” I whispered, the words trembling on my lips as I pushed myself away from him. A blood-red tear rolled down his cheek. My heart twisted as I reached for it, desperate to catch it before it fell. But my body refused to move, my limbs frozen. The tear slipped into the sea and disappeared.

“This is yours no longer,” he said, his voice hollow. I looked down to find a bloody knife in my hands. My breaths came shallow and ragged as I met his gaze again, only to see a gaping hole where his heart should be.

“This is yours no longer,” I sobbed, the words echoing back at me.

“Blow out the candle and make a wish, Sookie,” Gran’s voice whispered in my ear, lilting and familiar. A birthday cake floated before me, its single flame flickering in the darkness. The sea mirrored the light, casting eerie shadows across the water. The distant sound of a whistle broke the silence.

“It’s ok, Eric,” I cried, my voice cracking as tears streamed down my face. “It’s ok, we can...” I faltered, unable to finish. The sun was rising. Its light spilled across the horizon, painting the sea in fiery diamonds. Panic surged through me as Eric’s scream tore through the air—a sound so full of anguish, it pierced my soul.

Sam’s lifeless eyes stared back at me. The sun climbed higher. I blew out the candle. Darkness swallowed me whole. I was alone.

I gasped awake, the air leaving my lungs like I’d been punched. “Eric,” I choked, his name leaving my lips unbidden. My shirt clung to my damp skin, slick with sweat like I’d run a marathon in my sleep. The TV screen flickered faintly in the corner, Rose’s voice cutting through the haze of my waking mind: “Jack!”

I fumbled for the remote, switching the television off with trembling fingers. “No caffeine and Titanic after 8 p.m.,” I muttered to myself, the attempt at humor falling flat. Stretching stiff limbs, I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was 2:30 a.m. With a sigh, I pulled Gran’s Afghan tighter around me, its warmth doing little to stave off the chill in my chest.

“Why am I doing this again?” I murmured to myself, my voice barely rising above the heavy silence of the house. Packing boxes were scattered haphazardly across the room, their imposing presence a reminder of everything I was leaving behind. Gran’s Afghan was pulled tightly around me, its comforting weight the only thing tethering me to the present. The nightmare from earlier still clawed at the edges of my mind, vivid and unsettling. I jumped at the sound of a creak, my heart racing wildly as my gaze darted to the window. It was just Karin, patrolling the yard with her stoic precision. My hand, raised to my chest, slowly lowered as I let out a shaky breath. Relief wasn’t what I felt—just an uneasy reprieve. My heart still thundered in my chest like a restless drum.

“Maybe I should start drinking decaf,” I muttered, the words falling flat in the stale air of the empty home. Sleep had become a battleground, my dreams an unrelenting torment. I’d suffered nightmares ever since Dawn’s lifeless eyes first stared back at me, but these were different—worse. Stumbling across your first dead body does things to a person, but everything that followed... I couldn’t shake the weight of it all. Maybe what I needed was closure. Maybe it was time to confront the past instead of letting it twist me into knots.

Grabbing a pen and the old journal Gran had given me for my seventeenth birthday, I hesitated for a moment. It had lain unused for years, forgotten at the bottom of a drawer, its pages pristine but neglected. Now, its blankness felt like a challenge, daring me to pour out the things I couldn’t say out loud. Maybe writing my thoughts down would help. Maybe the nightmares would stop.

The words came fast and frantic, my trembling hand barely keeping pace. “Dear Eric,” I began, the two words heavy with everything left unsaid. By the time I was finished, my hands were shaking, my breath shallow. The letter felt alive in my hands, charged with the weight of my regrets. Tearing out the pages, I found an old packet of envelopes hidden behind the toaster and carefully wrote his name on the front, my jittery hand betraying the intensity of my emotions.

I marched to the porch, clutching the envelope tightly. Karin was nearby, and surely she could pass the message along. She was his progeny, his daughter in their strange vampire way. I vaguely remembered hearing that Freyda had banned Eric from contacting Pam or Karin, but surely... surely not. Even if he couldn’t read it for a century, even if he only found it long after I was gone, at least he’d have it. At least he’d know I was sorry.

But as I reached the porch, my nerve failed me. The breeze tugged at my hair, sharp and biting, stinging the tear tracks on my face. I stared out over the property, and all I saw was death—death in the memories, in the autumn air, in the emptiness that had swallowed this place whole. I couldn’t do it. I retreated, clutching the envelope to my chest like it might burn me. Back inside, the envelope trembled in my hand before I threw it into the fireplace, watching as the flames consumed it, reducing my apology to nothing but ash.

I turned back to the journal, my eyes catching the jagged edges where I’d torn out the pages. They felt symbolic, somehow—raw and fractured, just like my life. Picking up the pen again, I wrote with a mixture of resignation and determination:

Dear Sookie,

Today, I realized something about you: you are a coward. But maybe, just maybe, we can work on that. I wanted to say goodbye—goodbye to our past and move forward to our future. This path we're walking, we have to walk it alone. In another life, perhaps we could have truly appreciated this gift, this curse, this... thing, and everything it brought us. Maybe we could have been great. But it feels like the odds were always stacked against us.

We've faced some truly horrible, horrific, and terrifying times. But we've also experienced moments of wonder, passion, and life-changing beauty. Still, this time of reflection is necessary. We need to work on ourselves, taking baby steps until we're fully grown. We need to recognize when we are in the wrong, acknowledge when we are being a colossal pain in the ass, and understand when people are trying to hurt us.

Fairy tales don’t always have a happy ending, do they? But here's to a new life. I hope it is kinder to us. I hope it brings healing and growth. We deserve that, don't we?

Love Always, 

Sookie

The weight in my chest lifted, though only slightly. Closure, I thought, but it felt hollow—more like a promise than a resolution. Still, it was a start. Wrapping Gran’s Afghan tighter around me, I stared at the flames until they flickered out, leaving only embers behind.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE: IF WE WERE VAMPIRES

7th July 2002: ERIC NORTHMAN:

I remember the first time I saw her. She walked into that wretched, stinking bar as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and yet she shone like a celestial being who didn’t belong. It wasn’t the dress she wore—though it clung to her like the universe itself was doing her bidding. No, it was the light. The glow that emanated from her skin, a light so piercing it cut through a thousand years of darkness in an instant. She didn’t just walk into that bar—she walked into my existence and rewrote it. Sookie Stackhouse. Bright, radiant, breathtaking.

And now? Now, I wish I had turned away.

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and venomous. That laughter was all I had left. For a thousand years, I have been many things: a warrior, a strategist, a survivor. But for her, I became something else entirely. I became vulnerable. I let my guard down. And what did it cost me? Everything.

It hurts. Gods, it hurts. My heart hasn’t beat in over a millennium, and yet somehow, it twists and aches in my chest as if it might explode from the sheer force of my agony. I can still feel her hands on me, ghostly and cruel—searching, caressing, marking me in ways no mortal woman ever could. Her touch haunts me, leaving phantom burns that no amount of time will heal.

This heartbreak—it is a fresh kind of torment, one I would not wish on even my worst enemy. It’s sharper than silver, more suffocating than sunlight. And for what? For her misguided sense of mercy? For her ridiculous ideals of right and wrong? She tore me apart to save him. The Shifter. A man whose name tastes like bile on my tongue.

I don’t just feel hurt—I feel betrayed. Betrayed by the woman I gave everything to. She chose him. She had the power, the chance to stand by me, and instead, she tore my heart from my chest and handed it to that spineless, manipulative bastard. I hate him. I’ve hated him from the moment I saw how he weaselled his way into her life, planting seeds of doubt in her mind and feeding her insecurities. He used her. He worked her to exhaustion, left her questioning her worth, and treated her like nothing more than a means to an end.

And yet she chose him. She didn’t just bring him back to life—she handed him victory while leaving me to rot.

"Are you sure, Mr. Northman?" Desmond Cataliades asked, his tone careful, as though he feared I might lash out. Perhaps he was right to worry. My rage burned just beneath the surface, hot and volatile. But even my anger couldn’t disguise the truth: I had lost. I had tried everything. Every appeal, every resource, every desperate maneuverer—it had all failed. The contract stood, unbroken. And last night... last night, Sookie made her wish.

"Yes, Desmond," I said, the words leaving my mouth like poison. "I will accept those terms." My voice wavered, and I hated myself for it. A thousand years of unwavering confidence and control, and now here I was: hesitant, uncertain, weak. I had never felt so powerless. It sickened me.

"There is the matter of your current marriage that I would like to discuss with you, Mr. Northman," Cataliades began, his tone heavy. I clenched my jaw, bracing myself for more bad news. "As you and Miss Stackhouse no longer share a bond, certain protections have been nullified. Her Majesty Freyda, Queen of Oklahoma, has already claimed an anticipatory breach. Negotiations between her and Appius Livius Ocella predated your union with Miss Stackhouse, but the bond had provided her some semblance of safety."

He sighed, the sound filled with regret. "With the bond dissolved, those protections are no longer valid. Unfortunately, the pleadings to suspend or stop the contract are no longer applicable for appeal. And... with recent developments, I fear Miss Stackhouse may now be in danger of repercussions."

I slammed my fist down on the table, the force of it splintering the wood. "Enough!" I growled, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. Cataliades flinched but held his ground, his eyes betraying a flicker of pity. I hated that look. I didn’t want his pity—I wanted his solutions.

"What kind of danger?" I demanded. My mind raced with images of Sookie—hurt, hunted, alone. The rage in my chest threatened to consume me.

"Her Majesty is displeased," Cataliades said carefully. "With the contract upheld and the bond dissolved, she may see Miss Stackhouse as... expendable."

Expendable. The word hit me like a dagger to the gut. Sookie was many things—infuriating, stubborn, reckless—but expendable? Never. She was the centre of my universe, the one shining star in my eternity of darkness. And now, because of my failure, she was in danger. Again.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until the skin broke. Blood trickled down, but I didn’t care. Physical pain was nothing compared to this.

She brought this on herself, I thought bitterly. She made her choice. She chose the Shifter. She turned her back on me. And yet... and yet I would burn this world to the ground to keep her safe.

“Speak plainly, Desmond. What has come to light, and why did you fail to mention this about the blood bond before now?” My voice was sharp, biting. I absently rubbed my chest where my heart once beat—a useless reflex for something long gone, yet the pain felt physical, like a knife twisting deep inside. His words had cut me, slicing through the fragile threads of composure I clung to.

Fear gripped me, tightening like a vice, but it was anger that burned hot in my veins. Anger at Sookie. She wounded me time and time again, slicing into me with her choices, her ignorance, her mercy. And yet, I loved her. Gods help me, I loved her with a devotion I couldn’t escape. For a millennium, I had perfected the art of endurance, of withstanding anything this world or the next could throw at me. But her? She undid me. She tore me apart and left me raw.

And for what? For him.

I would have been content with forty years. Forty fleeting, mortal years spent earning every laugh line that graced her face, marking the passage of time in the crinkle of her smile. I would’ve held her hand as she grew frail and grey, as beautiful as the day she first walked into my life in that ridiculous floral dress. She had always drawn me in, a brilliant flame pulling the moth who should’ve known better. I’d accepted that one day she’d leave me, that her mortal life would flicker out. I would have stood with her through her last breath and then gladly met the sun, content to spend eternity with her in Valhalla, the Summerlands, or the Christian paradise she believed in. For her, I would’ve endured anything.

For my lover. My Sookie.

Desmond’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, his words cold and factual, and yet they felt like ice water poured over a raw wound. “The Long Tooth Pack witnessed it—her bringing back Sam Merlotte. Now, the Monarchs are not yet aware she was in possession of a Culviel Dor...”

I shot to my feet, cutting him off with venom lacing my voice. “How did you know about the Culviel Dor, Desmond?” The words left my mouth as a growl, more predator than man.

Desmond hesitated, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of my glare. “I... I, well, umm... Mr. Northman, may I confide in you, with the assurance that what I say will remain strictly confidential?” He stuttered, his usual composure faltering.

“You have my word.” My patience was razor-thin, the words terse and edged with steel. He searched my face for a moment, weighing his next words carefully.

“Very well, Mr. Northman,” he said at last, his voice quieter now. “What I’m about to tell you places me at great risk, but you must understand that Miss Stackhouse’s well-being is... deeply important to me.” He paused, as if deciding where to begin.

“I know she was in possession of the Culviel Dor because it was a gift—given to her grandmother by Fintan Brigant. Fintan was my dearest friend, and... and Miss Stackhouse, Sookie, is my goddaughter,” he admitted, his tone heavy with regret. The revelation struck me like a blow, but he didn’t stop. “I am the reason she was born with telepathy. My actions ensured her gift, though I did not foresee the burdens it would bring her. I have failed her, Mr. Northman. Not being there for her, not guiding her—it is a failure that weighs on me every day. My absence has been unforgivable.”

His eyes darted to mine, gauging my reaction, but I said nothing. My mind was a storm, his words churning through me.

“I owe you my gratitude for the protection you’ve provided her,” he continued, his voice steadying. “But you must understand: the Culviel Dor will eventually draw attention. It is only a matter of time before the Monarchs discover its existence. When they determine that she has no innate magical ability to restore life, they will understand the device’s origin. It will reveal her heritage. Her possession of a rare Fae artifact will bring everything into question. And when her telepathy is connected to her lineage as a Sky Princess, as the Heir of Fae, it will paint a target on her back. She will be hunted—not just for her telepathy, but for the blood that runs through her veins.”

Desmond exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “Niall Brigant has shut himself off from this world, leaving Sookie defenceless. Naïve to her true lineage. To the dangers that surround her. I’ve done what I could to keep her safe—months of evading threats, eliminating dangers—but some forces are beyond my power.”

I stared at him, my mind roiling in turmoil. The Culviel Dor. Fintan Brigant. Sookie’s Fae blood. Each revelation hit like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air. And through it all, one thought rose above the noise like a scream: she kept this from me. She didn’t trust me—not with the truth, not with her heritage, not with this artifact.

“Desmond Cataliades. My lover. My Sookie. Both full of secrets.” The thought churned in my mind, corrosive and unrelenting. Betrayal after betrayal twisted through me like a blade, sharp and cold.

“Eric, I know what you’re thinking,” Desmond said, his voice low and measured, “but you must understand—Sookie has been kept in the dark her entire life. She is naïve and believes her telepathy to be a curse, a burden she was forced to bear alone. That blame falls on me. I wasn’t there for her when she needed guidance. She grew up sheltered, trapped in a righteous small-town community where she was ostracized for being different. That kind of treatment leaves scars.” His sigh was heavy, resigned. “Since entering the supernatural world, she’s been manipulated from every direction—used, lied to, and torn apart. I am not excusing her actions, but you must see that she carries insecurities and doubts deep within her.”

I let out a bitter laugh, hollow and humourless. “You can read my thoughts?” I asked, my voice cracking with disbelief. The realization struck me like lightning, my rage igniting. “Could Sookie read my thoughts too!?” The words tore out of me, filled with venom.

“Yes, Eric, I can,” Desmond admitted, his gaze steady. “But no, Sookie could not. She has never been able to read a vampire’s thoughts—not yours, not anyone’s. Her telepathy does not extend to your kind.” His tone softened, but his words still carried an edge. “I know this revelation will not sit well with you, but you must listen. You need to let Sookie go.”

I froze; my anger momentarily replaced with an icy dread. “What are you talking about, Desmond?” I demanded, though part of me already knew.

“Freyda will demand her head if you continue to resist this contract,” he said mournfully. “You have wounded her pride, Eric. Her vanity is fragile, and her jealousy is merciless. Freyda is not above using torture as a weapon. I’ve seen her cruelty firsthand, and she will hurt you by hurting Sookie. If you love her—if you truly love Sookie—you must walk away. You must agree to no contact, a public divorce. It will satisfy Freyda’s bitterness and pacify her vengeance. I know it will be cruel. I know it will demand that you bury your feelings deep, but if you do not, Sookie will be left exposed. She isn’t ready for this, Eric, and neither are you.”

I stared at him, my jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “You’re asking me to abandon her. To tear myself away from the one person—” My voice cracked, and I cut myself off before I could unravel further.

Desmond pressed on, his tone earnest and unwavering. “I respect you, Eric. I’ve seen your honour—not just among your kind, but across all facets of the supernatural world. You are fair, you are loyal, and you fight for what you believe in. I will fight for you. During these negotiations, I will do everything in my power to protect your interests. I cannot promise to stop the contract entirely, but I can find the cracks, the loopholes. If Freyda fails to meet the conditions, I will use them to free you.”

His passion was undeniable, and part of me wanted to believe him. But belief was a luxury I couldn’t afford. “Their lawyer is crafty, Desmond. I—” My words died on my lips as a knock sounded at the employee entrance door. The sharp, abrupt sound shattered the last piece of composure I had left.

I leaned against my office door, unable to move, unable to face what I knew was coming. My anger evaporated, replaced by a suffocating weight of despair. I just stood there, listening. Bracing myself for the pain that was already clawing at the edges of my soul.

“Pam,” Sookie said in greeting, a quiver present in her voice.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Pam said sternly.

“I need to talk to Eric,” Sookie said, sounding defeated.

I opened the door too forcefully, and it flew open, leaving me looming in the doorway. I couldn’t smile at her. I was sure I could never smile again.

“Sookie, I can’t talk to you now,” I said, trying to hinder any emotion. I am breaking, and I can’t do this now. More than anything, I need to be strong now. They will flay me alive and use her as the weapon. “Horst will be here any second, and he doesn’t need to be reminded you exist,” I said truthfully. I could only hope that they forget about her. “They’ve called in a lawyer to go over the contract,” I said lastly, to spite her. I was still angry at her. I felt betrayed, wounded, hurt by all the things she’s done. I wanted her to know that I couldn’t stop this, for her to believe that I’ve done everything and more to stay. I didn’t want this. I didn’t choose this! A prisoner is still a prisoner; it doesn’t matter how pretty the cage is. I’ve been sold like cattle, while she watched. She stood there, mouth agape, emotions rapidly crossing her face. She took a step forward, and like a coward, I retreated back into my office, closing the door behind me.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but Desmond placed his hand on my shoulder and guided me to my chair. I went over negotiations with Horst and his lawyer. Desmond did have my best interest at heart and added new clauses and made amendments. There will be many more drafts before this is finalised.

The next few nights bled into each other, an unending haze of pain and bureaucracy. Each sunset dragged me deeper into the labyrinth of negotiations, legal jargon, and the suffocating presence of Horst and his lawyer. The air in my office grew heavier with every meeting, the weight of defeat pressing down on me. I felt trapped in an endless loop of despair, the dark hours before dawn my only fleeting reprieve. Even that solace was cruel—darkness offered no comfort when your pain lived within.

On the second night, Desmond and I faced Horst and his lawyer once more. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent war waged with pointed words and veiled threats. Every exchange felt like a blade, each one cutting deeper into the hollow cavern of my chest.

“We need to discuss the financial ramifications,” Horst’s lawyer began, his tone sharp and devoid of empathy. “Queen Freyda demands compensation for the breach of contract.”

My fists curled beneath the table, my knuckles straining under the force. “Compensation?” I spat, my voice ice-cold and laced with venom. “I have given everything. What more could she possibly want?”

“Your loyalty, for one,” Horst interjected, his gaze cold and calculating. “And any assets acquired during your union with Miss Stackhouse.”

The mention of Sookie—her name twisted into leverage—ignited a fresh wave of anger. Desmond placed a calming hand on my arm, his touch a silent plea for restraint. “We’ll negotiate these terms, Eric,” he said, his voice steady but tight. “We’ll find a way.”

I didn’t answer, the words too bitter to form. As the night dragged on, my mind drifted further from the conversation, my focus pulled to the memories I fought so hard to suppress. I could almost hear Sookie’s laughter, her bright voice echoing in the recesses of my mind. I could see her smile, the way it lit her whole face with a warmth I would never know again. The memories were merciless, their beauty a cruel reminder of what I had lost.

The third night, the suffocating atmosphere only worsened. Desmond’s composure frayed at the edges, his frustration seeping into his carefully measured words. My anger was a storm, simmering just beneath the surface.

“These conditions are beyond unreasonable,” Desmond stated firmly, shoving the contract back across the table. “They are punitive, vindictive, and wholly detrimental to my client.”

Horst leaned back, his smile smug and infuriating. “Queen Freyda holds all the power here, Mr. Cataliades. You are in no position to dictate terms.”

The scrape of my chair echoed through the room as I stood abruptly, my rage spilling over. “Enough!” I growled, the sound guttural and raw. “This is nothing but a power play. Freyda wants to punish me, and she’s using Sookie as her weapon.”

Horst’s expression darkened, his voice cutting. “Watch your tone, Northman. You forget your place.”

I took a deliberate step forward, my fangs aching to descend. “No, you forget your place,” I snarled. “I am not a pawn in your games.”

Desmond rose quickly, his voice calm but firm. “Let’s take a moment to regroup,” he urged, placing himself between me and Horst. “Emotions are high, and this requires a clear mind.”

The fourth night, the tension finally broke. It was a sharp, irrevocable fracture that came with a single, unexpected knock at the door. The room went still, the air charged with unspoken dread. Pam opened the door, and there she was.

Freyda. Queen of Oklahoma. Her presence filled the room like frost creeping across glass—cold, unyielding, and suffocating.

“Eric,” she greeted, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “How lovely to see you.”

My blood ran cold, and though every instinct screamed at me to lash out, I bowed low, masking my hatred behind a veneer of civility. “Your Majesty. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

She smiled, the predator behind her eyes unmistakable. “I wanted to personally ensure that the negotiations were progressing smoothly. After all, this concerns our future.”

My hands clenched at my sides, my composure fraying. “There is no future together, Freyda,” I said, my voice tight with barely contained fury. “This contract is nothing but a farce.”

Her smile widened, as though she relished my defiance. “Oh, Eric, you’ve always been so dramatic. This is not an ending, but a new beginning. A union of our kingdoms.”

“And at what cost?” I demanded, my voice breaking under the weight of my despair. “You are tearing me away from the one I love.”

Her gaze turned icy, her tone sharpened. “Sookie is human, Eric. She is a fleeting moment in your eternal existence. You need to accept that.”

“No,” I whispered, the word trembling with the depth of my defiance. “I will not accept that.”

Desmond stepped forward, his voice measured but firm. “Your Majesty, perhaps we should refocus on the terms and aim for fairness to both parties.”

Freyda’s eyes never left mine, the predatory gleam never dimming. “Very well,” she said, her voice a silken threat. “But know this, Eric—if you continue to defy me, the consequences will be severe.”

A heavy weight settled over me, suffocating and inescapable. Freyda’s presence was a constant reminder of the cage I was being forced into, the chains tightening with every passing night. Her shadow loomed over me, a spectre of the heartache I would have to endure. I clung to the faintest hope that, somehow, a sliver of light might pierce through the darkness. But hope was a fragile thing, and mine was fraying.

The nights dragged on in a tormenting rhythm, an endless cycle of despair. Each evening, I rose before the sun set, the weight of a thousand lifetimes pressing down on my chest like an iron shroud. I forced myself to drink from a bottle of True Blood, the synthetic sustenance bitter and hollow on my tongue. It was a cruel reminder of the life I once knew, the life I had lost. But I did it for her. I couldn’t stomach the thought of tasting another—not when I knew she wouldn’t forgive me. Not when I couldn’t forgive myself.

Each night, I returned to Fangtasia, fulfilling my duties as Area Sheriff and bar owner. I sat on my throne, a hollow king presiding over a court of human patrons who sought cheap thrills and the illusion of danger. Their eager faces, their whispered fantasies of immortality, only deepened my misery. They had no idea what eternity truly cost.

Nights of contract negotiations followed, each meeting more gruelling than the last. The air in my office was thick with tension, the words exchanged sharp and cutting. My resolve was tested, my heart shattered anew with every demand Freyda’s representative made. Yet I clung to the thought of Sookie, the memory of her smile, the sound of her laughter. She was my sanctuary, the only balm to my tormented soul. Even if I could no longer hold her, the thought of her was enough to keep me from breaking entirely.

When the night’s duties were done, I returned to my silent home—a mausoleum of memories. The walls seemed to echo with the ghosts of what once was, each corner a reminder of her absence. I perched on the edge of my bed, the cool silk sheets brushing against my skin, a stark contrast to the searing pain within. My head fell into my hands, and I fought against the tears that threatened to spill. I couldn’t afford to break. Not yet.

Defeat was not an option. I couldn’t lose her—I wouldn’t. Freyda’s threats plagued my mind, her words replaying in an endless loop. Every action, every decision, I dissected and analysed, searching for a way out. The broken bond, the hurt, the betrayal—it all felt like knives twisting in my chest. But amidst the agony, one truth remained: I loved her, truly loved her. Even through the pain, I knew I couldn't survive without her, I could find a solace of peace knowing she still walked this earth even if I could not walk beside her. For her, I would withstand eternal peril to ensure her safety and happiness.

As the sun rose high in the sky, rest finally claimed me, offering a brief respite from the anguish. In sleep, there was some measure of peace, a fleeting reprieve before the torment would resume with the rising sun.

Sweat and desperation. Fangtasia breathed it in, exhaling it back as a heavy, cloying cloud that filled every corner of the club. The neon-red sign outside cast its bloodied glow across the pavement, beckoning thrill-seekers and fools alike into its den of manufactured danger. Inside, the rhythmic pulse of industrial music reverberated through the air, shaking the glassware and mingling with the hum of human voices. It was a cacophony of bass drops, clinking bottles, and shallow, breathless laughter. Tonight, as with every night, I sat perched on my throne—a grim stage for this pantomime of fear and fascination.

The crowd of vermin writhed before me, a sea of cheap perfume, spilled drinks, and synthetic leather. They gawked, a grotesque parade of mortals desperate to touch something eternal, blind to the abyss staring back at them. I had been crueler to these humans than usual, my patience stretched paper-thin by Freyda’s schemes and Sookie’s absence. Yet still, they came, crawling back night after night, lured by the myth of the Viking Vampire Sheriff. De Castro’s financial instincts had capitalized on that allure—$75 for a moment in my presence, an assembly line of delusions.

I beckoned the next fool forward. A man shuffled closer, his pleather pants squeaking with every step. They were two sizes too small, clinging to his sweaty thighs, and a spiked choker adorned his flabby neck. The overhead lights reflected off his balding head, accentuating the sheen of sweat glistening on his bare chest. He reeked of desperation and stale deodorant.

“Oh glorious Master, I am your obedient servant,” he simpered, dropping to his knees in a display of unearned humility. His excitement was evident in the tremble of his voice.

“I have traveled from Idaho to serve you,” he continued, bowing low. “I am only here to please you, so do with me what you will.”

My gaze didn’t waver, though revulsion curled low in my chest. It was always the same. They believed they were special, unique in their devotion. But humans, no matter how they dressed or groveled, were predictable in their desperation. They wanted danger, immortality, validation. And I was forced to endure their theatrics.

“How may I be of service?” the man asked, his attempt at meekness broken when he leaned forward to lick my boot. The wet, scraping sound sent a jolt of disgust through me.

“Pamela!” I roared, my voice cutting through the din of the club like a whip as I kicked him backward with enough force to leave him sprawling on the ground.

Pam materialized at my side, her expression as sharp and unamused as ever. “You roared, Master,” she said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

“I’m sorry, Master,” the man whimpered, crawling toward me on his hands and knees. “Please take my life blood if I have displeased you.” He tilted his head, offering his neck with misplaced reverence.

“Pamela,” I said coldly, not sparing him another glance, “remove this disgusting excuse of a skin suit from my presence and my club.”

Pam’s smirk widened as she grabbed the man by his collar. “Yes, Master,” she purred, dragging him away with a flourish. He didn’t even resist. If anything, he seemed to revel in the humiliation, a twisted grin spreading across his face.

I gestured to the next in line, already dreading the routine. The woman stepped forward hesitantly, her lips parting as she began, “Master—”

The shrill ring of my phone interrupted her. I raised a hand, silencing her instantly, and glanced at the caller ID. My chest tightened when I saw the name.

Sookie.

I took a steadying breath before answering, already bracing myself. “Sookie,” I said, my voice measured.

“We need to talk,” she said, her words spilling out in a rush. There was an edge to her tone—hurt mingled with anger. “I understand you’re dodging me. You’ve made it clear you don’t want me visiting the club. I assume I’m not welcome at your home either. But you know we have to have a conversation.”

“Then talk,” I replied, though my voice was strained. The weight of the club around me, the ever-watchful eyes, felt suffocating.

“Face to face,” she insisted, her tone sharp and unwavering.

I sighed, keeping my voice low and controlled. “I can’t come tonight. There are people in line to see me—much to be done.”

Rising from my throne, I strode through the club to my office, shutting the door firmly behind me. The muted thrum of the music persisted in the background, though it offered no comfort.

“So we take second place,” she snapped, her voice slicing through the phone. “You could at least sound sorry.”

“You have no idea how I feel,” I said softly, my voice tinged with a mournfulness I couldn’t suppress. The truth of her words twisted like a dagger in my chest.

The security monitor on my desk lit up, displaying De Castro’s minions and lawyer entering the employee parking lot. Their arrival was a sharp reminder of the battles that awaited me, battles that kept me chained in place.

“Tomorrow night,” I said abruptly, my tone resigned, before ending the call.

I stared at the screen, my hands curling into fists. Fangtasia had always been a theater of illusions, a stage for the grotesque and desperate. But tonight, it felt like a prison—one I couldn’t escape, no matter how desperately I clawed at the walls.

My heart weighed heavy in my chest, a leaden reminder of the confrontation looming on the horizon.

The hours dragged on, their relentless march punctuated by the shallow, inebriated laughter of human patrons and the subtle whispers of my staff. Each meaningless interaction grated on my nerves, the monotony of it all heightened by the storm raging within me. Finally, as the night wore on, I retreated to my office, closing the door on the thrumming chaos outside. Alone in the dim silence, the weight of the world seemed to press down on me, every breath a struggle against the crushing burden.

The creak of the door shattered the fragile quiet. De Castro strode in without waiting for an invitation, flanked by his ever-present minions and lawyer. His entrance was an intrusion, his presence a dark cloud that hung heavy in the room, oppressive and suffocating. The air seemed to chill, though the heat of anger simmered just beneath my surface.

"Eric," De Castro began, his voice as smooth and calculated as ever, each word a precise instrument of manipulation. "We need to discuss the terms of your public divorce from Sookie Stackhouse."

My jaw tightened as a surge of anger coursed through me, my hands curling into fists beneath the desk. "This is unnecessary," I growled, each word clipped and deliberate. "There must be another way."

De Castro’s smile was razor-sharp and devoid of warmth. "There is no other way," he said, his tone final. "Queen Freyda demands it. You must publicly sever all ties with her."

The ache in my chest deepened, a twisting pain that felt both physical and emotional. "You are asking me to destroy the woman I love," I said, my voice low but heavy with restrained fury.

De Castro’s eyes gleamed, malice flickering in their depths. "It is not a request, Eric. It is an ultimatum. Comply, or face the consequences."

The weight of his words hit me like a blow, but I refused to let him see my despair. "You are condemning her to a life of danger and uncertainty," I said, my voice rising slightly, my frustration bleeding through.

De Castro leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She is already in danger, Northman. You know this. This is the only way to protect her. Sever the bond—publicly and thoroughly—and you give her a chance at safety. Defy us, and you paint a target on her back."

I turned away, my gaze falling to the floor as my mind raced. Every fiber of my being rebelled against his words, against the very idea of publicly denouncing Sookie. The thought was unbearable, a wound so deep I could scarcely imagine its pain. But the alternative was unthinkable. I had no choice—not if it meant ensuring her safety.

"Very well," I said finally, my voice hollow, stripped of all strength. "I will do as you ask."

De Castro’s smile widened, but it was devoid of joy. It was the smile of a man who had won, who relished his victory no matter how bitter. "Good," he said, his tone cool and detached. "The announcement will be made tomorrow night. Prepare yourself."

As they left, the door clicking shut behind them, I sank into my chair, the weight of the decision crushing me. The room was silent now, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead, but the noise in my mind was deafening. I rested my head in my hands, the image of Sookie’s face flashing unbidden before me.

How had it come to this? I had fought for centuries, survived wars, betrayals, and unimaginable loss, and yet this felt like the cruelest battle of all. To protect the woman I loved, I would have to destroy her, shatter her heart to spare her life. The thought clawed at me, each second spent in this quiet torment unbearable.

Nights bled together, indistinguishable in their torment. Time had lost all meaning—days, weeks, months—it didn’t matter. The anguish was relentless, spilling over like a scream that never ended. But I couldn’t let despair win. Somehow, I had to make this right. To protect Sookie without destroying her. To keep her safe from Freyda’s reach. For now, all I could do was wait—wait and hope that this nightmare would end, that against all odds, we would find a way through the darkness.

“No matter what happens in public, no matter what... don’t doubt that I love you and care about your welfare... as much as I’m able,” I had sworn to her, my voice trembling under the weight of my words.

“And you’re telling me this because you’re going to do something bad to me in public?” Sookie had asked, her voice a mixture of suspicion and hurt.

“I hope it won’t come to that,” I had replied, the remorse in my tone betraying the anguish that seeped into my very bones.

“As much as I am able.” The words echoed in my mind, hollow and mocking. I scoffed internally at my own inadequacy. I was not accustomed to these feelings—even in my human life, I had been bound by duty, by honour. But this? This was everything. I thought my actions would speak for themselves, that she would understand. Clearly, she did not. She was like a disease, and I was terminal. There was no cure. She had infected me with cravings I could never shake, desires I had no right to feel.

How could I put into words that after a millennium, I would trade my immortal life for her safety, her comfort? That I would kneel for her, offer my neck to her, meet the sun for her? I would take the true death and walk through the halls of Valhalla if she wished it. I would burn the whole fucking world down for her without hesitation or remorse. And yet, without her, I was nothing. A pile of ash. For her. Only her.

I had left Karin with her last night. If my efforts to satisfy De Castro and Freyda’s demands failed, Karin would defend Sookie and get her to safety. Karin wasn’t thrilled about the assignment, but she was loyal. She would honour me, even if it meant her own destruction.

When I returned to Fangtasia, they were waiting. Freyda’s entourage had arrived earlier than expected. I thought I would have time—time to explain to Sookie that this was all for her safety, that I loved her, that I would never intentionally hurt her. That this wasn’t over.

“Eric,” Freyda purred, her fingers brushing against my skin. The touch made my flesh crawl with revulsion.

“Yes, my Queen,” I replied, my voice devoid of emotion.

“I want it done now,” she demanded, her eyes cold and unyielding.

“I will have my progeny escort her here now,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral. The lump in my throat threatened to betray me.

I messaged Karin, who was still in Bon Temps watching over Sookie. She responded quickly, and a short time later, Karin and Sookie entered the club. From the bar, I watched Sookie take in the changes to the space. A flicker of amusement reached her eyes as she noticed the vampire band on stage, dressed absurdly in bell-bottoms. The sight was a brief, bittersweet reminder of her light, her ability to find humour even in the darkest moments.

I moved swiftly to stand beside her, startling her. I reached out, my hand brushing her face as I lowered my head toward hers.

“This is what has to be done, but never doubt my affection,” I whispered in her ear. It was a risk, but one I was willing to take. I bent closer, wanting nothing more than to kiss her, but I stopped myself. The act would be witnessed, and my public display of affection would only place her in greater danger. Instead, I inhaled her scent, savouring it as if it might be my last. Taking her hand, I led her toward my office. I stopped briefly, turning to look at her, willing her to understand. I needed her to know that this was out of my control. It was for show. I never wanted to hurt her, to be cruel. But if I didn’t, it would mean her death.

The office was crowded. Pam leaned against the wall, her expression a mask of rage and sadness. I tugged hard on our bond, silently commanding her to stand down. I couldn’t lose both of them tonight. Her emotions were a storm—grief, fury, fear—but I couldn’t let her act on them.

De Castro sat at my desk, lounging as if it were a throne. Angie and Horst stood behind him, their postures stiff and formal, as though they were holding court in a royal palace instead of a cramped office in the back of a tacky vampire bar. Freyda sat in a chair against the wall, her glare fixed on the door.

Sookie tensed beside me, her breath hitching. I could feel her fear, her dread. She knew whatever was coming wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Looking real, Sookie,” Pam said, her tone light, her eyes sharp. She was trying to break the silence, to ease the tension.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Sookie replied, her voice barely a whisper. She was referring to her attire, but I understood the deeper meaning. Neither of us had a choice.

“Meees Stekhuss,” De Castro said cheerfully, his exaggerated accent grating on my nerves.

Freyda made a noise of displeasure, a dismissive acknowledgment of Sookie’s presence.

Sookie glanced behind her, as if considering escape. Karin stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. I nodded, signalling her to leave.

“I’ll be right outside,” Karin said, shutting the door behind her. She would wait, ready to act if conflict arose. She didn’t hold Sookie in high regard, but she would defend her with her life—for me.

“So, here we are, big extended family,” Sookie said, her attempt at humour falling flat. She was shaking. I wanted nothing more than to pull her into my arms, to shield her from what was coming.

"Sookie, Eric has called you here to release you from your marriage contract," De Castro said respectfully. He looked momentarily regretful but proceeded with cheer.

She wouldn’t look at me. I prayed and begged to my gods that she would look at me. She swayed as if the words swept her out to sea. I watched as rage and misery swept over her like a wave, drowning her.

She spoke, but I didn’t hear her. I was shattering. Pam appeared beside her. I watched as Pam handed her the ceremonial blade wrapped in black velvet. I watched as Pam leaned in, placing a kiss on Sookie's cheek, whispering in her ear the words I never wanted to hear.

Sookie sliced her forearm. I watched the blood trickle down her arm, pooling at her elbow. I watched a single bead of blood descend to the floor at her feet. She turned to me and took a step. It felt like everything was in slow motion, time prolonging my torture.

"This is yours no longer," she said clearly, looking at my chest. She refused to look at me, which made every word penetrate something deep inside me that much worse. I begged with my eyes for forgiveness. I needed her to know.

"Just fucking look at me, please. Please, Sookie, please," I prayed, begging the gods to offer me assistance. She held the knife out for me to take.

Taking the knife, I stabbed myself, slicing myself from the wrist following the vein to my elbow. The blood flowed sluggishly down my arm to my hand and dripped onto the carpet.

"This is yours no longer," I repeated the words quietly. I could feel the wetness of a single tear escape my eye and trail down my cheek, the dam threatening to break. The pain in my chest was excruciating. If I hadn't already been undead for a millennium, I would be afraid that I was suffering a heart attack.

I watched her turn and leave without a word. She didn't turn back. She never looked at me.

As Sookie turned to leave, the world seemed to slow around me. Every step she took away from me felt like a dagger piercing deeper into my heart, carving deeper and deeper into my chest picking away at the charred battered heart that belongs to her until there is nothing left but the painful reminder that it will always be hers. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the universe itself conspired to crush me under the weight of her absence. My vision blurred, the edges tinged with a red haze of anguish and fury. I wanted to call out to her, to beg her to stop, to turn around, but the words lodged in my throat, strangled by the unbearable ache in my chest.

Her footsteps echoed in the room, a haunting rhythm that reverberated through the hollow cavern of my soul. I reached out a trembling hand, desperate to stop her, to pull her back into my arms where she belonged. But my hand fell uselessly to my side, the distance between us growing with every passing second.

The light in the room seemed to dim, fading as if the very universe mourned with me, conspired to reflect the darkness engulfing my heart.  Shadows crept into the corners, swallowing the space where she had stood only moments ago. I watched her retreating form, her back rigid with determination, and knew with a crushing certainty that I had lost her. The weight of that realisation was suffocating, a blow so devastating it left me reeling.

“Please, Sookie,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, trembling with desperation. “Please, don’t leave me.”

But she didn’t turn back. She didn’t hear the silent plea that escaped my lips. And as the door closed behind her, the finality of it settled over me like a shroud, heavy and inescapable

Alone in the darkness, I cradled my head in my hands, the cold realisation sinking in. She was gone. The love of my life had walked away, and there was no bringing her back. The ache in my chest deepened, a relentless reminder of the void she left behind. And in that moment, I knew—I would never be the same without her. I replayed the events over and over in my mind, each memory a dagger twisting deeper.  In the shower, I screamed my frustrations, my hurt, my misery, my despair until my voice was hoarse and barely a whisper. The water scalded my skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. I had followed her home, not caring about the consequences I would face from Freyda or De Castro. I just needed to explain, needed her to forgive me. It was all for show. I didn’t mean it. I had told her this. I told her not to doubt me. I loved her. I love her. I needed her to believe me. But when she finally looked at me, I knew the damage was done. There was no coming back from this.

I watched the dried blood wash away, the crimson swirling down the drain like the remnants of my resolve. The wound where I had sliced my vein was already healed, a faint pink line of new skin the only evidence of the ceremonial blade’s mark, and soon that would be gone too. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw and bleeding, as if I could wash away the agony that clung to me like a second skin. But it was futile. The pain was deeper than flesh.

And then I broke

I felt a wetness on my cheeks and realised, with a start, that I was crying—silent, blood-red tears of sorrow and loss streaked down my face, silent and unrelenting the water had long turned cold the warmth from my tears startling. I fell to my knees, the strength draining from my body, and let out one last guttural cry of anguish. The sound tore through the empty room, reverberating off the walls before fading into the deafening silence that followed. The silence was absolute, oppressive. It pressed down on me, a cruel reminder of the emptiness she left behind. I stayed there, kneeling on the cold floor, the weight of my grief anchoring me in place. The world outside moved on, indifferent to my suffering, but for me, time had stopped. She was gone. And I was nothing without her.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

When I was seven, I remember Mumma sitting in her usual spot at the kitchen table, a coffee cup in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other. She didn’t even look up when she said it: “Sookie, I wish you’d clean your room.” The words rolled off her tongue in that weary tone she always used, but I could tell they weren’t just about the mess on my floor. Mumma had plenty of wishes—more than I could count.

She wished Miss Green would stop giving Daddy those ‘bedroom eyes’ every time he passed her in town. She wished she’d “stopped at one kid,” as if Jason’s existence was tolerable but mine tipped the scale into chaos. But what she wished for most, above all else, was that I was “normal.” Normal. A single word so sharp it cut me even then, though I didn’t understand why.

For the first twenty-seven years of my life, I wanted the same thing. I wished for normalcy as though it was salvation. I thought if I wished hard enough, if I wanted it desperately enough, it might just happen. I wanted so badly to fit in—to be just like everyone else. To not have people whisper about me behind closed doors. To not be different. That might have been the first wish I ever regretted, though I wouldn’t realize it until much, much later. It was the beginning, though—the seed of doubt planted deep inside me, the first thread unravelling a lifetime of wishes that would all come back to haunt me.

The thing about wishes, I’ve learned, is that they rarely come without strings. Every time you wish for something, you take a risk. You invite consequences into your life. And when I wished for normalcy, I didn’t stop to consider what I might lose along the way. It felt like such a small, simple request—to be normal. To be ordinary. But oh, how deeply I underestimated the cost.

Looking back now, I wonder why I ever wanted it in the first place. Why I was so desperate to shed the parts of myself that made me who I was. Was it Mumma’s disapproving sighs every time I spoke out of turn? Was it the kids at school who avoided me, calling me freak behind my back? Was it the loneliness I felt, always teetering on the edge of a world I couldn’t seem to belong to? Whatever it was, it swallowed me whole.

I spent years chasing an illusion—trying to shape myself into something I thought people would accept, all the while ignoring the parts of me that never quite fit into the mould. And now? Now I see it for what it was. A desperate attempt to erase the parts of me that made people uncomfortable. But the truth? Those were the parts of me that mattered most.

Normal was never mine to begin with. It was just a shadow, a fabricated dream I clung to because I thought it would save me. But normal comes with its own kind of tragedy. The things you give up, the parts of yourself you bury to make it happen—those sacrifices don’t disappear. They linger in the quiet spaces, in the moments when you catch yourself wishing for something else. And oh, how I’ve wished. How I’ve wished for so many things, never realizing the consequences waiting for me.

They say, "Be careful what you wish for." But those words had always felt distant, almost empty, until that moment—when despair settled over me, heavy and suffocating. The kind of weight that presses against your chest, making every breath a laborious task. That dreadful isolation, the sharp sting of regrets gnawed at the edges of my soul, never letting me forget. And yet, despite it all, I hoped. I clung to hope like a lifeline, and I prayed—desperately, blindly—to that vengeful God I’d always been told to trust. But he never listened. He never listens.

It struck me then all those years ago, stuck like a blade slicing through the fog of my delusion: I was utterly and completely alone. There was no one left to save me. No prince charming riding in on a white horse, no divine hand reaching out to offer solace or salvation. Just me—standing amidst the wreckage of my choices, abandoned by the echoes of my own desperate pleas.

This was my first. I had always had someone in my corner before. In every tragedy, every moment of fear, there had been a saviour—a shield against the worst. Whether it was fate, luck, or the strength of others, I had never faced the darkness by myself. But now? Now it was just me. No light to guide my way, no comforting voice to carry me through. This time, there was no one holding the line for me.

This is the cruel reality of wishes, isn’t it? The quiet truth no one warns you about. They say, "Be careful what you wish for," but they never explain the weight that comes with it, the sharp edges hidden beneath its glimmering surface. Wishes can betray you. You want something so badly you think it will save you, fix everything—but sometimes, you end up wishing yourself right into ruin. And as I stood there, choking on despair, I realized how deeply I had underestimated the cost.

They say, "Be careful what you wish for." Now I understood. All too well.

Twenty years earlier: 5th October 2003: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

..” That dark voice in my head saying, ‘Stop the world, I want to get off!’ has been growing louder and louder with every passing moment. And I doubt I’m alone in thinking this. Don’t we all, at some point, believe there’s something better waiting for us—somewhere out there? Something bigger, shinier, greener, something that might finally make us whole? But alas, the grass always appears greener until you get close enough to see the weeds.”

The voice on the radio crackled softly as I turned the volume down, the words lingering in the heavy air of the car. I sighed loudly, trying to shake myself free of the oppressive melancholy that saying goodbye always seemed to bring.

I couldn’t sleep, I was sitting in my car, parked in Gran’s driveway—the driveway Eric had bought for me. It had stopped feeling like home a long time ago. For the past year, the house had sat vacant, its silence louder than I cared to admit. It hurt to see the place like this: overrun with weeds, once-proud walls now weathered and broken, everything about it heavy with the weight of neglect. This house had been the setting for some of my happiest moments, but just as many of my most tragic ones. And now it was nothing more than a tired old relic, holding the echoes of memories.

I looked over the property, my eyes sweeping across the overgrown tangle of ragweed and bull thistle that had claimed the land. The paint on the walls was peeling, weather-worn and flaking, leaving the wood exposed and vulnerable to time. The porch sagged, its boards rotting away like a body giving in to decay. Once cared-for rose bushes had turned wild, growing feral and sprawling into a thorny cage around the house. They looked almost like a warning—like the house itself was daring anyone to cross its boundary.

Everywhere I looked, this once-grand farmhouse bore the scars of what was, the ghost of what used to be. Its halls carried the phantom whispers of love lost—passionate memories that once held warmth now tasted bitter on my tongue. Trauma lingered in every corner, woven into the very fabric of the walls. This place, this home, had once held so much hope. But now, it stood as a monument to a sad and broken childhood, a cautionary tale about a fairy princess who had wished for nothing more than to be normal—and paid dearly for that wish.

“Normal,” I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow as it echoed into the empty, overgrown yard. “It’s what I kicked and screamed for, what I fought for. But what is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.” The irony of those words cut deep. I sighed, the ache in my chest growing heavier as realization settled like a lead weight in my gut. The normal I had so desperately craved had been nothing but an illusion—a fabricated fairy tale I’d spun for myself, believing it could somehow be real. A perfect, shining mould I thought I could force myself into if I just pretended hard enough, if I just tried harder than anyone else.

But it had been a lie. A cruel, glittering lie. It didn’t work for me for twenty-eight long years—why had I ever believed it would change now? I hadn’t had “normal” before Vampires. I didn’t have it during. And the likelihood of normal after? Less than none. The truth was clear now, though it had come far too late to save me from myself.

“I tried Mumma, sorry to disappoint you!” I screamed, my voice raw and furious, tearing through the stillness of the night. Frustration, rage, sadness, grief—they all rose in a tidal wave, crashing into me with unrelenting force. I kicked a loose piece of gravel with all my strength, the sharp crack of shattering glass echoing back from the rotting farmhouse before me. The brief satisfaction it gave me was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by the deeper, endless yearning for more. I wanted to destroy something. To hurt something the way I hurt. To set this entire world on fire and watch it burn down to ashes.

The driveway stretched before me like a battlefield, every rock and bump a testament to the weight of years I wanted to forget. The house loomed in the background, an empty husk of memories long abandoned. Its once-white paint peeled back in jagged streaks, exposing wood that had turned grey with age. The porch sagged, its boards cracked and broken, the railings curling like arthritic fingers. The rose bushes that Gran had once so lovingly tended now grew wild and thorny, encircling the house in a chaotic, feral embrace. They looked less like flowers now and more like a warning—a message to stay away.

And yet I couldn’t. This place, as much as it hurt me, was part of me. Every fibre of this farmhouse carried echoes of what had been. The faint sound of Gran’s laughter seemed to dance through the breeze, followed closely by the deeper, darker memories. Ghosts of love lost, the heated whisper of passionate moments that now left nothing but a bitter taste on my tongue. The sharp sting of trauma, buried in the walls and rooted in the floorboards like some old curse.

This was where it had all started. Where it had all gone wrong.

I realised too late what I had done. I had pushed away the good things, the true things, chasing after a dream of a normal life. I had sacrificed opportunities, adventure, and love for something that was never real. And standing here now, in the shadow of this broken house, I finally admitted it to myself: I loved the adventure. I loved the chaos. And I had loved that stupid, infuriating, relentless Viking with every piece of my shattered heart.

The wind rustled through the trees, and I shivered as the cool night air brushed against my skin. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of cicadas mingled with the steady thrum of frogs from the creek bed. The stars above shone brightly, their light cutting through the oppressive darkness, but even they couldn’t offer solace. The quiet of the countryside was deafening, and the isolation was absolute.

I had a way out once. I had found some faint resemblance of acceptance—of who I was, of what I wanted, of what I could never change about myself. And then I struck the match and watched it all burn. I had torched every bridge, every connection, every glimmer of happiness I had dared to hold in my hands. Now, there was nothing left but regret.

“Normal,” I whispered again, shaking my head. “What a stupid, stupid thing to wish for.”

It’s been a year and three months since he left to marry Freya. A year and three months—and it still hurts. It really, really hurts. I thought I knew pain before; I thought I’d experienced heartbreak with Bill. I thought I loved him. But this? This is excruciating. This is heartbreak that consumes me from the inside out. Most days, it’s unbearable. Knowing now what I didn’t then—that Eric might have been my soulmate—it feels like I’m being tortured all over again.

“I hate him. I love him. I hate him,” I muttered, my voice trembling as I sighed. The words felt hollow, like an endless loop that refused to set me free.

He’s probably celebrating his one-year anniversary right now, happy and secure in his new life. Meanwhile, here I am, still moping around. My days are filled with self-help books, motivational speeches on the radio, and unanswered questions. I’m drowning in it, marinating in my own misery while the rest of the world keeps turning.

The wound still feels fresh every time I think about Eric. I can’t make sense of my actions, even now. When I look back—when I force myself to reflect—I can’t justify what I did, the way I acted. It’s a mess, a tangled knot I can’t undo. I was cruel. I was unfeeling. I’ve always been stubborn, always pig-headed, but the way I behaved. I crossed a line. And I can’t undo it. I hurt him—I hurt us—because I was too blind to see what I had, too lost in my own illusions to grasp the reality of what he meant to me.

And now? Now I just hurt. Deep, all-consuming hurt, like he left yesterday, not over a year ago. It’s ridiculous, and I know it, but I can’t stop feeling this way.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whispered, wiping the tears from my cheeks with my sleeve. They just kept coming, a relentless tide I couldn’t hold back. It’s everything, all at once. The dam is breaking. All the things I boxed up, stuffed down, and tried to forget—they’re flooding me, and I’m drowning. Drowning in grief, in anger, in regret.

I wanted to hurt Eric once. I wanted revenge—petty, childish revenge—for something he couldn’t even control. I couldn’t see reason then. I couldn’t see anything but my own pain. I was overwhelmed, running scared, clutching onto some fabricated, distorted idea of how relationships are supposed to work. I ran when things got hard, because that’s what I’ve always done. And now, with the weight of it all crashing down, I finally see. I see my mistakes. I see him. And all I want to do is apologize.

I just wish I could tell him how sorry I am. “I wish, I wish I wish! So many fucking wishes Sookie!” I screamed, I felt my sanity unravelling, the sound of my voice unhinged “so many fucking wishes!” I sobbed, I couldn’t recognise myself.

Eric left his daughter Karin as a nightly reminder, a shadow in the dark to keep me tethered to his world. And now she’s been gone for three months too. At first, I was joyful when the last vampire walked out of my life. I thought it was freedom. I thought it was peace. But now? Now I’m not so sure.

Karin was an ever-present phantom, stalking silently in the dark, night after night. I could feel her hatred radiating off her like heat. She loathed me—I knew it. There was no doubt in my mind that she despised me, that she thought I wasn’t worth the air I breathed, let alone Eric’s past affections. And honestly? I didn’t blame her. I didn’t think I was worth it either.

She spent the past year fucking Bill. I’m sure it was just to pass the time, a great burden she endured to ensure little Sookie stayed safe for 365 days. A “practical arrangement,” as Pam had so eloquently put it.

“Poor pathetic Sookie,” I groaned aloud, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. Pam’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and unfeeling: “Sookie, take my advice. I’m going to give it to you for free. This was not ‘nice’ of Eric. This was Eric protecting what used to be his, to show Freyda that he is loyal and protects his own. This is not a sentimental gesture.”

The memory hit me like a stake through the heart, sharp and unforgiving. Karin’s protection wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was just... what it was. A cold, calculated move. Nothing more.

I couldn’t expect him to care. I didn’t deserve it. I hurt him—purposely, spitefully. I was so angry, so petty, and then... I just stopped caring. And now he’s gone. Forever.

Bill, of course, has been circling like a vulture, dropping hints that no one cares about Sookie anymore. He’s not subtle about it either. Only he could love me forever, or so he says.

“Sukkeh, my love burns for you like one thousand suns,” I muttered, mimicking his voice with a dramatic shudder. My face twisted in disgust, and then I laughed—sharp, manic, and hollow. The sound startled even me. I felt all over the place tonight, like I was unravelling thread by thread. Just another chapter in the never-ending book of Sookie Stackhouse and a Series of Unfortunate Events.

For a whole year, I heard about Bill and Karin’s nightly escapades. When I moved, Bill started showing up at Merlotte’s, lingering like a bad smell. I think he was trying to inspire jealousy, hoping I’d finally take him back. As if. I’d rather meet the final death than run back to Bill Compton. The effects of vampire blood have long worn off, and with them, the fog he cast over me. I see him clearly now. He manipulated me. He had to have manipulated me. I’m not that dumb, am I? Was I?

The things he did to me, the things I brushed off and accepted... He raped me, and I just went back to being friends with him like nothing ever happened. I still held some twisted form of love for him, even after everything. And then, after all that, he passed me off to Eric like I was some unwanted dog. He watched me suffer in poverty, took me away from my livelihood to benefit himself. He makes my skin crawl.

Eventually, he stopped coming around. Sam told me he confronted Bill on one of my nights off, told him to leave me alone. And when Karin left, Bill left too.

“Everybody just left,” I whispered, my voice breaking as a tear slid down my cheek. The words hung in the air, heavy and final, like the closing of a door I could never reopen.

And then there was Sam. “He never left,” I spat, the words bitter on my tongue, leaving a foul taste that lingered. The thought of him twisted something deep inside me, a knot of emotions I couldn’t untangle—resentment, regret, and something else I didn’t want to name.

I watched as the sun began its slow ascent above the treetops, the sky transforming into a canvas of pink, orange, and yellow. A fiery glow crept across the horizon, spilling light over the landscape like molten gold. It should have been beautiful, but all I felt was hollow. The sunrise didn’t bring hope or renewal. It only illuminated the wreckage of what was left.

“I’m tempted, but this time, we’re going to be slow and sure,” I had confessed in the memory, the words lingering in the air like a fragile promise. I could almost taste the moment, feel the warmth of his skin against mine. Lately, I’d been replaying memories so often they felt like they belonged to someone else fragments of a life I barely recognized, borrowed and worn thin by time.

The memory continued, vivid and bittersweet, as I dissected every feeling, every word. “I’m sure I want to get in bed with you,” Sam had said, his forehead resting gently against mine. Then he laughed, soft and low, the sound wrapping around me like a blanket. “You’re right,” he said. “This is the best way to do it. Hard to be patient, though, when we know how good it can be.”

I had savoured that moment—the feel of his arms around me, the sense of him next to me, solid and steady. In that fleeting instant, I was blissfully unaware of the horrors and tragedies that would later unfold. It was just us, untouched by the chaos that seemed to follow me like a shadow. But memories have a way of turning on you, don’t they? What once felt warm now left me cold. The memory drifted away on the cool morning breeze, leaving a prickly sensation on my skin. I rubbed at my arms, trying to brush the feeling away, but it clung to me like cobwebs.

The sun climbed higher, its light spilling over the decrepit house. The peeling paint and sagging porch looked no better in the harsh clarity of day. Shadows stretched long and eerie across the overgrown yard, twisting into shapes that seemed to mock me. The silence of the morning was so profound it felt unnatural, broken only by the sharp, scratchy cry of a red-tailed hawk. The bird landed on the awning above the porch, its talons scraping against the rusted metal. It watched me with laser focus, its piercing gaze unrelenting, as if to remind me of my place in the world. Prey. That’s all I was. Prey to the past, to my own choices, to the things I couldn’t undo.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, the weight of everything pressing down on me. The memories, the regrets, the emptiness—they all swirled together, a storm I couldn’t escape. And the hawk just watched, unblinking, as if it knew I had nowhere to run.

“I’m Sookie Stackhouse, and I belong here,” I muttered under my breath, repeating the words like a mantra. Over and over, as if saying them enough times could drown out the other voices—the thoughts and memories threatening to take root. Shaking my head, I tried to banish the images swirling in my mind. Breathing deeply, I practiced the calming exercises that had become my lifeline. But even as I struggled to hold myself together, the tears fell freely, dripping off my chin and leaving splatters on my old, worn T-shirt.

Gran’s home was nothing but ruins now—her pride and joy, built by my grandfather’s own hands, left to decay and rot. The sight of it felt like a dagger in my chest. Gran would have been devastated to see the state of it, and the thought only made the guilt worse. I wiped at my tear-stained cheeks with a trembling hand, anger and grief mingling together until I didn’t know where one ended and the other began. I had done this. It was my decision to put Gran’s house on the market, the house she’d poured her love and life into. I had sold it, believing it would give me a clean slate, a fresh start. But now? Now it felt like the biggest mistake I’d ever made.

The house sold within a month—faster than I ever expected. And the new owners? They hadn’t even moved in. They just left it to rot. In such a short time, it had fallen into pieces, collapsing in on itself like the weight of its history was too much to bear. It looked as though the Stackhouse name was all that had held it together. But deep down, I knew the truth. It wasn’t just us that had kept this place standing. It was the Fae. And now they were gone, truly gone, and so was everything they had touched.

Jason was furious when he found out I’d sold the house. Absolutely livid. He didn’t speak to me for nine long months—months filled with silence, avoidance, and resentment. He cut himself off so completely I wondered if I’d ever see him again. He didn’t even step foot in Merlotte’s Bar and Grill—not once. At least not until ‘that’ night.

Gran’s house, Jason, the Fae, the Werewolves, the Vampires—and me. Choosing a “normal” life had cost me far more than I had ever imagined. It was a lie, normalcy. A mirage I chased out of desperation, too blind to see the consequences. I thought I could reclaim something simple, something safe. But there was no going back to the life I had before. That Sookie Stackhouse—the girl I used to be—had died the moment Bill Compton walked into Merlotte’s all those years ago.

I was stupid. Naive. So blind to the truth of the world. To think it could all just work out, that I could wish my way back to how things used to be. What an idiot I was, clicking my heels three times and chanting “there’s no place like home” as if the magic could undo everything. It didn’t work. It would never work. There’s no place like home? Maybe. But when home is destroyed, when home is nothing but ruins, there’s nowhere left to go.

.. "Be careful what you wish for," as the saying goes. "Have you ever made a wish and gotten what you wanted, only for the reality to fall far short of the expectation?" The voice on the radio crackled softly in the background, the words cutting through the heavy silence.

“Mm, yes. Not what I expected,” I murmured, my voice thick and raw, as I wiped at my nose with the back of my sleeve. The snot-streaked fabric only added to the sense of self-pity washing over me. The bitterness in my tone lingered in the still air, hanging like a challenge to no one but myself.

I could do this. I had to. In four hours, I would have to face it for the last time. I would have to face what I had done.

“You should be careful what you wish for, because your wish just might come true,” I said aloud, the words breaking through the silence like a shard of glass. The weight of the phrase pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating, as though it had only just revealed its truth. The old tale came to mind—not one with a happy ending. It wasn’t the kind of story to inspire hope. It was more like Aesop’s “The Old Man and Death.” Too late for regrets once the wish is granted. Too late for me, anyway. By the time I’d realized I wanted something else, it was already done. My wishes had come true. Every last one of them.

But I’d learned the hard way—every action demands a reaction. Every wish comes with a consequence.

Sam’s life. A broken bond. A “normal” life. Those were the things I thought I wanted. I thought they’d make me whole again, patch me up and return me to some version of myself I could live with. But now, in the stillness of the morning, with the breeze brushing against my skin and the weight of my choices wrapping tight around my chest, I wasn’t so sure. The echoes of those wishes, of those choices, haunted me like ghosts. They were mine, and I got them—but not without a price.

And fate came to collect seventy-two days ago. Just fourteen days after the last Vampires walked out of my life for good.

90 days earlier 7^th July 2003: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

I stood outside the large glass doors, the cursive script overhead reading ‘Le bonheur d’une mariée.’ A bride's happiness—or so it translated in English. Apparently, though, it could just as easily have read ‘Sookie beware,’ for all I cared. I snorted at the thought, the sound sharp and bitter, as I laughed at a joke that really wasn’t funny. The name struck me as ironic considering the swirling storm in my chest. Happiness? Hardly.

I was forty-eight minutes early. Tara was supposed to meet me here, driving in from Bon Temps after dropping the kids off at their grandparents. The thought of Tara—steady, fiery Tara—gave me some comfort, though not enough to banish the knots tightening in my stomach. My nerves buzzed like static electricity under my skin, pulling my thoughts every which way. I fought the urge to drive past Fangtasia, though I knew it would have been pointless. It wasn’t even open, not with it currently being 9 a.m., and Pam and Karin were gone—shipped off to Vegas.

I missed them. God help me, I missed them both. It was a hard truth to swallow, admitting that. They’re all gone now—Bill, Pam, Karin—though I wouldn’t waste a single tear on Bill. But Pam’s sharp humour? The biting sarcasm that somehow made me laugh even when I wanted to scream. I missed that. Even Karin’s silent presence, always lingering somewhere in the background, had been reassuring in its own way. She made me feel safe, even if she hated me.

I wished—oh, how I wished—I could walk through the doors of Fangtasia one last time. Sit at the bar and watch Thalia snarl at her fans as they worshipped her from afar, or laugh at the scantily clad men dressed in pleather and shoelaces with dog collars tight around their throats, grovelling at the base of the dais. And then there was Eric—the Nordic God perched on his throne, his expression always bored but impossibly regal. Those moments had been good. It was good company, even if it wasn’t safe company. Maybe one day I’ll reminisce about it all, tell my grandchildren about how their grandmother had once been adventurous, how she’d been exciting. The thought made me cringe. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted children.

Telepathy, after all, is a lot to inherit. That particular gift—or curse—was a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Even if I had someone who understood and supported me, it would still be too much. There are things children should never know, things I shouldn’t know. Sam, of course, wanted at least four kids—as a minimum—and close in age. It was such a big ask. I just didn’t think I could do it. Not for him. Not for anyone.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. Lately, doubts had been eating at me like moths through fabric, unravelling everything I thought I was certain of.

I checked my watch. Only a minute had passed. My stomach grumbled, low and insistent, even though it felt like it was tied in knots. Glancing down the street, I spotted a little café tucked into the corner of the block. With brisk, determined steps, I made my way toward it. Better to sit in there with a coffee than to pace in front of the bridal shop, where the store attendants could see through the glass just how cold my feet were.

Hurrying toward the café, I collided with something—or rather, someone stepping out of a doorway. A solid chest met mine, firm and unyielding. The scent of oak and pine filled the air, mingling with something wild and earthy. I felt strong arms steady me before I could tumble gracelessly to the ground.

“Well, hello there, Stranger,” the man huffed out, his tone amused as laughter curled around his words. His voice was deep, smooth, with an edge of mischief that seemed impossible to ignore.

“Alcide Herveaux, well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!” I gasped, surprised as recognition washed over me. Before I could think twice, I pulled him into a hug. It felt strange comforting but heavy. I hadn’t seen him since... well, since that night. The night Sam died. The night I brought him back.

Alcide’s green eyes softened as though he was thinking the same thing, the weight of it hanging silently between us. He ran a large, calloused hand through his thick black tousled hair, a gesture that was so distinctly him. “How are you, Sookie?” he asked, his voice laced with quiet concern that made my chest ache just a little.

“Oh, fine as rain,” I lied effortlessly, plastering on that all-too-familiar Sookie smile—the one people always fell for. The one that said everything was okay, even when it wasn’t. “How have you been? How’s the Pack? Janice—she’s still in Jackson, isn’t she? Is she well?” I fired off questions like a rocket, desperate to keep the conversation flowing. It wasn’t just the isolation—I’d been starved for news, gossip, anything lately—but if I was truthful, I wanted to keep talking to Alcide. There was something grounding about him, something steady.

He was wearing a suit. That caught me off guard. I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen him in a suit before. My mind tried to conjure up the image of Alcide as I’d always known him—flannel shirts, work boots, hands covered in grease—but this? This was something else entirely. A deep navy suit tailored to perfection, complementing his olive skin and broad frame. The way his muscles strained against the fabric made me blush before I could stop myself. Well, don’t he just look fine as frog hair split four ways, I thought, flushing at my own ridiculousness.

“Janice is good,” Alcide replied with a laugh that was warm and easy, though fleeting. “She’s still in Jackson, but she’s thinking of relocating here in the next few months.” His laugh faded, and his smile slipped as something heavier settled over him. His eyes turned sombre as he added, “I’ve tried calling, Calvin...” he knew, oh God he knew, I felt the blood drain from my face and before he could finish the thought, I cut him off with a rushed excuse. “Oh, I don’t have that number anymore” The lie now second nature “Don’t see the point in needing it, you know? Not gallivanting across the countryside on a whim these days.” My words came quickly, too quickly, and I hated how obvious it felt—how much I was deflecting.

“Well, it’s been great seeing you, Alcide,” I said hastily, trying to escape before he brought up my business—before he asked the kinds of questions I wasn’t ready to answer. “I’ve got an appointment and wanted to grab something beforehand. I’m starving,” I added, already backing away.

“Hey, Sookie, wait,” Alcide called, catching up to me effortlessly with his long strides. There was something in his tone—an urgency, a care I wasn’t sure I wanted to face.

“You...” He started, and I knew instinctively he was going to ask if I was okay. But before the words left his mouth, he hesitated, switching gears. He handed me a business card instead, the weight of it heavier than the paper it was printed on. “If you need me,” he said simply, his voice steady but sincere.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as I took the card. I watched him walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the morning haze. The space he left behind felt emptier than before, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d been running from—and what I was running toward.

He knew. Alcide knew. The realization settled over me like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. Embarrassment burned through me, sharp and hot. I felt exposed, ashamed that Alcide had seen me for what I truly was—not the strong, fearless Sookie Stackhouse everyone thought I was, but a pathetic, fragile girl trying to hold herself together.

He wanted me to confide in him, wanted to swoop in and play the saviour—rescue poor little Sookie, the princess of ruins. That’s what I was to him, wasn’t it? A broken thing, a damsel in distress, waiting for someone to piece me back together. But I didn’t need saving. Not from him. Not from anyone. I knew what he was about to say before the words even left his mouth. Calvin had told him everything—about what happened six months ago, about the witnesses to my tattered pieces, my fraying fairy-tale.

That’s the thing, though. I’ve been holding onto that fairy-tale so tightly, clinging to it like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat. Because the alternative? The alternative is nothing. I have nothing. Nobody. Just the hunk of faded lemon-yellow rust that sits unlocked but still uninviting, parked in the side street near the boutique. It’s a relic of what used to be, a reminder of how far I’ve unravelled.

And I have unravelled. Far past the point of repair. But it’s hard to keep face when people see everything falling apart around you. It’s hard to pretend you’re okay when the cracks are so visible, so glaring. That Friday night was no exception. A few of the Hot Shot crew came into the bar for dinner and drinks, their laughter and energy filling the room like a balm to my frayed nerves. They were young, loud, and full of life, celebrating Mack’s 21st birthday.

For a fleeting moment, their joy was contagious. Their energy was an antidote to the weight I’d been carrying, a brief reprieve from the suffocating heaviness of my own thoughts. Mack, with his boyish grin and harmless charm, reminded me of a simpler time—a time I never really had but liked to imagine existed. Their laughter, their camaraderie, their sheer lightness—it was everything I’d been missing. Everything I’d been pretending I didn’t need.

But fleeting moments don’t last. And when the laughter fades, when the room empties, you’re left with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to escape. The fairy-tale frays a little more, the cracks widen, and you’re reminded that no amount of borrowed joy can fix what’s broken.

Mack himself was a harmless flirt, all boyish charm and wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Are you a magician, Miss Sookie?” he asked with a grin, his dimpled face lighting up like he thought he was the smoothest thing in Bon Temps. “Because when I’m looking at you, you make everyone else disappear.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head. It was cheesy and silly, but there was an innocence to it that warmed me. “What can I get you guys?” I asked, still chuckling softly as I leaned on the bar.

“It’s Mack’s 21^st birthday, Miss Stackhouse. Can we get him a beer—a jug, please?” one of his friends piped up, their tone equally celebratory.

I had gone to the bar to fill a jug for their order, where Sam was already tending to it. As I reached for the tap, he grabbed my arm suddenly, his grip firm and unyielding, and dragged me into the hallway.

“You’re acting like a slut, Sookie!” he hissed, his voice low but sharp, the words cutting through the air like a blade. His grip tightened, and I could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.

I froze, stunned into silence. My mouth fell open, but no words came out. The shock of his accusation hit me like a slap, leaving me reeling. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at him, trying to process what he’d said. Then, anger surged through me, hot and fierce. I yanked my arm free from his grasp, the motion sharp and defiant, and without a word, I turned on my heel and marched back out to the bar.

I threw myself into my work, refusing to let him see how deeply his words had cut. I ignored him for the rest of the night, my focus fixed on the task at hand. The hours dragged on, each one heavier than the last, until finally, the bar was empty, and it was time to close.

As I wiped down the counter, the rhythmic motion of the cloth against the wood was the only thing keeping me grounded. I heard his footsteps before I saw him, and then he was there, standing beside me, his expression softer now.

“I’m sorry, Cher,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “Look, Sook, I’m really sorry,” Sam said, his voice heavy with exhaustion and regret. “It’s been a hell of a night. The invoices came in, and I don’t know how we’re going to pay them. The plumbing’s shot, the oven’s on its last legs—it’s all piling up, and I just... I shouldn’t have snapped at you. And grabbing your arm like that? That was out of line. I’m sorry. Truly.”

“Don’t do it again, Sam. I’m not your punching bag,” I said firmly, my voice steady even as my emotions churned beneath the surface. Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and headed toward the front to lock up.

The night air hit me as I stepped outside, cool and still, wrapping around me like a reluctant embrace. That’s when I noticed them—Birthday Boy, his friend, and a girl huddled together under the dim light of the bar’s awning. They hadn’t left yet. Concern prickled at the edge of my tired thoughts, and I walked over to see if they were alright.

I approached the girl first. “Hey, are you guys okay?” I asked, forcing a small smile. I was too worn out to dig into the details—her name, her connection to the boys—it all felt like too much to pull from their thoughts right now. I had enough burdens of my own to deal with.

She shifted on her feet, fiddling nervously with the hem of her sleeve. “Nah,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Mack and Dalton had too much.” Her gaze dropped momentarily before meeting mine again. “Umm, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name’s Ruby. My uncle is Calvin. Do you think you could call him for me, Miss Sookie?” She looked up at me with a small, hesitant smile, worry flickering in her eyes.

“Yeah, sure. Do you have his number, honey?” I asked softly, giving her a small smile in return. I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, hoping the gesture would ease some of the worry in her eyes. It wasn’t much, but I wanted her to know it would be okay, or at least that I’d try to help.

As I reached for my flip phone, the one Sam bought me, a flicker of irritation passed through me. He thought it would be best for me to start fresh, and at the time, I’d agreed. But now, every time I used it, I felt a twinge of annoyance. I knew his jealousy of Eric had been the driving force behind it—he didn’t want the Vampires contacting me anymore. That much I understood. But when I discovered the only contact he’d programmed into the phone was his own? That was where irritation turned into genuine frustration. And destroying my old phone outright? That had crossed the line.

Sam apologized afterward, claiming he hadn’t even thought about what he was doing. Maybe he hadn’t, but the damage was already done. I’d had to ask Tara for help putting everyone’s numbers back into the new phone. And even then, my contacts were still incomplete. Jason wasn’t in there. The Werewolves, the Vampires, the Panthers—all gone. Even Desmond Cataliades’ number was missing, which left me feeling more disconnected than ever.

Ruby handed me Calvin’s number, snapping me out of my spiralling thoughts. I input it carefully, my fingers pausing over the dial button as hesitation crept in. Something about the action made me pause—something about reaching out, making that connection, bringing him into this moment. I glanced at Ruby, her worried smile tugging at the hem of her sleeve, and felt a pang of responsibility I couldn’t ignore. So, I took a deep breath and pressed dial.

“I’m just going to call from the bar; I’m out of minutes,” I said, forcing a tight smile as I glanced at the girl. My voice was calm, steady, but the knot of tension in my stomach twisted tighter. I didn’t want Sam to be angry if he checked my call log later—or worse, saw it on the bill. He always checked.

I headed back inside, the sound of my boots echoing on the floor as I walked toward the phone. My fingers hovered over the keypad on my flip phone, Ruby’s uncle Calvin’s number lingering in my mind. Before I dialled, I hesitated. Deleting the number from my phone felt safer, a precaution just in case Sam decided to rifle through it. He had a way of making me feel like every call, every action, was under scrutiny.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the landline behind the bar, the one Sam kept for business. I dialled carefully, my pulse quickening as the number rang. Calvin picked up on the third ring, his voice slow and groggy.

“Mmm, hello?” he murmured sleepily, the sound of his voice making it clear I’d woken him.

“Hey Calvin, I’m so sorry for waking you,” I said quickly, biting my lip as a wave of nervousness washed over me. My grip tightened on the receiver, my knuckles whitening. “It’s Sookie... umm, I have your niece Ruby, and Mack and Dalton here at the bar. They’re really drunk, and I don’t think they can get home on their own. Would you be able to come and get them?”

The words came out in a rush, each one laced with anxiety. I felt like I was intruding, like somehow, even trying to help was doing something wrong. My stomach churned as I waited for Calvin’s response, the silence stretching between us like an eternity.

“Hey Sookie, yeah, sure. I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Calvin said, his voice sounding more awake now, a bit steadier.

“Okay, great. See you soon,” I replied quickly before hanging up, not wanting to linger on the line. My stomach knotted as I placed the phone back on its cradle. I didn’t want Sam to get angry if he found out. He was already in a bad mood, and I knew how he felt about Calvin. Sam couldn’t stand him—still bitter about that brief moment in time when Calvin had fancied me. Sam had his fair share of insecurities when it came to other men, especially those of the supernatural variety. It didn’t matter if there was no real reason for his jealousy anymore.

The bar was quiet now, the clatter of earlier festivities replaced by a stillness that settled heavily around me. I could hear Sam moving about in his office, faint sounds of papers rustling and the occasional muttered curse. The tension lingered in the air, but I pushed it aside for now. There were more immediate matters to handle.

I grabbed a jug and filled it with cold water, condensation already forming on its sides. Then I took three glasses, their rims cool to the touch, and made my way back outside to where the kids were waiting. The night air was still, the faint hum of crickets and the occasional shuffle of feet breaking the quiet.

“Hey, guys,” I said as I approached, setting the jug and glasses down. “I brought you some water. Calvin will be here soon to pick you up.” I handed each of them a glass, my gaze lingering on their faces for a moment. They were good kids—young, carefree, lost in their bubble of friendship and harmless fun.

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t help it. Watching them, I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. Nostalgia, maybe. Or longing. I’d missed out on this kind of camaraderie when I was their age—nights out with friends, silly moments that would live on as fond memories. Their laughter, the ease with which they shared glances and jokes, was a glimpse into a life I never really got to have.

I stood there quietly for a moment, the warmth of my small smile lingering even as it carried a hint of sadness. For now, I was content just watching them, letting their light-heartedness wash over me. It was a reminder that despite everything, some parts of life could still be simple, still be sweet.

“Awe, thanks, Miss Sookie,” Birthday Boy Mack said, his grin wide and boyish as he pulled me into a quick hug.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sookie?” Sam’s voice cut through the moment like a blade, sharp and edged with malice. I froze, the sound of his barely contained rage sending a chill down my spine.

Before I could even tense, Sam’s hand grabbed me, yanking me backward with a force that left me stumbling. My heart raced as I watched him launch himself at Mack, his fists flying in a blur of violence. The sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the night as Sam’s punches connected with Mack’s face, his jaw—over and over again. Sam was on top of him, relentless, his rage unhinged and terrifying.

Dalton, desperate to intervene, tried to pull Sam off the unconscious boy. But Sam turned on him next, his fury shifting targets without hesitation. It was like watching a storm tear through everything in its path. I stepped between them, my voice rising in panic as I screamed for Sam to stop. My hands pressed against his chest, trying to hold him back, to break through the haze of his rage. But it was like he couldn’t see me—like I wasn’t even there. His eyes were black with fury, wild and unrecognizable.

Then it happened. As Sam swung at Dalton, his elbow caught me square in the face. Pain exploded across my cheek, sharp and blinding, and I fell hard, landing awkwardly on my wrist. The pain was immediate and intense, radiating up my arm in waves. I knew, without a doubt, that I’d broken it. The sting of a split lip followed, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth as tears blurred my vision.

“Sam, stop!” I cried, my voice cracking as I lay there, helpless and hurting. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The man I thought I knew was gone, replaced by something primal and uncontrollable. And all I could do was watch, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a suffocating shroud.

I looked down at the business card his name embossed on the in black on the small white card I ran my fingers over each raised letter of his name memorising his address before crumbling the card stock in a tight fist and throwing it in the first trash can I passed.

The café buzzed with subdued energy, the kind you only find early in the morning. People in suits and casual clothing alike crowded near the counter, their conversations blending into a low hum that matched the hiss of the espresso machine and the clink of cutlery. The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the buttery aroma of baked goods, wrapping the space in a comforting embrace. Patrons shuffled forward, some clutching their phones, others glancing at their watches as they prepared to dive into another day.

The line moved quickly, a rhythm to the routine as customers ordered their coffee and breakfast before scattering to their various destinations. Before I knew it, I was at the front, face to face with my server. My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Abigail? Abby!” I exclaimed cheerily, the sight of her stirring an unexpected warmth in my chest. “Oh my goodness, how are you?” It had been months since I’d last seen her—she’d left Merlotte’s abruptly, no explanation, no goodbyes. I hadn’t heard from her since, and her absence had left a quiet void I hadn’t realized I felt until this moment.

But my excitement faltered as I caught her reaction. She shrank back slightly, her smile wavering for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make my stomach twist. Confusion rippled through me. Her reaction was subtle but undeniable. Was she... was she afraid of me?

“Oh, hi, Sookie,” she said, her voice as bright and cheerful as I remembered, but something about it felt forced. And then her mind—oh, her mind. I hadn’t been prepared for what I saw when her thoughts brushed against mine. Blackness. A void, cold and unrelenting, like a vacuum sucking every ounce of joy and happiness from the edges of her consciousness, leaving only fear behind.

I sucked in a sharp breath and slammed my shields shut, locking her thoughts out as quickly as they had flooded in. My heart thudded in my chest, and I realized she was staring at me now, her eyes tinged with concern. I’d missed whatever she said, too caught up in the hollow expanse of her mind.

“Sookie? What can I get for you?” she repeated, her tone steady, though her hands fidgeted nervously at the counter.

I opened my mouth to reply but hesitated when I noticed it. A faint mark on her neck—two small punctures, unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for. The glow of her skin, subtly radiant in a way that no natural light could replicate, sealed it. My stomach sank. Abigail was drinking vampire blood. She was a V addict.

Her hand shot up to her neck the moment she realized where my eyes had landed. Covering the mark, her movements quick and defensive, she let out a strained laugh. “Sookie, we’re a bit busy at the moment. Can I get you a croissant? They’re excellent,” she said, her voice light but her body stiff. It was a clear message: This isn’t your business. Don’t pry.

I got the hint. “And a coffee too, please,” I said, keeping my tone polite but distant. My smile barely stretched across my lips as I forced the words out.

I watched as she turned to prepare my order, her movements brisk but stiff, tension radiating off her in waves. The hum of the café, once comforting, seemed to fade into the background. My thoughts swirled, disjointed and uneasy, as I tried to make sense of what I had seen. The black void in her mind—it was chilling, a dark expanse that seemed to swallow everything bright and warm. The bite mark on her neck. The glow of her skin, unmistakable to anyone who knew what Vampire blood could do. Abigail wasn’t just lost in V; she was drowning in something deeper, something darker.

I felt helpless. And for now, there was nothing I could do but grip my coffee cup tight, pretend everything was fine, and walk away. As she handed me the to-go cup, I caught another fearful look from her, the edges of her unease palpable. My chest tightened. Clutching the cup to me like it was the only solid thing in my world, I practically bolted out the door, my steps quick and my breath uneven.

Those black eyes—seared into my memory, unrelenting—left a mark I knew I wouldn’t shake. They would follow me into the night, into my dreams, a permanent fixture in the nightmares waiting to claim me. I let out a shaky breath as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the morning light doing little to chase away the chill creeping up my spine.

“What was that?” I mumbled to myself, my voice trembling as I tried to steady my hands. Taking a bite of the croissant, I paused mid-step, my thoughts derailed by a sudden burst of flavour. I blinked, caught completely off guard, as the buttery flakes dissolved in my mouth. “Cheese on a cracker,” I muttered, staring at the pastry like it had just unlocked a secret of the universe. “Put that on top of your head, and your tongue would beat your brains out trying to get to it.” The words escaped me in a near moan of appreciation.

Abby hadn’t been lying—it was excellent. It had taken me twenty-eight years to discover the simple magic of a good croissant. Twenty-eight years of missing out on something so rich, so indulgent. And yet, the sweetness of the moment didn’t last. The unease lingered, a shadow stretching behind me as I walked, and the memory of those dark, fearful eyes stayed fixed in my mind, no matter how much I wished it would fade.

Tara was already waiting by the time I made it back to Le bonheur d’une mariée. Her arms were crossed as she leaned casually against the storefront, her smile lighting up when she saw me approaching. Sheepishly, I began brushing the pastry crumbs off my sweater—the remnants of my sensational French indulgence betraying me.

“Hey, girl, sorry! Have you been waiting long?” I asked, my tone apologetic but playful.

Tara’s grin widened as her eyes flicked to my messy appearance. “Look at you—croissant crumbs and all!” she teased, laughing warmly. “Come on, let’s go get you your dress!” Before I could reply, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door with the kind of infectious enthusiasm only she could muster.

The glass doors swung open, and the world inside Le bonheur d’une mariée swallowed me whole. The boutique was practically dripping in luxury. Tulle, lace, silk, and satin cascaded from dress forms and racks, each fabric shimmering under the crystal glow of the massive statement chandelier hanging above us. Beads and gems glittered like scattered stars, catching the light from polished marble floors that gleamed so brightly you could practically see your reflection in them. Mirrors lined the walls, throwing the sparkle and elegance in every direction, creating an almost dizzying effect. It was beautiful—but in an overstated, overwhelming way that made the pit in my stomach tighten. The elegance wasn’t welcoming; it was intimidating. The kind of grandeur that whispers, you don’t belong here.

I could feel the nausea creeping up, my chest tightening with the weight of it all. The room felt as though it had been crafted to dazzle, to impress—but it was doing the opposite for me. I was drowning in it.

“Girl, you’ve got this!” Tara said, her voice cutting through the whirl of my anxiety. Her smile was radiant and steady, like a proud mother sending her child off to their first day of school. “Go on—look around. Find the one!” She nudged me gently, her excitement contagious even as my nerves threatened to swallow me whole.

I nodded, inhaling deeply as I took another hesitant step forward. The air inside the boutique was faintly perfumed, a delicate blend of lavender and rose that clung to the elegance of the place. Soft music played in the background—a piano melody that was soothing but somehow felt just a little too polished, a little too poised. Around me, other brides-to-be wandered the space, their voices hushed as they moved through racks of gowns like explorers on the cusp of discovering hidden treasures. The sales attendants floated gracefully between them, their black uniforms sharp and pristine, their smiles effortless yet practiced.

I could feel the tension in my shoulders as I ran my fingers over the edge of a lace veil hanging nearby. The fabric was delicate, almost impossibly soft, and it only added to the overwhelming weight of expectations in the air. Tara leaned in beside me, her presence grounding me just enough to keep moving.

This was supposed to be exciting. Magical, even. But all I could think about was how badly I wanted to find the right dress—not for the celebration, not for the guests, but to prove to myself that I could do this.

“I don’t think I want to do this,” I sighed, tugging at a loose thread on the hem of my sweater, hoping it might unravel and take my nerves with it.

“Come on, Sook, it’s just nerves. They always talk about cold feet before your wedding,” Tara said, her laughter spilling through the velvet curtain like sunlight breaking through clouds as she pushed me inside the fitting room, handing me a few dresses shortly after. She was more excited about this appointment than I was, her energy practically bouncing off the walls.

“I don’t know, Tara. My feet are sweating, and I feel sick,” I muttered, my voice shaky as I leaned against the dressing room wall. Sam wanted to get married as soon as possible. We’d only been together a year—give or take a week or two. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact date. It was shortly after Claude’s attack and only moments before Eric left. The timeline blurred in my mind, and the guilt of not remembering gnawed at me. What kind of person forgets something like that? But Sam? He was certain. He thought we were made for each other, that it felt right. And me? I wasn’t sure. All I felt was the nausea twisting in my stomach, threatening to spill over at any moment.

“It’ll pass, girl. It’s just nerves,” Tara said again, her voice steady and reassuring.

I’d told Sam I wanted to enjoy our engagement for a while, to take things slow, hoping that this feeling—this dread—would fade with time. But here I was, standing in a boutique surrounded by lace and tulle, and the dread hadn’t gone anywhere.

“That would be mortifying,” I said, cringing at the thought. “Walking down the aisle and throwing up on our guests.” The image was enough to make me shudder. I dressed myself in a daze trying on the first dress Tara handed to me it fit like it was made for me and that thought felt worse than the image I conjured throwing up on my guests.

Tara laughed, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the dressing room. “Come on, girl. Let’s see you in that dress!” she said, her excitement infectious.

I stepped onto the dais, the polished marble cool beneath my feet, and turned to face the floor-length mirror. The reflection staring back at me was almost unrecognizable. I tried to imagine myself as a blushing bride, but all I could think about was Gran. I’d always pictured doing this with her by my side, her hands smoothing the fabric of my gown, her voice whispering words of encouragement. The ache of her absence settled heavily in my chest.

“You look breathtaking, Sookie,” Tara said, her voice filled with admiration.

“It feels wrong,” I sighed, my gaze fixed on the mirror.

The dress was beautiful—everything I’d ever dreamed of. An off-the-shoulder gown with sheer lace sleeves and an open back, modest yet undeniably elegant. The mermaid silhouette hugged my curves, spilling out at the knees into a long, flowing train. Intricate floral lace adorned the fabric, the patterns reminiscent of a field of wildflowers. It was stunning, the kind of dress that made you feel like you belonged in a fairytale. But as I stood there, staring at myself, all I felt was dread.

“Smile, Sookie,” Tara said, her beaming grin lighting up the room. Her happiness was so genuine, so pure, that I couldn’t help but smile back. She needed this moment more than I did, and for her sake, I let myself bask in her joy, even if only for a moment.

The camera clicked, the flash momentarily blinding me. I took a deep breath, the nauseous feeling in my stomach still lingering but slightly dulled. “I’m Sookie Stackhouse, and I belong here,” I whispered, the words more for myself than anyone else.

“I can do this,” I said, my voice steadying as I tried to convince myself. Maybe if I said it enough times, I’d start to believe it.

I just needed an Advil. My head throbbed in time with the same song ‘Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield’ blaring for the third time on the old jukebox—a tune that had long overstayed its welcome. TJ and Mack were sitting in my booth, their boisterous laughter carrying across the room. I didn’t know what the song meant to them or what the connection was with the group of girls two booths over, but the giggling hadn’t stopped for twenty minutes. The girls soaked in the boys’ attention, sending coy smiles and batting eyelashes their way.

I was relieved the boys didn’t seem to hold any hard feelings toward me after what had happened six months ago. Still, they only came in when Sam wasn’t working, which told me enough about their boundaries. Calvin, though—he was here most nights. He’d always greet me with a nod, his kind, watchful eyes quietly assessing me. It was like he was checking for those marks hidden beneath my clothing, searching for signs of bruises I’d long since covered up. But Calvin wouldn’t say a word to me about it, not directly. No, he was the type to spread gossip to Alcide instead, stirring the pot where it mattered most. I wasn’t angry at him. How could I be? But I was embarrassed. Was I really that pathetic?

The dress fitting this morning hadn’t helped my mood. It was uneventful, to say the least. I’d told Tara I just couldn’t find “the one,” my excuses sounding hollow even to myself. She had a spark of hope, though, and suggested we plan a trip to another bridal store in Monroe in the next couple of weeks. Maybe there, I thought, I could actually pretend to care.

I scrubbed at the same spot on the bar absentmindedly, my gaze unfocused, until a sharp throat-clearing snapped me out of my daze. “I’ll be right with you,” I said quickly, rushing to toss the cloth into the sink. Washing my hands with brisk efficiency, I grabbed my apron and turned around, trying to shake the fog from my mind.

“Sorry, this song has been playing on repeat,” I said with a faint laugh, trying for humour as I wiped my hands on my apron. “I’ve turned my ears off at this point. What can I get you?”

I froze when I saw who was standing in front of me. “Abby,” I said, surprised.

“Hey, Sookie,” she replied, but her usual cheerful demeanour was nowhere to be found. She was chewing her bottom lip, her eyes darting nervously like she was searching for an escape. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

“Abby, are you okay?” I asked gently, but she didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flickered toward the floor, and her hands fidgeted at her sides.

“I... I look, I’m really sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought he was my friend.”

My brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about, honey?” I asked softly, trying to meet her eyes. But when I brushed against her thoughts, I was hit with a jumble of distorted images—blurry shapes, muffled voices, fragments of a face I couldn’t quite make out. It was wrong, unnatural, and the hazy quality of it reminded me of something sinister. Glamour, I realized with a chill. Vampire glamour.

“Are you okay?” I asked again, concern tightening my chest as her face twisted with worry. Abby’s lips trembled as she spoke. “I told him about you,” she said regretfully, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before I could respond, the bell above the door chimed loudly, the sudden sound making both of us jump. Abby’s head whipped toward the entrance, her thoughts shifting violently to the same black eyes she’d pictured at the café. The image was clearer now, etched into her mind with terrifying precision, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Her panic was immediate.

“I have to go!” she said abruptly, her voice rising with urgency. She didn’t give me a chance to ask anything more. She rushed to the door, her movements quick and deliberate, taking a wide step around Sam as he held the door open. The bell chimed again, the wind blowing through the open door as Abby slipped outside, her figure disappearing into the night.

I stood frozen at the bar, my eyes locked on Sam as he stepped inside. His expression was unreadable, and the brief exchange between them left me with more questions than answers. Why had Abby panicked at the sight of Sam? What was she so afraid of? Who was the vampire she’d told about me? Did those terrifying black eyes belong to him? And what the hell had she said about me?

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE: THE WEIGHT OF SHADOWS

I never believed much in karma when I was younger. I thought it was just a convenient idea people clung to, a whispered reassurance muttered when the weight of someone else’s cruelty felt too much to bear. It was something you said to soothe yourself, to pretend the universe might balance the scales. But decades on, I see it differently now. Clearer. What you put into this world—the decisions you make, the secrets you bury—they don’t stay buried forever. They find their way back to you, one way or another. Good or bad, you reap what you sow.

Life has a way of circling back, its patterns strange and unrelenting. Choices made in moments of desperation, promises broken in the dark, truths left unsaid—they don’t dissolve. They linger, growing heavy with time, their echoes growing sharper. Some become whispers that gnaw at the edge of your thoughts. Others return with the weight of a scream, cutting deeper than you thought possible.

Looking back now, the threads of those days are tangled beyond recognition. Shadows move between them, and the faces I once trusted blur into ghosts. The weight of hurried words, decisions made with trembling hands, fear thick in the air—I thought I was in control back then, thought I could manage the consequences. But I was wrong. Maybe the seeds I planted were never what I thought they’d be. Maybe they were doomed from the start.

I remember the silence that came after—the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but heavy, suffocating. It presses against your chest, makes you question everything. That silence still lingers, thick and oppressive, as if the air itself carries the weight of all that’s been lost. Was I right to push forward? Should I have let it all stay buried, undisturbed? Or was this always the road I was meant to walk? A path marked by shadows, by echoes I’ll never escape.

Some debts are paid in full, though the price is steep. Others hang over you, a weight you carry no matter how far you run. And then there are the truths—some you leave behind, some you try to bury. But no matter how deep you dig, no matter how far you flee, they find you. They seep into your bones, into your reflection, into the quiet moments when the world is still. I didn’t know that back then. Not really.

But I do now.

Twenty years earlier 11^{th July} 2003: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

It was a beginning, and it was an end. I stood on the balcony, the humid summer air clinging to me like a second skin. Midnight had come and gone, the seconds slipping away like water through my fingers. Karin didn’t linger. As soon as the clock struck twelve, midnight, she left without a word, disappearing into the darkness. Her sentence was served. A year of watchful nights and quiet tension, and now she was gone—for good. And just like that, she was part of the past. I was glad to have this behind me, I could truly move forward without having a constant reminder of what once was. I could finally move on. The world didn’t stop, things where still the same, I was still the same.

Mornings in Bon Temps start like they always do—calm on the surface but buzzing just beneath. Today wasn’t any different. Setting tables for the lunch rush, my hands moving out of habit as my mind wandered.

It was the voices at the bar that pulled me back to the present. Two women, heads bent close, their words quick and hushed. There was something in the tone—urgent, sharp—that made me pause, my ears straining to catch their conversation.

“Did you hear about Abigail?” one whispered, her voice low enough to make me lean in without realizing. “They found her—” She hesitated, lowering her voice further like the next words might summon trouble. “Dead.”

The saltshaker slipped from my hand, landing hard on the table. The sound startled me, but not nearly as much as their words. Abigail. Dead. It felt like the breath had been knocked out of me, the world tilting slightly as my stomach churned.

I forced my telepathy to stretch just enough to catch fragments of their thoughts. Pity, shock, fear—it all swirled in their minds like shards of broken glass tumbling in the air. And then the images came. Abigail’s lifeless face, rumours of bite marks on her neck, someone muttering about “V” and vampires under their breath. I felt the emotions more than I saw the images, the jagged edges cutting straight through me.

I froze. Abigail had been at Merlotte’s just days ago—panicked, cryptic. I could still hear her warning about “him” and see the terror in her eyes when she spoke of those pitch-black eyes. The memory resurfaced sharply now, heavier than before. It wasn’t just a warning; it was a puzzle missing too many pieces. And one of those pieces was her. Gone.

The stockroom door creaked as I closed it behind me, the sound too loud in the silence that followed. I pressed my back against the cool wood, squeezing my eyes shut, my breath coming in uneven gasps. My thoughts were a mess—looping, spiralling, refusing to settle. Abigail. Her face at the bar, pale and trembling, kept flashing through my mind. It had only been four days. Four fucking days since she was sitting right there, alive and terrified, spilling her panic like she was handing me a bomb set to go off. Warn me? Is that what she came for? To warn me? Or did she just want me to help her put out whatever fire she’d started?

My chest tightened, and I tried to steady myself, but it didn’t help. Not with my telepathy flaring to life, pulling stray thoughts from the bar like threads from a torn sweater. They drifted to me, unbidden and disjointed, weaving together in a tangled web of judgment and fear.

“It’s those vampires, I’m tellin’ ya,” one thought hissed, full of certainty and distrust. 

“Should’ve stayed away,” came another, heavy with disdain. 

“Bite marks,” a third one whispered, the word tinged with morbid curiosity.  “That Sookie freak is probably involved”

I gritted my teeth, shaking my head like I could physically block the voices out. It only half-worked. Beneath the surface gossip, something darker stirred—a memory. Abigail’s mind during that last conversation. It wasn’t just scared; it was fractured. Twisted. A black void sat there, deep and unnatural, like a cold, endless pit that drained the life out of everything around it. It was glamour, no doubt about it—vampire magic meant to distort and control. But the glamour wasn’t what stuck with me. It was the eyes. Pitch-black, vivid, and terrifying. They weren’t just burned into her mind; now, they were burned into mine.

I let out a shaky exhale, pressing my hands against my temples to stop the pounding in my head. Who the hell was “him”? Was it the man with the black eyes she kept thinking about or the Vampire that glamoured her, were they one and the same?. And what mistake was she so scared of? She said she told “him” something—but what? And why did she bolt the second Sam walked into Merlotte’s? My head swam with questions I didn’t have answers to, the weight of them pressing down on my chest.

Was Abigail afraid that someone was following her? Did she think she’d already been marked? My heart sank deeper. It didn’t matter. She was gone now.

It had been months—maybe a year—since I’d felt this pull, this gnawing sense of danger that whispered my name and dragged me backward into a world I’d sworn I’d left behind. The world of vampires, secrets, and shadows. But here I was again, staring at the ropes of a mystery I couldn’t ignore, ropes that were already tying themselves around me and pulling tight.

Sam was going to be furious. That much I knew. But there was no stopping it now. I needed to know. I needed to solve this—not because I thought I owed Abigail, not even because she came here to warn me. It was something else. Thrill? Stubbornness? I didn’t know. What I did know was that I had to do this. Alone. For the first time in months, the fog around me lifted, and for just a moment, I felt alive—terrified, but alive.

I took another deep breath and pushed off the door, straightening my shoulders. I wasn’t sure where to start, but I knew what came next. I couldn’t leave this alone. Abigail’s death wasn’t just some loose thread I could snip and forget about. It was a rope, pulling me back into a world that had never really let me go. And maybe this time, I wasn’t going to come out of it unscathed.

The memory of Abigail’s visit plays in my mind like a broken record, each detail sharpening the longer I focus. Her panic when Sam walked in. The fragmented, distorted thoughts swirling in her mind—those horrifying black eyes. And her cryptic words, rushed and strained as she bolted for the door: “I told him.” Him. Just four days ago she was alive, terrified, and sitting right here. Four days. She was here for what—warning me? Asking for help? And now she’s gone.

I sit in my usual booth during the afternoon lull, flipping through the notebook I keep tucked under the counter. Writing it down sometimes helps me make sense of things, especially when my telepathy is all noise and flashes. But today, the words feel hollow. Black eyes, glamour, him. I stare at the page, willing the pieces to fall together. They don’t.

Closing my eyes, I retrace the moment her thoughts touched mine. Abigail’s mind had been fractured that night—not just scattered, but warped. Tampered with. I know glamour when I feel it, that unnatural distortion that vampires leave behind like fingerprints on glass. It twists memories, bends reality, but her terror cut through all of it, crystal clear. Those pitch-black eyes burned right through the haze, haunting her like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

I shudder as the image flashes in my mind again. It wasn’t just fear—it was something deeper. Primal. It leaves scars, the kind you don’t see but feel like splinters lodged in your soul. I remember how her thoughts shifted when Sam walked in—how everything in her mind scrambled, like a rabbit sensing the predator’s approach. She wasn’t just nervous. It was desperation. But why? Why did she leave so fast? What connection could Sam have to the black-eyed figure buried in her thoughts?

And then the question hits me, sharper than I expect: Did Sam hurt her? Like sometimes... he hurts me? I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles white against the wood. No. No, it couldn’t be. Sam wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the doubts creep in anyway, a nagging whisper I can’t quiet.

Over the next few days, I watched Sam, careful not to let him catch on. I studied his mood swings, his interactions with customers. I tell myself if I just look hard enough, I’ll find something—a crack, a clue. But there’s nothing. Just him, steady as ever, and me, drowning in unanswered questions.

He’s leaving for Texas soon, taking a short trip before coming back with a surprise for our wedding. I know he’s building us a home, our marital home. The first time he mentioned Texas, it slipped from his thoughts—an accidental leak, or maybe he wanted me to know. I couldn’t tell, and now it doesn’t matter. The timing feels strange, but not strange enough to accuse him of anything. I keep my suspicions locked tight, hoping they’ll fade like the edges of a bad dream.

Meanwhile, the whispers in town swell like waves, crashing louder every day. Abigail’s death is all anyone talks about, though the stories change with every retelling. Some say it was an accident—a car crash or something mundane. Others think it had to be vampires, because, well, it’s Bon Temps, and everything in this town has a supernatural twist if you dig deep enough. The gossip takes on a life of its own: Someone saw me with Abigail the night she died. Someone else says we argued—about what, nobody can agree. It’s all just chatter, vague and inconsistent, but still enough to plant seeds of suspicion. Enough to make me wonder if maybe... I’m missing something I should already know.

The shadows of Abigail’s memory linger longer than I expect, curling around the edges of every thought. And those black eyes—they’re not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

“Sookie, Sookie, Sookie,” I muttered, glaring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My voice carried the sharp bite of self-reproach. The guilt had been gnawing at me for days now, heavy and unrelenting. I’d waited until Sam left for Texas to do what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do—investigate Abigail’s death. Officially, it had been closed as an animal attack, wrapped up neatly and forgotten by anyone who hadn’t seen the haunted look in Abigail’s eyes. “Case closed,” they said. No mystery, no vampires, no figure with pitch-black eyes and a presence that crawled under your skin. But I couldn’t believe it. My gut told me otherwise, whispering insistently that there was more to this story—more danger—and that somehow, I was tangled up in it, whether I liked it or not.

The morning was young, the sunlight pale and watery, barely warming the air. Bon Temps had been quiet when I left, the streets still damp from last night’s rain and the early risers already entrenched in their routines. Shreveport, though, felt different. It had its own rhythm—busier, louder, restless even in the softer hours of the morning. I let my eyes drift as I drove through its streets, my mind looping back to Abigail, to the terror etched across her face. I couldn’t shake the memory, couldn’t stop thinking about those pitch-black eyes that dominated her thoughts the last time I saw her, oppressive and terrifying like a shadow she couldn’t escape.

Maybe there was something at the café—something I missed the first time I visited. Maybe it held a thread I could pull, unravelling the mess Abigail left behind and the answers I couldn’t stop chasing. I took a deep breath, trying to steel myself, as I turned the corner onto the café’s street.

The café sat at the edge of a busy intersection, tucked between a faded hardware store and a second-hand bookstore with crooked shelves you could see through the window. Becky’s Brew, its sign read, hanging slightly askew as if it had been on the verge of falling for years. The lettering was worn—half-hearted attempts to repaint it visible in the brush strokes—but there was something almost intentional about the wear, like it was trying to appeal to the city folk who loved their quirky, rustic charm. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with burnt grounds as I stepped inside, the warm aroma curling around me. For a brief moment, the smell anchored me, pulling me back from the anxious edge I’d been teetering on all morning. The room was much the same as I remembered—mismatched chairs and tables crowded together, some with uneven legs wobbling just enough to bother perfectionists. The quiet hum of voices drifted through the space, blending with the hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of a mug on its saucer.

The barista Annie, her name tag read—stood behind the counter, wiping down its surface with a practiced rhythm. Her vibrant fuchsia pink ponytail bobbed as she moved, her expression neutral but focused.

I approached casually, careful to keep my tone light. “Morning, Annie,” I said with a smile. “Busy day?”

She glanced at me briefly, tossing the damp cloth over her shoulder. “Not really. Folks don’t really crowd in till later,” she replied. Her voice was friendly enough, but there was a tired undertone there, like she’d heard the same questions a hundred times before “What can I get you?” she added, straightening.

I smiled, leaning against the counter. “Actually, I was wondering if you had a moment to talk about Abigail, if you could answer a few questions.” Annie paused, face scrunching up quickly with a look of distaste “You’re another journalist aren’t you, its actually really distasteful and disgusting how you all keep ..” I stop her placing a hand over her wrist “No, no, not a journalist” I say to sooth her, tears were brimming Annie’s eyes, and mine too “No, I was her friend”.

Annie’s brow furrowed slightly as she paused to think. “Oh, yeah?,” she said, “I worked with her, in Bon Temps" I said nodding. “She wasn’t here for long—looked real nervous, though. She kept looking over her shoulder, like she was expecting someone to walk in.” Annie said wiping the tears “It’s just so sad, an animal attack. She was working the day it happened like you just expect at close time you’ll see them again the next day”.

My pulse quickened. “Did she say anything? Or seem… off?” I asked, careful not to sound too curious. I didn’t want to scare her off.

Annie shrugged, her movements casual. “Not much. The afternoon was really quiet, so she just made a coffee and sat by the window for a while. She left in a hurry, though—almost spilled her drink trying to grab her stuff at knock-off. Didn’t say anything else.”

Her answer gave me little to work with, but I wasn’t done yet. I stretched my telepathy just enough to skim the edges of her thoughts. I saw a flicker of Abigail, sitting by the window with her coffee, her hands clutching the cup like it was a lifeline. Her eyes darted nervously toward the door, her posture stiff and uneasy. There was no calm there—only fear, sharp and suffocating. The kind you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

I pulled back gently, shaking off the lingering heaviness as I thanked Annie and stepped out into the street. The café gave me nothing—no physical clues, no solid answers—but my instincts still whispered that I was on the right track. Abigail’s fear wasn’t just lingering in my memory. It was shaping everything around me, pulling me closer to the shadow she couldn’t escape. The black eyes she saw—they weren’t done with me yet. And as I stood there, staring blankly at the faded café sign, I realized: neither was I.

Back in my car, I sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel as I tried to process what I’d learned and what I already knew. The black eyes. Her panic. Vampire bite. The rush to leave. None of it lined up with the story they fed us, an animal attack, this couldn’t just be coincidence that she was terrified before her death none of it felt like closure. My gut whispered what I already knew: this wasn’t over. Not yet.

“Does this make me a bad person?” I muttered to my reflection in the rearview mirror. The words hung in the air, heavier than I expected. I was parked outside Abigail’s apartment, gripping the wheel like it might hold me back from doing what I already knew I’d decided to do. Guilt twisted in my stomach like a knife. I’d glimpsed her address from Annie’s mind—just a fleeting thought about having to mail the key back to Abigail’s mother. It was heartbreaking, and I hated myself a little for taking advantage of it. Using my telepathy like this—was it an intrusion? Probably. Maybe. Definitely.

Her death had been ruled an animal attack. Case closed. No mystery. No terrifying black-eyed figure or Vampires lurking in the shadows. And yet, here I was, clutching at threads, because my gut told me this wasn’t that simple. But what if I was wrong? What if this was nothing more than a tragic accident, and I was digging into something that didn’t need digging? I glanced at myself in the mirror, my reflection accusing. “That would definitely make me a bad person,” I muttered, answering my own question.

I shook my head, pulling myself together as I glanced at the apartment building. The landlord was nearby, fiddling with his keys, and I couldn’t help but pick up stray snippets of his thoughts. Frustration at unpaid rent. Unease about what had happened in Abigail’s unit. But there was nothing else. Nothing that would ease the rolling in my stomach or give me an excuse to turn back. I exhaled sharply, opened the car door, and stepped out.

“Unauthorized entry. Fines up to one-thousand dollars. Up to six years imprisonment,” I muttered, the Landlord preoccupied with some long-forgotten rental contract flashing through his mind. I sent up a silent, desperate prayer to whatever god might be listening. “Gut, don’t fail me now.”

Inside, the air was stifling, stale with the smell of dust and something faintly sour as if something half eaten was lost amongst the clutter. The apartment felt hollow, abandoned, as though the life had been sucked out of it along with Abigail. My steps faltered as I took in the scene. The signs of disarray were everywhere—papers scattered across the table, an overturned chair lying awkwardly on its side, and an open drawer with its contents spilling out onto the floor. It didn’t look like she’d left willingly. Someone had been here in a hurry—or worse.

I tread carefully, my breath shallow as I moved through the space. On the table, half-hidden under a stack of unopened mail, I spotted a notebook. My fingers hesitated over the cover, the weight of what I was doing pressing down on me. Then I flipped it open, the pages brittle under my fingertips.

The handwriting struck me first. Frantic, uneven, like the words had been scratched out in a frenzy. Most of it was incoherent—jumbled poems, stray lines of thought—but one section stopped me cold.

‘They’re always watching, watching, watching. Pitch-black eyes. I can feel them tearing pieces of my soul. Horror, so much horror. I made a mistake. He knows.’

The chill that ran through me felt like ice water in my veins. I turned the page slowly, my hand trembling. Tucked between the next two pages were photos—several, all taken from months ago. Of me. Of Sam. Of Karin and Tara. My breath caught as I stared at them, my mind spinning. What the actual hell was going on?

I flipped through the remaining pages, the handwriting growing more erratic, more desperate, as if Abigail’s thoughts had unravelled completely before the end. On the very last page, scrawled shakily, was my name, Sookie.

My chest tightened, my pulse pounding in my ears. The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating. I didn’t know what I was expecting to find when I walked into Abigail’s apartment, but it wasn’t this. My name. My face. My friends. The black eyes in her notes and in her mind. And now all I could think was: How was I tied to this? And how deep did this go?

I hadn’t told Sam. It had been two days since I stepped foot in Abby’s apartment, and I’d spent every moment since carrying the weight of what I’d seen—her frantic notes, the pictures of me, her unravelling thoughts scrawled across the pages of that notebook. But now that Sam was back, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Subtle, at first, but impossible to ignore.

Since he got home last night, his mood seemed sharper, his temper shorter. The smallest inconveniences set his jaw tight, his words clipped. Conversations with customers, once warm and easy, now felt stilted and forced. I’d seen him frustrated before, sure, but this was different. His protectiveness, always there like a shadow, had taken on a heavier tone. It wasn’t just concern anymore—it was invasive, like he was constantly watching, weighing something unsaid. And territorial… territorial in a way that made my skin prickle.

I’d tried not to bring up Abigail—I knew better than to push—but her name seemed to hang in the air anyway, unspoken but thick with tension. When her name did come up, even in passing, I saw the flicker of something behind his eyes. Not grief, exactly. Not concern. Something else. It lingered like an aftertaste, and I couldn’t pin it down. All I knew was that it unsettled me.

The bar was bustling tonight, louder and busier than usual, the hum of conversation filling every corner like static electricity. Glasses clinked, orders were shouted, and the smell of beer and grease clung to the air. I kept myself moving—refilling drinks, wiping counters, clearing plates—trying to shake the unease that had settled in my chest since Abigail’s apartment. It had been two days, and the weight of what I’d seen was still pressing down on me, heavier with every passing hour.

I hadn’t told Sam. I couldn’t. The thought of admitting I’d been poking around Abigail’s apartment was enough to tie my stomach in knots. He’d be angry—furious even—and when Sam got angry, he had a way of making me feel small, cornered. Terrified, if I’m being honest. So, I kept quiet, busying myself with the endless cycle of bar tasks, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way my hands trembled or the way my mind wandered.

But the rumours were everywhere. Every table, every bar stool, every booth had someone talking about Abigail. Her death. The mystery—or lack thereof—wrapped neatly up as an animal attack. I couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t stop hearing it. And eventually, it spilled out of me, like a confession I couldn’t keep bottled up anymore.

I glanced at Sam as he wiped down the bar, his movements brisk, the tension in his shoulders visible even from across the room. “Have you heard what people are saying about Abigail?” I asked, my voice careful, measured.

Sam froze for a split second before continuing, his hands scrubbing harder at the counter. “What’re you worrying about that for, Sook?” he said, his tone sharper than usual. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

His words were clipped, dismissive, but his avoidance was louder than anything he’d said. He didn’t look at me, didn’t meet my eyes, and that only made the knot in my stomach twist tighter. “People are saying all kinds of things,” I continued, watching him carefully. “Some of it doesn’t add up.”

“I don’t know why you’d listen to that crap,” he snapped, tossing the rag onto the counter. “Let it go. It’s not your problem.”

I pressed my lips together, my pulse quickening. “It’s just… odd, that’s all. She was here just a few days ago, wasn’t she?” I ventured, testing the waters.

Sam’s movements stilled, his jaw tightening as he finally looked at me. “I said let it go, Sookie,” he repeated, his voice low, simmering with something I couldn’t quite place. Anger? Guilt? Frustration?

Against my better judgment, my telepathy brushed against his mind, trying to understand what was behind his sharp tone. I didn’t want to pry—I never do—but his thoughts were louder than his words. A flash of something dark slipped through anger, guilt, and an image that made my breath catch. Abigail. Sitting at the bar. Pale, panicked, her eyes darting toward the door.

I froze, staring at him, my heart pounding in my chest. Did Sam know more about Abigail than he was letting on? And if he did, why was he so desperate to shut me down?

Staring at Sam, words dying on my tongue as his body goes tense and his eyes whip towards the door. The tension in the room spikes the moment the stranger walks in—a man whose presence feels inherently wrong. He’s tall and striking, with sharp features that command attention, but there’s something about him that sets my teeth on edge. An unsettling energy radiates off him, prickling at the edges of my awareness like static in the air before a storm. Conversations falter, then die, as heads turn toward him in quiet unease. The bustling bar grows eerily still, the clinking of glasses and hum of voices fading into a heavy silence.

I feel it instantly—something off. His thoughts are muted, almost like a vampire void that I can’t penetrate, almost impenetrable in a way I’ve only experienced with beings not entirely human. But it’s his gaze that unnerves me the most. It lingers on me too long, probing and deliberate, like he’s stripping away layers I didn’t know I had.

“Miss Stackhouse,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate, each syllable carefully measured. There’s a lilt to it, almost mocking. “I hear you were acquainted with Abigail. Tragic, isn’t it?”

My stomach twists into a tight knot, my instincts screaming at me to stay cautious. My shields snap into place reflexively, but his presence presses against them, testing their strength. It’s not a full assault—more like a subtle reminder that if he wanted, he could push harder. I force a polite nod, keeping my face neutral even as dread coils around my spine.

The stranger's lips curl into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Interesting,” his voice whispers inside my mind, curling around my thoughts like smoke. “Secrets, so many secrets. Don’t worry, little Fae child, your secrets are safe with me.” His laughter follows the words, an eerie, echoing sound that makes the air feel heavier.

Before I can respond, he hands me a manila folder, his long fingers brushing mine deliberately, like he’s trying to leave an impression. He winks—of all things—and turns on his heel, leaving abruptly, the air shifting as he moves. His cryptic words hang in the space he vacates, heavy and foreboding, like the storm cloud that follows a lightning strike.

I stand frozen, clutching the folder in my hands as my chest tightens with dread. “Who…?” The word slips out of me, barely above a whisper. My eyes dart to Sam, who’s been standing tensely behind the bar, watching the exchange in silence. His gaze never leaves the stranger’s retreating form, his posture coiled and rigid like a predator ready to spring.

The light catches Sam’s eyes just right, and for a fleeting moment, I think I see something there—something other. It’s gone before I can focus, but his tension speaks volumes. I don’t need telepathy to know what he’s thinking. The stranger isn’t just trouble; he’s a bad omen.

Sam’s grip on my arm was unrelenting as he dragged me into the office, his movements sharp and furious. The door slammed shut behind us, the sound reverberating through the small space. My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept my gaze fixed on the folder clutched tightly against me, as if it could shield me from the storm brewing in his eyes.

“What fucking business do you have with a demon, Sookie?” Sam spat, his voice low but venomous. His words cut through the air like a whip, and I flinched despite myself.

“No—nothing,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My attention dropped back to the folder, my fingers trembling as I fumbled to open it. The weight of his anger pressed down on me, but curiosity and determination burned hotter. I needed to know what was inside.

The contents of the folder made my breath hitch. A contract. Not just any contract—one sent by Felipe de Castro, the Vampire King of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Nevada. His name alone carried enough weight to make my stomach churn. The terms were laid out in elegant, precise language: flexible conditions, protection, a salary that no sane woman would refuse. And at the bottom, an invitation to Fangtasia to negotiate the details.

It was too good to be true. It had to be. But even as doubt crept in, I couldn’t ignore the pull. This wasn’t just about me. This was about Abigail—about the fresh bite mark on her neck, her addiction to V, the glamour that had twisted her mind. This was my chance to find out what tied her to the vampire world, to uncover the truth behind those pitch-black eyes that haunted her thoughts. Maybe I could give her justice. Maybe I could give her closure.

My thoughts were interrupted by Sam’s hand snatching the folder from mine. The suddenness of it made me gasp, and I looked up to see his face twisted with fury.

“What the fuck is this shit?” he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. He flipped through the pages, his eyes narrowing with every word. “They must be joking if they think you’d ever accept this crap again!”

His words hit me like a slap, and I felt the air leave my lungs. “Sam, I—” I started, but the words caught in my throat. His anger was suffocating, filling the room like a storm cloud, and I knew there was no point in trying to explain. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t let me.

And just like that, the hope I’d clung to—the hope of finding answers, of giving Abigail the closure she deserved—slipped through my fingers. All that was left was the weight of Sam’s rage and the sinking realization that I might never get the chance to make things right.

25^th July 2003: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

“Why do you still have that thing, Sookie?!” Sam growled, his voice sharp and cutting as he paced in front of his desk like a caged animal. His movements were restless, his frustration radiating from him like heat. “Why haven’t you fucking burned it?” The words snapped through the air, loud enough to make me flinch.

We’d been circling the same argument for two weeks now, neither of us willing—or maybe even able—to let it go. He turned to face me, his eyes narrowing as his anger boiled over. “What about me, Sookie, huh? What about me?” He spit the words like venom, his jaw tightening as he glared at me. “This is a fucking joke! I thought you wanted to be normal! To have a happy, normal life with me!”

I stared back at him, my throat tightening as his hate-filled eyes bore into me. Normal. That word echoed in my mind, hollow and mocking. It wasn’t the first time he’d thrown it in my face, and I doubted it’d be the last. I long ago gave up on my “word of the day” calendar, which had ironically ended on normality. I’d laughed at the time, thinking it was fate—that the universe was nudging me in the right direction, telling me I was finally on the right path. I thought things were going to be great, that this life Sam wanted for us was everything I needed.

But now? Now it felt like a cruel joke, like someone had set me up for failure. Normality, noun: The condition of being normal; the state of being usual, typical, or expected.

Except I’m none of those things. I’m unusual. Unexpected. I think I wanted normality—I really believed that’s what I was chasing—but looking at Sam now, pacing like a storm contained in too small a room, I wasn’t sure anymore. Whatever I thought I wanted, it definitely wasn’t this.

I dropped my gaze to the dictionary sitting on the corner of my desk, deliberately ignoring De Castro’s folder—the contract that had been the spark for every argument we’ve had in the last few weeks. My fingers brushed the worn cover, seeking comfort in the words I’d been stockpiling like armour. Disconnected. Conflicted. Drowning. These days, I find myself collecting words that fit what I’m feeling, wondering if there’s a better one—something sharper, clearer—to describe what my life has turned into.

“Why do you keep staring at me like that, Sookie?” Sam’s voice cut through my thoughts like a whip. I startled, looking up to see him glaring at me, his frustration so palpable I could feel it across the room. “Are you even listening to me?”

I met his eyes, steadying my voice as much as I could. “I heard you,” I said quietly, evenly. “But maybe you don’t hear me.” The words sat heavy on my tongue, refusing to leave. Instead, I swallowed them, letting silence stretch between us.

I tried again, softer this time. “Of course I hear you, Sam. But you have to understand—life handed me a 24/7 live broadcast into the minds of everyone around me. I didn’t ask for it. I can’t change it.” My voice wavered, but I pressed on, trying to placate him. “I struggled to accept it for so long, and I still do sometimes. But telepathy... it’s part of me. I’ve spent years trying to be someone I’m not. Trying to pretend it doesn’t affect me, but it does.”

Sam’s expression hardened, his glare unrelenting. I could see the anger simmering behind his eyes, the wall he’d built between us growing higher with every word I said. Still, I kept going. “I’ve realized I love what I do, Sam. I didn’t even know how much validation it gave me, but it did. It was an opportunity to gain from my ability, to prove to myself that it wasn’t just a curse. But I wasn’t smart about it before—I didn’t know what it meant. I let myself stay ignorant, and that was my mistake.”

I paused, hoping my words were enough to break through his anger. “When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right?” I added with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. The second the words left my mouth, I knew they were a mistake.

“Fucking lemonade?!” Sam’s voice rose, sharp and biting. He turned his head away from me, staring at the wall instead. “You’ve changed, or you’re just fucking stupid, Sookie. Really fucking stupid if you think this is a good idea.”

His words hit like a slap. My chest tightened as I stood there, trying to make sense of what he’d said, of what he meant. Had I changed? Was he right? Either in my behaviour or my view of the world—had I shifted so far from who I’d been that I didn’t recognize myself anymore?

But normality... I was supposed to fit into the mould society wanted, wasn’t I? The Sookie people expected me to be, the one who fit their perfect little idea of what life should look like. I tried for so long to celebrate the simple things, to enjoy them the way everyone else seemed to. But life isn’t simple—it’s absurd, wildly unreasonable, illogical. It’s inappropriate, difficult, terrifying. And maybe that’s why I didn’t fit. Maybe I was never supposed to.

“Sam.” My voice was firm now, no longer trying to placate him. “I purposely kept myself ignorant for too long. But I’m aware now. I’ve been wearing rose-coloured glasses, seeing the world as something it’s not. I didn’t know my worth back then, and I didn’t understand the risks. I wasn’t smart about things. But I’ve grown. I’ve learned my lessons, and I won’t go back to being blind just because it’s easier.”

“Are you even hearing yourself right now, Sookie?!” Sam’s voice was sharp, his tone cutting cruelly through the room like a blade. His pacing stopped abruptly as he turned to glare at me, his frustration boiling over. “Your worth to them is nothing! They’ll use you, abuse you, and then leave you to rot.”

The venom in his words hit me hard, but I held my ground, taking a steadying breath. “Sam, I hear what you’re saying,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “but I think I should at least consider De Castro’s offer. What’s a weekend of my time if it’s low risk?” I paused, hoping for some understanding, but the storm in his eyes only grew darker.

“It’s just a couple of accountants,” I continued, pushing past the lump in my throat. “I’d be vetting them for the position—that’s it. They won’t even know I’m there. I’ll be brought in, read them from another room, flown home, and email my report. It’s one night, Sam.” I exhaled heavily, rubbing my palms together as I searched for the right words. “I’ll have Mr. Cataliades look over the contract first. What’s the harm in him reviewing it? That doesn’t mean I’m accepting it.”

I caught Sam’s glare from the corner of my eye, but I pressed on. “It’s a great opportunity. A simple one, really. The pay is substantial—it could set us up, help get us out of this hole we’ve been in. I’m tired of sitting around waiting for things to change, Sam. It’s only natural to worry about what the future looks like, but I feel like I’m just wasting time.”

“Oh, and how exactly do you plan on making that happen, huh?” Sam snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Send the damn contract by carrier pigeon? You haven’t spoken to Desmond in over a year, Sookie! He hasn’t been in touch, and you have no way of contacting him.”

The bitterness in his tone made my hands ball into fists at my sides. My patience was wearing thin, but I kept my voice steady. “Karin left, Sam. I know that. I’m officially unprotected, and now all the big-bads are rearing their ugly heads, trying to get a piece of Sookie pie.” I sighed, bringing my thumbs up to rub at my temples, the tension in my skull building with every passing second.

This conversation was spiralling, and I could feel my frustration bubbling over. Sam wasn’t listening—he refused to even consider my perspective. I couldn’t stop the trembling in my voice as I spoke again. “Abigail’s death wasn’t just some ‘animal attack,’ Sam,” I said softly, the words like a fragile truth I could barely bring myself to say aloud. “I know it wasn’t. There are just too many coincidences, too many unanswered questions.”

I stopped short, biting back the rest of what I wanted to say. I hadn’t told Sam about Abigail’s apartment, about the things I’d found. It would be stupid to tell him. If he knew I’d taken it upon myself to investigate, if he knew how far I’d gone already, this would be a thousand times worse.

And yet, as his glare burned into me and my own doubts churned in my chest, I couldn’t help but wonder—did he already suspect? Did he see through my words, straight into the parts of me I was too afraid to show?

He loathed them—all of them. Vampires, Weres, the entire supernatural community. I didn’t know if this prejudice had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, or if it had grown into something uglier over time. There was a part of me that believed he’d had some semblance of friendship with the Were-panthers once—Calvin and his people—but now? Now, he despised them. And as for Alcide and the Werewolves, I always suspected the tension between Sam and Alcide had more to do with competing for my attention than anything else. But these days, it didn’t matter. He hated everyone.

I don’t know what changed, but his prejudice against Vampires was the worst of all. His hatred stemmed from a belief—a warped, ignorant one—that anything capable of coming back from the dead couldn’t return with its soul fully intact. It made him a walking contradiction, considering he’d died. I brought him back. I wished for it. By his own reasoning, though he’d never admit it, he had no right to condemn anyone else for walking that same path.

This wasn’t a belief grounded in reason or truth. It wasn’t rooted in actual experience dealing with Vampires. It was the kind of belief people used to justify hating others—people who were different, people who challenged the norm. It made him no better than the Fellowship of the Sun, who draped their prejudice in righteousness and called it morality.

Over the years, Sam and I had argued countless times about Vampires, especially after they came into the public eye. But Sam’s beliefs never budged. Facts didn’t matter; they could be twisted to fit any narrative he wanted. To him, the argument was simple—Vampires are bad. That was the foundation of everything he thought, and no amount of logic or reasoning could change it.

“Fucking unprotected?!” Sam’s voice snapped through the air, harsh and angry, pulling me out of my thoughts. He leaned in close, his eyes burning as he slammed his hands onto the desk, the sound loud enough to make me flinch. “Look, Sook, you have me. You don’t need them.”

The venom in his words made my chest tighten, and I instinctively turned my head away from him, unwilling to meet his glare. My heart raced, and I felt the familiar sting of intimidation. Sam was angry, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intimidated when that anger was directed at me.

Lately, it had been worse—his temper, his outbursts. They were sharper, harsher, harder to predict. Early on in our relationship, I learned to tread carefully around his aggression, but now? Now, it felt like I was tiptoeing across glass, hoping not to shatter anything beneath my feet. I hated this side of him—the frustration he couldn’t seem to contain, the anger that left me feeling small and powerless.

“We'll get married and not have to worry about this fucking shit anymore, they’ll understand that she’s mine and fuck off, she’ll be safe" he said seemingly to himself. He would talk to himself often, I don’t think he would realise he was doing it, his mind was the same sometimes I tried not to read his thoughts when he was like this he would become almost unhinged, he knew when I was reading him I made an effort not to accidentally listen in, after the last time he spiralled and focused all his rage towards me, angry that I couldn’t allow his privacy in his own head, so he made me suffer with every bad horrible thought, every awful thing he has ever witnessed, blood and gore from his time in the army, made me watch every woman he has ever had sex with. He begged for my forgiveness after he cooled down but I spent a week locked in our bedroom sobbing.

“But was I safe with Sam, I was ok, wasn’t I” I thought to myself, I didn’t know sometimes I felt like I was being pulled in two directions always battling always questioning myself whenever it came too him. He has never intentionally hurt me, he’s just dealing with his own demons, he doesn’t mean it. “It isn’t all the time, he is a good man. He’s just been through so much”

We had a lot of talks about marriage since he proposed, Sam thinks we should move forward now that The Vamps are gone and because I’m living with him, he’d like to marry next month, I thought it was too soon, I’m not ready, I wanted our relationship to be slow and sure but it was the opposite, everything moved so fast I didn’t have time to grieve my past relationships before I was in a new one, we moved in with each after a month. I was afraid to be alone, I think, I was numb and now I just wanted to find myself, who is Sookie Stackhouse?

I felt caught in an undertow being forced in the opposite direction of where I wanted to be, trapped under the surface of life, watching from the outside but never really experiencing it, never really feeling it, why didn’t anybody listen, I’m  drowning.

I would get mad at him when he was being pushy, and insinuated that I owed him this much. I understood his side that its expected for couples to marry when living together especially in this town, but I didn’t think I was ready, I found myself in a quagmire. Another word I’ve been stockpiling them lately, refers to a situation that is very difficult to get out of or an area of land that gives way underfoot. It’s was appropriate I thought.

“We don’t need dirty money Sookie” he growled.

“Look Sam, just go, we’ll talk when I get home" I said utterly defeated, I couldn’t escape the feeling, I was tired.

Sam left in a huff, slamming the office door on his way out, I couldn’t help over analysing, his comment irritated me, I have a skill it’s not dirty to make money off it, I was on the closing shift tonight, Sam was going to do opening tomorrow we are still understaffed, not much has changed regarding Merlotte’s, I had work to do and there just wasn’t any line between work and my personal life anymore.

“why do I bother” I sighed loudly lying my head on top of large pile of invoices, I was tired and the Bar wasn’t going to look after it’s self. 

Chaos reigned tonight, and I was barely holding it together. The bar was packed, every seat taken, and the noise level felt like it might burst through the ceiling. I was running on fumes, my feet aching and my shields stretched thin as I fought to keep the thoughts of Bon Temps’ unruly patrons out of my head. By closing time, I was sure I’d feel like one of the walking dead.

The new waitress we hired hadn’t shown up for her shift—it was her second day, and I’d had high hopes. Hiring more staff had been a stretch for the budget, but it wasn’t just about the bar—it was about me. I needed the help. I’d already talked to Sam about raising prices to accommodate for the shortfall, but it went about as well as you’d expect. He got snappy, launched into one of his rants about how he’d kept Merlotte’s open all these years without my input. “Why fix something that isn’t broke?” he’d barked.

Honestly, I didn’t know why he even bothered making me a partner. I didn’t have a say in the big decisions—the ones that mattered. More often than not, I just felt like the same barmaid I’d always been, only now with a pile of extra duties, less pay, and more debt.

I tried not to dwell on the thought as I picked up a pitcher of sweet tea for Maxine Fortenberry, but the frustration, the exhaustion—it was too much. My chest tightened, my breathing quickened, panic swelling until it nearly brought me to tears. I was seconds away from losing it when I felt a hand grab my shoulder from behind.

Startled, I dropped the pitcher, the tea splattering across the floor. I spun around, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Oh—hey, JB,” I stammered, trying to laugh it off as I steadied myself. “I’m so sorry. You startled me. It’s been a rough night. What can I get you?”

JB’s face was pale, his usual easy-going demeanour replaced with something frantic. “Hey, Sook. Sorry—nothing. Have you seen or heard from Tara?” he rushed, the words tumbling over each other.

“No,” I replied, the panic in his voice pulling my focus. “Why? Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, Sookie,” he said, nearly on the verge of tears. “We had a fight last night, and she left to get some air, but she hasn’t come home. Nobody’s seen or heard from her. She wouldn’t just leave the kids. Sook, I’m worried.”

The worry in his tone sparked my own. Tara had a temper, sure, and she’d walked out before, but she always came back. By morning, things were usually smoothed over. This felt different.

“No, I haven’t heard from her,” I said gently, trying to reassure him as much as myself. “But as soon as I do, I’ll let you know, okay? I’m sure she just needs to calm down. I’ll ask around here to see if anyone’s seen or heard from her. Just let me know when she comes home so I know everything’s okay.”

“Thank you, Sookie,” JB said, his voice thick with emotion. He left quickly, heading toward Jason, who’d just walked through the door. I watched them for a moment, then felt the sharp sting of Jason’s thoughts in my head. He was planning on leaving, already annoyed at the sight of me working the floor. His thought cut through my mind like a scream, loud and piercing, echoing in a way that left me fighting to keep my shields steady. "Fucking Sam said she wasn't going to be on tonight, I can’t even look at her. What would Gran think, has she even seen the house since she sold it" Jason thought, his disdain. It was all too much. And still, the chaos roared around me, unrelenting, like it always did.

"Just take your time. She probably forgot, stupid little thing. I wonder if she forgets—"

Mrs. Fortenberry’s cruel thoughts slammed into me, unbidden and vivid, as I hurriedly wiped up the sticky spill on the floor. Her imagination, as unkind as always, conjured an image of me slipping in the sweet tea and breaking my neck. She’s an awful woman—I’ve known that for years—but no matter how many times I catch glimpses of her twisted thoughts, they still sting. I could never quite understand how Gran had the patience to call her a friend. Maybe it was Gran’s endless grace, or maybe she just saw something redeemable in the woman that I couldn’t.

“I’ll be right with you with a fresh pitcher, Mrs. Fortenberry,” I called to her table, forcing a polite tone that I didn’t feel. All I needed was for someone to slip and injure themselves, turning an already chaotic night into a legal nightmare. And knowing Mrs. Fortenberry, if I slipped and hurt myself, she’d still expect her tea—even if I was lying there with a broken neck.

“Take your time,” she replied, her saccharine tone laced with the shrill bullhorn of her unspoken thoughts. So useless, she broadcast loud and clear in her head, the words ringing like a cruel hymn. I knew she’d be spreading this at church on Sunday, her whispers laced with judgment and glee as she gossiped with her circle.

I could already picture it. The way she’d raise her voice just enough to ensure the other pews heard her whispers. “Oh, that crazy Sookie. So clumsy! I still don’t know what that handsome Sam sees in her. That fang-banging Sookie is probably after his money, you know. Those rich Vampires must have grown tired of her uselessness. Poor Sam—stuck with someone who’s too old for those dead men now, so she’s gone and sunk her claws into Bon Temps’ respected bar owner. I bet she’s put a hex on him! That Sookie—such a whore, so stupid. Trash.”

Her imaginary condemnation echoed in my head, twisting a knife that had already dug itself deep into my chest. Some nights, I wonder if I’ll ever stop being the town’s favourite topic, the star of their whispered rumours and side-eyed glances.

By closing time, I had never been more grateful. Tonight had pushed me to my limits, and I was utterly drained—physically, emotionally, mentally. I texted Sam to let him know I was on my way home, but I lingered a little longer after the staff left. The silence of the empty bar was a momentary balm, a fleeting calm before the storm I was dreading.

I could feel the tension waiting for me at home, coiled and ready to snap the moment Sam and I exchanged words. The arguments had been coming more often lately, each one more draining than the last. I knew tonight would be no different. And as much as I wanted to avoid it, there was no escaping it. I just needed one more moment—a brief breath of quiet—before walking into the inevitable.

Present Day: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

STOP. STOP. STOP. The words echo in the hollow chambers of my mind, not as a command but as a plea. Yet memory, that capricious gatekeeper of time, does not yield to such desperate cries. Once the floodgates are opened, it is relentless—a torrent that neither reason nor willpower can contain. It is strange how certain memories linger, not as passive spectators to our lives but as persistent interlopers, clinging to us with a grip we never invited.

There is no logic to memory’s peculiar dance. It is arbitrary, even cruel. Why does the scent of lilies of the valley transport me instantly to Gran’s kitchen, where the sunlight danced through curtains and her hymn hummed softly beneath her breath? Why do I remember the lyrics of a television theme song from decades ago but often forget the reason I walked into the kitchen mere moments before? Memory, it seems, does not serve us. It owns us.

And yet, this capriciousness is what makes memory so confounding. It chooses its moments, its places, its sharp-edged fragments, and it embeds them deeply within us. Some memories soothe—like Gran’s perfume, an ephemeral thread that binds me to a time of comfort and warmth. Others cut—like the metallic tang of blood or the damp, oppressive air of a gravelled parking lot at night. The latter refuse to fade. They demand to be felt, over and over, until they become indistinguishable from the fabric of who I am.

Memories are, in many ways, an act of resistance against time. They refuse to obey its linear progression, instead looping and folding in on themselves like a Möbius strip. The past reaches out, not as history but as presence, dragging us backward with a force that feels almost physical. In this way, memory becomes not just a recollection, but a reckoning—a confrontation with the parts of ourselves that refuse to remain silent.

What is most harrowing, I think, is the vulnerability of memory. It ties itself to the most fleeting of triggers—a scent, a sound, a flicker of light—and suddenly we are powerless against its pull. We are there again, in vivid clarity, witnessing our pain, our joy, our mistakes, as though time itself has crumbled. Memory is not just a reflection of who we were but a challenge to who we believe we’ve become. It asks, incessantly, if we are truly so different from the people we were in those moments. Are we not, in some way, still living them?

Perhaps that is memory’s cruelty, but also its purpose. To remind us not of what happened, but of what it meant. That time is fleeting, yes, but meaning is eternal. Every trigger, every jarring detail, forces us to confront the truth of our existence: that we are both shaped and haunted by what we hold within us.

Memories are neither friend nor foe. They are simply the truth, unvarnished and unrelenting. And perhaps that is why they terrify us. Not because they chain us to the past, but because they reveal that we were never free of it to begin with.

Hours Later - 25^th July 2003: SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

I finished locking up the rear exit of the bar and stepped into the dim employee parking lot. The night wrapped around me with a heaviness that felt almost unnatural, the quiet so deep it gnawed at the edges of my nerves. As my foot landed, I felt a wet squelch beneath me—a sensation that sent an immediate shudder down my spine. It hadn’t rained today.

“Ick! Just fucking great,” I muttered under my breath, my frustration bubbling up as I hesitated to look down. I could only imagine what my shoes were now covered in. “Something God-awful left behind by a drunken patron,” I guessed aloud, my voice dripping with disdain.

This night just couldn’t get worse. I sighed, shaking my head as the dread in my chest grew heavier. I wasn’t going to inspect the mess. No way. If it was as bad as I feared, I’d only make myself sick, and I didn’t have it in me to deal with that tonight. I just wanted to go home. A shower, my bed—something to wash away the chaos of the day.

The air was cooler tonight, sharp against my skin, but it carried a strange weight with it. An odd sensation of dread prickled at the edges of my senses, creeping slowly but steadily. It was too quiet. Not the soothing kind of quiet, but the suffocating kind—the kind that makes you feel like you’re not as alone as you should be.

“I just need to go home,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head and quickening my pace toward my car. Halfway across the lot, I froze. A figure was sitting, slouched against the side of my car, their form hunched and unmoving.

My breath caught as panic surged through me. The dread I’d been feeling was suddenly razor sharp. I stepped back instinctively, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes darted toward the bar, searching for someone—anyone—still inside who could walk with me to my car. But I was alone. A crunch of gravel snapped me back, drawing my attention to the stranger lingering by my car.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the faint glow of the nearby streetlamp only giving me blurred outlines at first. Slowly, the figure became clearer, and relief flooded through me as I recognized her.

“Tara?!” I called out hesitantly, my voice wavering as I tried to confirm what I was seeing. My heart was still racing, but there was no mistaking her now. I’d know her anywhere.

She didn’t answer right away, and I took a few tentative steps forward, still shaken. “Girl, you scared me!” I said finally, holding my hand to my chest as I tried to calm my frantic pulse.

“Oh, JB is so worried about you!” I called out, my voice carrying across the parking lot as I walked toward my car. “He came in frantically looking for you. Are you both okay? Do you want to talk about it? I’m always here if you need me. We can go back to mine—there’s wine there.” My tone was light, trying to mask the exhaustion of the night, as I prepared myself to comfort her, to be the friend she needed.

“Tara? Are you—” The words caught in my throat, dying on my lips as the scene before me came into focus. She was slumped against my car, her body limp, her clothes torn and bloodied. Her throat—oh God, her throat—was torn open, the wound jagged and cruel. Her lifeless eyes stared back at me, empty and unseeing.

Everything stopped. The world around me faded into nothingness, and all rational thought fled. I was frozen, staring at the body of my longest friend, my best friend, the person who had been my family, my constant. Tara. My normal.

I didn’t even realize I was screaming until the sound was abruptly cut off by the force of my body slamming into the car. The impact left me dizzy, my vision swimming as I stumbled, bracing myself against the car for support. Pain flared in my leg, sharp and searing, pulling me back to the present. I looked down, dazed, to see a shard of glass lodged deep in my thigh, glinting in the faint light from the streetlamp. Without thinking, I pulled it free, the motion automatic, detached.

“Blood. So much blood,” I thought sluggishly, my mind struggling to catch up. My brows furrowed in confusion as I swayed on my feet, the world tilting around me. I was bleeding, dazed, and for a moment, I forgot why.

“What is a little mouse to do?” The voice was soft, almost tender, the words brushing against the shell of my ear like a caress.

I shivered, but not from the cold. Fear gripped me, icy and unrelenting, clearing the fog in my mind with brutal efficiency. Tara. Ambushed. Bleeding. Alone. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and my breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.

“Caught in my trap,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement. “You can’t resend my invitation here.” His laughter followed, low and mocking, curling around me like smoke.

Before I could act, before I could even process what was happening, his hand was around my throat. The force of his grip lifted me off my feet, and in the next instant, he tossed me across the lot like I weighed nothing. I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs and sending pain radiating through my body. My vision blurred, and I felt something crack—something inside me breaking under the force.

I tried to move, to get up, to run, to fight—anything—but my body wouldn’t obey. I managed to push myself to my knees, gasping for air, but before I could go any further, he was there. He had me.

“Do you need saving little mouse? He mocked, gently stroking my hair.

“Everybody talks, and the rumours are that you’re unprotected. Everybody’s talking about snatching you right up, now imagine my surprise hearing such a thing, I just couldn’t allow that” he snickered.

I didn’t know that I was in the presence of royalty, to find out that your a little fairy princess. I always  wondered why the Viking was so devoted, obsessed. Is it your magical cunt Sookie?, does your blood taste divine, like our legends suggest? I had to see it for myself,” laughs whispering in my ear. He bit the lobe sucking it into his mouth, moaning, and grinding himself into me. I could feel him growing, his length pushing hard against my rear.

I couldn’t speak. My voice, my body—everything felt paralysed, as though I’d been locked in place by an invisible force. Fear gripped me, not the fleeting kind that comes and goes, but a fear so profound it hollowed me out, leaving nothing but the cold, suffocating absence of hope. This was terror in its purest form, the kind that strips you of reason and leaves you stranded in the void.

Time warped, stretching endlessly as I lay there, frozen. It felt like hours before my body even attempted to respond, my palms slick with sweat as my fingers clawed desperately at the gravel beneath me. I tried to push up, to fight back, but my efforts were futile. He had me pinned, his weight pressing down on me like an unyielding force, crushing the air from my lungs. His chest bore down against my back, cementing me to the filthy parking lot of Merlotte’s Bar and Grill, the grit biting into my skin.

Every instinct screamed at me to move, to fight, to do something, but my body refused to obey. The world around me blurred, the edges of my vision darkening as panic clawed its way through me. My breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the crushing weight that held me down. The gravel beneath me felt sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the despair that coiled in my chest, tightening with every passing second.

This wasn’t just fear—it was despair, trepidation, the complete and utter certainty that I was powerless. My heart pounded so violently I thought it might burst, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. I was trembling uncontrollably, my teeth chattering as though my body was trying to shake itself free of the terror. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue, grounding me in the horrifying reality of the moment.

I had been in dangerous situations before, moments where I feared for my life. But deep down, I’d always known there was someone who would come for me. Someone who would save me. Eric, with his unrelenting devotion, had shielded me more times than I could count, risking himself for me even when he had nothing to gain. I never told him how grateful I was. I never thanked him for the times he stood between me and death, offering me his blood, his protection, his world.

But Eric was gone. Sam wasn’t here. Bill wasn’t here. I was alone. And for the first time, I knew—truly knew—that no one was coming. There was no rescue, no shield, no salvation. It was just me, pinned to the ground, helpless against what was about to happen.

He flipped me to my back and had my arms stretched above my head, he pinned them with one hand his nails digging into my wrists. The other hand sliding down my pants.

“I’m going to take what I want, little mouse” He spat, tearing my pants down to my knees in one swift brutal motion. “no one is here, not your Viking, or not your dog or your filthy Pack animals. No one is going to stop me, you know" he laughed, unbuckling his belt, he unzipped the fly of his dark coloured slacks, revealing himself.

“You’re mine, you, your cunt, your blood, your whole pathetic life is now mine Sookie Stackhouse” he said, stroking his shaft, tightening his hold on my wrists I could feel the bones gridding together, the gravel digging into my back, the weight of him on top of me. I pleaded, begged him not to do this, I screamed, I kicked, bucked, thrashing my body about trying to escape his hold, but he was stronger, he gripped my jaw forcing my head to the side.

“You’re all alone" he whispered in my ear, forcing himself into my centre, I screamed until my voice broke, the violation tearing, it burned, my pain and fear exciting him, his thrusts becoming more violent he hummed with pleasure grinning cruelly at be before sinking his fangs into my neck.

I knew—this was likely the end for me. He would drain me completely, leave me lifeless and discarded here, among cigarette butts and broken glass, in the shadow of a run-down bar in a middle-of-fucking-nowhere. Just like he had with my best friend. Our deaths would become the stuff of whispers—loud enough for all to hear, nothing more than cruel gossip. They’d say we deserved it, that we asked for it!

“That’s what ‘Fang-bangers, Sluts, Harlots, and Whores asks for!” — Words so sharp and venomous, cutting like a blade. “They are tainted in the eyes of the Lord!” they never hear our screams, their judgment echoing like thunder, silencing our voice with their righteous fury, their demand for ruin, their call for annihilation. “No redemption for the unworthy” —cold, empty, and unforgiving. My thoughts turned to Tara. A mother. A strong woman. A good friend. She was family in every way that mattered. The loss of her cut deeper than any physical wound, a pain that throbbed through my very soul. I could only hope her death was quick—that she hadn’t suffered, that she didn’t have time to feel the despair that now wrapped itself around me like a shroud. She didn’t deserve this. None of us do.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul...” All I could do was pray—pray to a merciless god who seemed blind to my suffering and deaf to my desperate cries. My voice, hoarse and trembling, carried into the emptiness, only to be swallowed by the cold, uncaring night.

The sky stretched vast and unforgiving above me, its stars dim, their light muted as if they too had turned their gaze from me. The air was thick with the acrid scent of.. Him. My chest ached, not from physical pain, but from the weight of unspoken regrets. Fear of the unknown, I didn’t know where I’d go when this ended. Would I see Gran again, feel the warmth of her hand on mine, her soothing voice telling me it was all over? Or would I drift into the Summerland, among my Fae ancestors and the Claudine I lost too soon? Would I be welcomed, or would I be met with disappointment—Gran’s gentle eyes weighed down with pity as she saw what my life had become? Or perhaps there was no place for me at all. Perhaps this was my punishment: to wander endlessly, still searching, still yearning, never finding rest.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” I didn’t pray for salvation. I prayed for an ending. An escape. If there was any kindness left in the universe, it would be that—not Heaven, not reunion, but an absence of pain. I felt the cold gravel, the rough stones biting into my back—it was grounding, at least something tangible amidst the swirl of sorrow and despair. The words of my prayer were quiet now, their strength drained, as if I could no longer muster the will to plead for what I knew would not come. My tears streaked my face, but they felt futile, disappearing into the darkness as swiftly as they had fallen. The weight of the Him pressed heavily on me. I wondered if my prayers had ever truly been heard. How could they be, when the very air around me felt hollow, as if the divine itself had abandoned this place, me long ago.

I prayed, not for redemption or salvation, but simply to fill the void where hope had once lived. My voice quavered, breaking under the sorrow that clawed at my chest. The god I once believed in had long since turned away, and yet, I still prayed—if only to hear something other than the echo of my own despair. And in that bleak, lonely moment, surrounded by the remnants of my shattered life, I realized that perhaps the silence was the only answer I would ever receive.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” The verse echoed hollowly in my mind, a faint whisper. My lips refused to form the words, my throat felt tight and unyielding, as if even the act of speaking had abandoned me.

How do you describe something that leaves you less than human? That strips away not just comfort, but the very sense of yourself? If I were to scour the pages of a dictionary, combing through its hollow definitions for the right words to name what I feel, I might find a few—but none of them would come close to the raw, bleeding reality of it.

‘Fear –Noun: An unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm.’ —Not just unpleasant. Overwhelming. Suffocating. Fear that swallows every breath, every thought, leaving you suspended in its grip. 

‘Agony –Noun: Extreme physical or mental suffering.’ —Not just suffering. Agony that fractures your soul, leaving sharp edges that cut you from the inside out. Agony that doesn’t end but merely ebbs for a moment before returning in full force.

And still, even these words fail. They are too clinical, too orderly to encompass the chaos within me. They can’t communicate the depth of the violation, the sense that I’ve been unravelled piece by piece until nothing recognizable remains. This is the kind of pain that doesn’t heal. It lingers, haunting you like a shadow you cannot escape.

‘Confusion –Noun: Uncertainty about what is happening, intended, or required.’ —It was the disorienting fog that wrapped itself around my thoughts, pulling me further into the

abyss. I didn’t know what was real anymore. My vision blurred, tears spilling over and streaking my cheeks, but I couldn’t muster the will to blink. The gravel beneath me was sharp against my skin, each tiny stone a cruel reminder of my surroundings. My eyes fixed on one of them—a jagged fragment, dull grey in the dim light—because it was all I could focus on. The world beyond it felt too vast, too terrifying.

Hopelessness –Noun: A feeling or state of despair; lack of hope. — A suffocating absence of direction or remedy. A state of despair where the light of possibility feels extinguished, and the weight of reality presses heavy upon the soul.

This is the mark of something brutal, dehumanizing, and unspeakably vile. And yet, I try to put it into words, knowing they will never be enough. Articulating an experience like this feels impossible. Words fall short, clumsy and inadequate, against the magnitude of what I’m trying to convey. Some events are beyond the reach of language, their cruelty so consuming that all attempts to describe them collapse under the weight of their horror. This isn’t something that can be softened or captured neatly. It must be endured, a vile truth that clings and lingers like the taste of ashes on the tongue.

‘Numb –Verb: To deprive of feeling or responsiveness’ —A hollow space where sensations fade and emotions recede, leaving behind a muted stillness.

It began slowly, creeping in like a cold tide, until it came in waves, washing over me, dulling the sharp, biting edges of panic. It stripped away everything—fear, despair, even pain—until all that remained was a hollow, detached stillness. I could still feel the wet trails of tears sliding down my face, but they felt distant, as though they didn’t belong to me, as though they were part of someone else’s grief. My body felt like an empty shell, drained of sensation, thought, and life itself—just a vessel left adrift in the dark.

I no longer felt his violent touch, no longer heard his words, laced with filth and cruelty. Even the coarse gravel beneath me, sharp and unyielding, faded into the background, blurring into an indistinct shadow. The faint neon glow of Merlotte’s sign flickered overhead, its light sputtering one last time before surrendering to the night. Darkness swept in, and with it came a suffocating stillness, wrapping around me like a shroud. My vision dimmed, the edges of the world melting into oblivion.

I closed my mind against the cold, against the void, and let myself drift. It wasn’t an act of courage, nor of strength—it was surrender. The kind of surrender that comes when you’ve given everything you have to fight, and it’s still not enough. When there’s nothing left within you but the quiet yearning for release. The darkness whispered promises as it claimed me, not of peace or salvation, but of escape.

If anything waited for me on the other side, I prayed it would be far from this place. Far from the whispers that twisted my name, from the shadows that stretched too long and too deep, from the cruelty that burrowed into every corner of my existence. Far from the crushing weight of a life that seemed built to break me.

The darkness swallowed me whole, and I welcomed it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX: A SLOW DECLINE

20^th December 1989: SAM MERLOTTE

I could only wonder what Mum and Dad were doing right now. Was the foyer strung with tinsel, bathed in the soft glow of twinkling lights? Did the fireplace crackle, filling the house with warmth and the scent of Mum’s infamous ginger snap biscuits? I could almost hear the sound of Christmas carols playing in the background, a melody of peace and familiarity. 

Then, the roar of C-130s overhead shattered the illusion, rattling the ground beneath me. The humid air of Panama clung to my skin, thick and suffocating. I gripped my M16 tighter, heart pounding in sync with the distant gunfire. We had landed under the cover of darkness, but the city was alive now, awake with chaos. 

The streets of Panama City were a battleground. Burning vehicles cast flickering shadows against shattered buildings, and smoke curled into the night sky like funeral shrouds. Locals peeked from behind half-closed doors, their faces tight with fear, their eyes hollow with uncertainty. 

We moved forward toward Torrijos-Tocumen Airport—our objective. At first, resistance was scattered, nothing more than sporadic gunfire, a few PDF soldiers trying desperately to hold their ground. But the deeper we pushed, the fiercer it became. Bullets zipped past, kicking up bursts of shattered concrete. The ricochet of metal sang through the air. I dropped to a knee, steadied my aim, and returned fire. 

Mum and Dad never wanted this for me. Dad had fought me on it, said I needed a college degree, a stable future—business, finance, anything but this. He was pissed when I enlisted, couldn’t understand why I’d willingly throw myself into something so uncertain, so brutal. But back then, I thought I knew better. There was honour in serving your country. That’s what the recruiter told me, his voice steady and convincing, his words sinking deep. I had believed it. 

What I hadn’t understood—what no one ever really tells you—is how much evil exists in war. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done… My hands will never be clean.

Four years fucking Four years! I have to hold out for there more fucking years! Hours bleed into days, days into months—fuck, I don’t even know anymore. Time has lost its meaning, swallowed by the relentless grind of war. Sweat clings to my skin, thick with dirt and exhaustion, but there’s no time to rest. We regroup, check our gear, prepare for the next phase. The invasion is far from over, but today, we’ve taken ground. 

I strip off my helmet, desperate for relief, trying to wipe away the sweat, mud, and grime caked into my hair. My hands come away slick with red—blood-red—streaked with chunks of skin, fragments of bone. Not mine. My stomach tightens, bile rising in the back of my throat. This—I wasn’t prepared for this. Serving my country, honour, sacrifice… the recruiter made it sound noble. But they never tell you about this. The things you’ll see. The things you’ll do. The things that stain you long after the battle ends. 

For a moment, I’m not here anymore. My mind drifts back to Christmas in Wright City, where the population barely cracks one hundred seventy. The whole town gathers, because that’s what you do in a place so small—celebrate together, whether you like each other or not. Doreen Mover brings her god-awful tuna casserole and a cloying ambrosia salad no one ever touches. Max Chairfield brags about seeing some rock band play in Dallas, acting like it’s the biggest damn thing that’s ever happened. And Mum—Mum gloating to anyone who’d listen about how her baby boy was gonna be somebody, how he’d leave Wright behind and see the world. 

Well, if she could see me now. 

“Put that back on, Private!” Bellefleur’s voice snaps me back to reality, cutting through the haze. 

I blink, staring down at my trembling hands, still slick with blood. 

“Sorry, I…” My voice wavers as I scrub furiously, trying to wipe it away, as if that’ll make it all disappear. 

“War’s never clean,” Bellefleur says, a little softer now. He studies me for a beat, his hardened gaze holding something almost like understanding. “Where you from, Merlotte?”

“Wright City, Texas, sir,” I replied, my voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing me down. “Ain’t much of a city—population’s less than two hundred.” I paused, glancing at him. “You?” 

I liked Terry Bellefleur. He wasn’t like some of the other corporals I’d met—those who barked orders without a second thought for the men under them. Terry had seen a lot, that much was clear, but he was solid. Reliable. He’d kept us alive more times than I cared to admit. Hell, he’d kept me alive more times than I’d like to admit. 

I knew he came from a small town, like me. But Terry wasn’t the kind to talk much about himself. The Army was his life, his home. 

“Haven’t been ‘home’ in a long time, son,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, almost reflective. “Forgotten what a small town feels like. The Army’s been my home for going on twenty years now. But Bon Temps—that’s where I’m from. Little town in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana. Bout an hour forty-five from Shreveport City. Ain’t got a bar, but we got a corner store and enough gossip to rival a big city.” 

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. For a moment, I could see him there, back in that little town, surrounded by familiar faces and simpler times. 

“You just remind yourself that you do it for them,” he said, his tone soft but firm, like he was trying to anchor me to something bigger than the chaos around us. 

Before I could respond, the night erupted into chaos. The building rocked violently, the walls groaning under the impact. Something hard and heavy slammed into my skull, and pain exploded behind my eyes. My ears rang, a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. 

I blinked, my vision swimming, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding around me. PDF soldiers poured into the abandoned building we’d been using as cover, their shouts cutting through the haze. Half our team retaliated instantly, their movements sharp and practiced. Others groaned, clutching wounds or struggling to get to their feet. 

Through the ringing in my ears, I could just barely make out Terry’s voice, barking orders with the kind of authority that cut through the panic. I tried to focus, to push past the pain and the disorientation, but all I could think was: Just three more fucking years.

14^th August 1996: SAM MERLOTTE

The summer heat in Bon Temps was thick—so heavy you could almost feel it pressing down on you, making every breath a little harder, every movement a little slower. The air smelled faintly of beer and wood polish inside Merlotte’s, mixed with the occasional sizzle from the kitchen. I liked that smell. It was honest, unpretentious—a reminder that I’d carved this place out with my own two hands. The peeling paint on the walls, the hum of the ceiling fans, even the dents in the bar counter—they were all mine, a far cry from the dust of Wright, Texas, or the sand that had stuck to my boots in Iraq.

I stood behind the bar next to Terry, wiping down the counter, letting the low murmur of the radio fill the quiet. The man beside me wasn’t the same one who kept us alive in Panama. He was a shadow of the Corporal I had once admired, a fractured version of the soldier who had pulled men from the fire and steadied shaky hands. 

A year after Panama, we were deployed to Iraq. It destroyed him. I wasn’t stationed under his command anymore—I was elsewhere—but three days, that’s all it took to change him. Three days of torture. Three days of watching his squad suffer and perish. That kind of horror doesn’t fade. It buries itself deep, latches onto your soul, makes a home in the back of your mind where no amount of whiskey or silence can drown it out. He lives with that every day. 

Terry suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He can’t be around people for too long before the edges of his control start to fray. The walls close in, the voices get too loud, and he starts slipping. So I offered him work at the bar—part-time. Just enough to keep him tethered to something without pushing him too far. 

My father died while I was in Iraq. Mum moved on not long after. Wright wasn’t home anymore, so when my term was up, I didn’t what to do so I came here. Bon Temps—that little slice of nowhere—stuck with me, so I gave the town that bar they desperately needed. 

Merlotte’s was more than just a place to sling drinks—it was my sanctuary for the time being . My second chance, a new beginnings. It came at a cost, literally and figuratively. My father had left me enough to buy the place, along with a few properties in town. Hell, I own an apartment complex, for Christ’s sake but I’m not making bank. Rational people don’t invest big in small towns in the middle of nowhere. I can hear Dad even now, I can still hear him grumbling, telling me I should’ve gone to college instead of enlisting. Maybe he had a point. Maybe I should have listened. 

I don’t know. 

I like to think he’d be proud, I at least did something, I didn’t run off and go join Pa, my Grandfather but I doubt being a full-time bar owner who hustles property on the side in the middle of nowhere was what he envisioned. Still, standing here, with sunlight streaking through the windows and the quiet hum of early customers settling into their booths, I can’t bring myself to regret the choices that led me here. 

I wasn’t sure if this was my forever, but it was something. It was a start. 

Bon Temps reminded me of Wright, though maybe a little livelier, its pulse stronger with the presence of supernatural communities. The Panthers holed up in Hot Shot, the Weres and Vamps over in Shreveport—it wasn’t trouble, not yet, but I wasn’t sure I was completely comfortable with it, either. I grew up with Mum and Dad being the only Supes around for miles. The Army gave me some exposure to other kinds, sure, but I’d always been a lone Shifter. And this whole Vampires out of the Coffin thing? It unsettled me in ways I couldn’t quite put into words. 

But at least Bon Temps didn’t offer too many surprises. Just the same routine. Rinse and repeat.

Today, though, was different. I glanced at the clock, realizing the time was inching toward noon. That’s when she was supposed to arrive—Sookie Stackhouse. I’d only heard snippets about her, the way you do in a town like Bon Temps where everyone knows everyone else. A young girl, touched by something folks didn’t quite understand, sharp in ways that unsettled people. When her name came up, most people spoke in hushed tones, like they weren’t sure if they should pity her or fear her. Me? I didn’t mind peculiar. Hell, it was hard to judge someone else when you were peculiar yourself.

The creak of the door pulled my attention, sunlight spilling across the floor. She stepped inside, her figure framed by the light, and I found myself watching her with quiet curiosity. She wasn’t what I’d imagined—bright blonde hair that seemed to glow against the shadows of the bar, a smile that was both hesitant and hopeful, and those eyes… sharp, like she could see right through you if you weren’t careful. She looked nervous, clutching a small purse close to her side, but there was strength in her, too. Or maybe it was just stubbornness. Either way, I could see it plain as day.

“Mr. Merlotte?” she asked, her voice soft, carrying that Bon Temps lilt.

“Just Sam,” I said, stepping out from behind the bar. “You must be Sookie.”

She nodded, her smile flickering wider for a moment before her gaze darted to the booths, the corners of the room, maybe gauging the place. I motioned toward one of the booths, and she followed me over, sliding in like she wasn’t sure yet if she belonged.

“So,” I started, leaning forward, elbows on the table, “why do you want the job?”

She hesitated, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse. “Gran could use a little help with bills,” she said finally. “And I want to save up some, for myself.”

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected, but there was no mistaking the honesty in her voice. She wasn’t trying to sugar-coat her reasons or impress me with lofty goals. She was practical, straightforward. I respected that.

“You ever worked in a bar before?” I asked.

“No, sir,” she admitted, her cheeks colouring faintly. “But I worked at the grocery store since I was sixteen. I’m good with people, and I’ll learn quick. I promise.”

I studied her, the way she held herself—not just her posture, but her presence. Bon Temps wasn’t kind to girls like Sookie. She had to know that, had to know what kind of rumours followed her, but there wasn’t a trace of defeat in her eyes. She didn’t scare easy, and something told me she’d fight tooth and nail for what she wanted.

“Work’s hard, and the tips aren’t always great,” I said, leaning back slightly. “But I treat my staff fair. You show up, do your part, and you’ll be part of the Merlotte’s family.”

Her smile widened, and this time, it felt steadier. “Sounds good, Sam.”

I nodded, standing and extending my hand. She shook it firmly, surprising me with the strength in her grip. “You start tomorrow. Noon shift,” I said simply.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice lighter now, carrying a trace of relief. “I won’t let you down.”

As she turned to leave, the sunlight spilling through the doorway caught her for just a moment, illuminating her in a way that felt almost unreal—like something out of a dream I didn’t know I’d had. There was something about her, something that felt right despite the undeniable otherness that clung to her. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t meant to be alone after all. 

I watched as the door swung shut behind her, the sound soft but final. And for the first time in a long while, something settled inside me—certainty. A rare, fleeting thing, but enough to make me feel like I was moving in the right direction. 

For now. 

Sookie Stackhouse. That’d be enough.

5^th July 2002: SAM MERLOTTE

I felt like my world was on fire, the flames licking at my edges, consuming me from the inside out. Not all at once—no, it was slow, deliberate, cruel. Something had shifted, something fundamental. Something was... wrong. 

I didn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t. Restlessness gnawed at me, an insistent, crawling unease that burrowed beneath my skin. My own thoughts felt alien, detached, as though they belonged to someone else. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the pull—like an invisible hand dragging me back to that place. The darkness. The suffocating, endless void where I’d been. I couldn’t bear it. The fear of that smothering nothingness kept my eyes open long after the sun began to rise. 

Now I was here, sitting in Sookie’s backyard, surrounded by her Gran’s lovingly tended flowers and the steady hum of cicadas that clung to the humid Louisiana morning. But even here, under a bright sky, the shadows didn’t feel right. They stretched too long, too sharp against the weathered boards of the house. I’d been sitting here for hours, though it felt like days—time didn’t make sense anymore. The minutes felt stretched, twisted. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew one thing: I needed to be here. I needed her. 

The creak of the back screen door snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned toward it instinctively, every muscle tense. Sookie stepped outside, barefoot, a pitcher of tea in her hands. The golden morning light caught her hair, framing her like an ethereal beacon. For a moment, I swore I could see her as I did in the void—blinding, cutting through the darkness like a flare I’d been desperate to reach. 

“She brought us back,” I thought. The words echoed in my mind, my voice and yet… not mine. It was familiar but fractured, like a reflection in a broken mirror. Me, but twisted. 

I clawed at the thought, trying desperately to shake it loose, to anchor myself to the here and now. The warm grass beneath my trembling hands grounded me, its softness pressing faintly against my palms. The screen door groaned shut behind her, the sound dragging across the humid air like a splinter in my mind. The cicadas buzzed relentlessly, their rhythmic song merging with the piercing cries of birds of prey as they hunted in the dense forest surrounding Sookie’s land. Nature moved on, indifferent to the chaos roaring inside me. 

But my mind was anything but calm—a storm raging unchecked, a sea churning with unanswered questions. My breath caught as I clung to one undeniable truth: I was alive. Somehow, against all reason, I had come back. Yet, the chill of what I couldn’t escape crept in like a shadow. I had been dead. I knew that, as surely as I knew the feel of the earth beneath me. I died. 

“She brought us back,” the thought came again, louder this time. It rang, reverberating through my skull, impossibly heavy. I didn’t know if it was the voice or the truth that scared me more. 

“Sookie,” I muttered, my throat dry. She was talking—her voice soft and familiar, pulling at me, but the words were a blur. My Sookie. 

“Mine,” I thought, and this time, the voice agreed. The chill that ran down my spine was like ice water, though the sun was baking the sweat into my skin. 

She asked me something—how I felt, maybe? It was like hearing her through water, her words distorted but insistent, like she was calling me to the surface. That’s how it had felt in that place, the dark place—like she was reaching for me, her voice the only thing cutting through the suffocating weight of oblivion. I’d known her even there. I’d felt her pull me back. 

“She brought me back,” I thought again, and the echo was immediate, a resounding agreement that filled me with both gratitude and dread. 

“I don’t know how I feel,” I said finally, my voice sounding far too quiet, too small for the storm in my chest. I glanced up at her, and for a split second, I saw something shift behind her eyes. Concern. Or maybe fear. “I don’t feel like myself. It’s… it’s like something inside me has changed.” 

She frowned, stepping closer, but all I could hear was the whisper “She brought us back. You owe her” The words wound themselves around my thoughts like a coil tightening, suffocating. 

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say more, to make her understand. But how do you explain the fire consuming you from within? How do you put words to the feeling that your body isn’t entirely your own—that something else has crawled inside, latched on? I couldn’t. So I just sat there in her backyard, the sunlight warm against my skin, and felt the first inklings of something darker, something ancient, take root in my mind.

It’s been almost a month since I came back. Thinking back to the moment I found myself in Sookie’s yard, I can’t recall much of what happened the night before. The memories are hazy, fragmented, like broken glass scattered across my mind. But one thing I know—one thing I’m certain of—is her. Sookie was there. She brought me back. And nothing’s been the same since.

“Sookie,” the Voice hummed again, low and familiar, yet foreign enough to make my skin crawl. It felt like a parasite, burrowing deep into the cracks of my mind, a festering presence that refused to leave. An infestation. An unwanted companion. 

I feel like I’m unravelling, piece by piece, day by day. Losing myself in ways I can’t describe. Madness is a cold, creeping thing—it doesn’t come all at once. It’s subtle, invasive, like water finding its way through the smallest fissures in stone. I don’t even know if my thoughts are my own anymore. Every flicker of emotion, every creeping worry feels polluted by something else. Something that isn’t me. 

Is this how she feels? Sookie, who’s never alone with her thoughts. I wonder how she does it, how she carries the weight of every stray thought, every screaming mind that brushes against hers. I thought I understood, but this… this is different. In the beginning, the whispers were faint, like standing at the mouth of a cave and calling into the void. They echoed back—my fears, my insecurities, my desires—all distorted, twisted. And then it changed. 

The Voice became something separate, distinct. Not a reflection of me, but a presence of its own. It pesters me now, always chattering, never shutting up. Like sharing my head with a stranger who won’t stop making small talk in a line that never moves. Only, this stranger isn’t harmless—they’re sharp, watching, calculating. Sometimes I feel like they’re waiting for me to let my guard down so they can strike. 

And yet, there’s something worse—a power within it. A wild, untamed force that came back with me from the other side, from that dark, endless place. It hums through my veins, pulsing with a rhythm that isn’t mine. It feels like a poison, sweet and intoxicating, whispering promises I don’t want to hear. It’s both familiar and alien, calling out to me like it’s waiting for me to claim it. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to. 

“She’s listening,” the Voice whispers suddenly, sharp and precise. I can feel it trying to pull at me, winding around my thoughts like smoke. I fill my mind with apprehension, with the deepest pessimism I can muster. 

“I still don’t know what to do about the promise I made Eric,” I mutter aloud, lowering my head to hide the contempt curling my lips. I’ve gotten good at this—masking my true thoughts, especially around Sookie. I give her my best sad, defeated look, pretending the words I’m saying matter more to me than they do. The truth is, I couldn’t care less about what Eric thinks he can control. 

Eric and his smug demands, doling out conditions like he’s some kind of god. He wasn’t doing me any favours when I went to him for help; saving her was the last thing I wanted to ask him for. But I was out of options. The bank wouldn’t give me a loan, turned me down without so much as a second thought. My funds weren’t enough—at least not the kind I could hand over to the government. Eric was a means to an end, nothing more. Temporary. Inconvenient. Now, I’ve got him off Sookie’s back for a year, and once that time’s up, he’ll be gone. Permanently. 

Still, since I’ve been back, I haven’t been able to stay away from her. She’s like a flame, and I’m a moth drawn helplessly into the light. I can feel her spark, her essence, like a thread that ties us together. It’s what I latched onto in the void, when the darkness threatened to swallow me whole. She was bright, impossibly bright, and that brightness brought me back. A sliver of her soul intertwined with mine. A bond. A connection. She made me hers—and in doing so, she became mine. 

“I’m just relieved that you’re okay now,” Sookie says, her voice soft and warm, like a balm on frayed nerves. She touches my shoulder gently, the weight of her hand grounding me for a fleeting moment. “You did the best you could when you thought of it. Your whole reason for agreeing to such a stupid thing was to get me out of a terrible situation. How can I not be grateful for that?” 

Her words are earnest, her gratitude genuine, but I feel the Voice twist in the back of my mind, feeding on her kindness. I don’t know if it’s laughing or whispering promises I can’t hear yet. All I know is that I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell her what’s growing inside of me. What’s waiting. 

Not yet.

“Mine,” I thought, and the Voice echoed its agreement, a low, resonant hum that vibrated through my skull. The word wasn’t just a thought—it was a declaration, a truth that burned in my chest. I craved her touch, needed her close always. The memory of her being locked away, kept from me, was almost too much to bear. It had been agony, a hollow ache that gnawed at me, leaving me restless and raw. 

When I was near her, our connection was almost tangible, like the faintest brush of a feather against my skin. It electrified me, sent shivers racing down my spine. It was addictive, intoxicating. I couldn’t let go. I didn’t want to. But when she was gone, the connection faded to a whisper, a faint thread stretched too thin. It was maddening. I needed her. 

“I don’t want you grateful,” I said, my voice low, trembling with something I couldn’t name. “I want you mine.” 

The words slipped out before I could stop them, and then, like a crack of thunder, another thought followed: “Eric was right about that.” 

The moment the words left my lips, I saw her freeze. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock. She stood there, framed by the dim light of the room, her expression a mixture of confusion and something else—something that cut deeper than I expected. 

I knew I’d said the wrong thing. Panic clawed at me, and I tightened my hold on the sliver of connection between us, desperate to keep her tethered to me. I couldn’t lose her. She was the only peace I’d felt since I’d been dragged back to this hellish existence. She was my respite from the darkness, the only thing that felt right in a world that had become twisted and wrong. 

I wanted her. Constantly. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I couldn’t stay away, even if she wanted me to. I needed her. 

She was like a drug—my favourite addiction, my perfect little obsession. All those years I’d spent watching her from the shadows, too afraid to step into the light, came rushing back. 

“Pathetic,” the Voice sneered, its tone dripping with disgust. “Always skulking in the darkness, too weak to claim what was yours. You let filth lay with her, defile her, and you did nothing. You watched. You sulked.”  The Voice mocked.

“Shut up,” I thought, the words sharp and angry, but the Voice only laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed in my mind. 

Vampire Bill. The name alone made my blood boil. What a pitiful excuse for a vampire. I’d watched him take her, watched him touch her, and he knew I was there. He knew, and he didn’t care. And then there was the blonde bastard—the Northman. They’d corrupted her, smothered her sweet, pure scent with their rot and death. 

But I would bring it back. I had to. 

I could still catch traces of her—sunshine and lotion on her skin, the faintest hint of warmth that lingered beneath the surface. But it was wrong, tainted. Beneath it all, I could smell the decay, the stain they’d left on her. 

I froze, my hands trembling as rage built in my chest, hot and suffocating. The Voice screamed in my head, its fury matching my own. 

I could scent the Northman’s blood, still clinging to her, staining her spark. It was like a mark, a brand that washed out whatever connection we had. It was unbearable. I needed her. I needed to cleanse her, to wash the filth from her body, to replace death’s mark with my own. 

The desire to claim her burned through me, fierce and unrelenting. She was mine. She had always been mine. And I would make sure the world knew it.

One year later - 25^th July 2003: SAM MERLOTTE

The voice creeps in never allowing a moment of quiet, like a shadow sliding through the cracks of my mind. It’s low and deliberate, its cadence once alien, now relentlessly commanding,  each word forged stronger each passing day its thoughts battling against my own. There’s a weight to its tone—a calm authority that strips away certainty and makes me question my own morality, my own humanity.

Its presence grows stronger as I slip further into madness, guiding me toward darker paths, convincing me that my actions are not only justified but necessary. “The world must be cleansed of its rot,” it murmurs, each syllable heavy with finality. “Through ruin, we make way for purity, Samuel.”

At first, I fought it. The terror of its whispers twisted in my gut, the force behind them unyielding. I told myself I couldn’t do it—I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t hurt her. But as my mind frayed and the walls of my world crumbled, the voice became my only constant. It was always there, steady, patient, and persuasive. It didn’t demand obedience—it convinced. Slowly, inevitably, I began to believe it.

I couldn’t justify it—not really. I knew it wasn’t right. But the truth gnawed at me, undeniable and raw: I couldn’t say I wouldn’t do it again if it kept her safe. Protected. With me.

The entity wraps itself around my thoughts like a thread, weaving its rhetoric into every fractured piece of my psyche. It feels inevitable, almost righteous, like surrendering to it is part of some grand design.

“She looked like her,” I say, the weight of the confession pressing heavy against my chest.

“She did,” the Voice replies, quiet but resolute, its tone betraying a hint of something close to remorse—or perhaps it’s just another manipulation.

“But she endangered her,” I continue, anger spilling into my words as justification takes root. The fire in my chest burns hotter, unrelenting. I would tear down the entire fucking world for her. I told that woman to leave—I warned her.

I dig my fingers into my hair, stretching until the pressure feels unbearable, as though pulling might somehow release the fury boiling inside me. “Why didn’t she just leave? I warned her!”

For once, the Voice is silent, its usual calm replaced by an unnerving stillness. I’m left alone with my rage, my grief, the unbearable weight of what I’ve done.

“I warned her to leave and never come back!” I scream, my voice hoarse, raw from the force of it.

Finally, the Voice speaks again, its tone softer now, almost sympathetic. “You gave her a choice, Samuel. It was her free will. She chose her own path.”

My mind drifted back to Sookie. I saw it—that glimmer in her eye. She wanted to go back to them, whether it was a contract or some offer on the table. She was drawn to them, and it made my chest tighten with a mix of fury and despair.

Standing in the bathroom of her old, abandoned homestead, I could still smell them. Him. That thousand-year-old abomination. No matter how much I rubbed myself all over this place, trying to overwrite their presence, it never fully masked the stench of death. It clung to the walls, seeped into the floorboards, a reminder of their corruption.

They were supposed to stay away. I knew they wouldn’t uphold the agreement. It had been mere moments since they left, and already, they were back.

“Why won’t she fucking listen?” I screamed at my reflection, my voice echoing off the cracked tiles. She wanted to go back to them, risk her life for them. Why wouldn’t she listen? She had me. She was mine.

It had become a habit to patrol here regularly, checking for new scents, but all I ever found was rot and decay. I brought it, this place. I thought that after she bore my children, maybe it would be nice—a place for the pups to shift and run free once the scents and memories had faded, like the building itself. But now, all I could smell was her tears, her fear, her frustration lingering in the bathroom like ghosts.

“Why are you scared, Sookie? What are you afraid of?” I asked my reflection, my voice quieter now, tinged with something I couldn’t name. Leaving the bathroom, I wandered through the rest of the house, the emptiness pressing down on me like a weight.

Standing in the doorway of her old bedroom, I caught her scent beyond the closed door. It was faint but unmistakable.

“Whore,” the Voice whispered inside my head, sharp and venomous.

I growled, shoving the door open with enough force to send it swinging hard against the wall. The bang echoed through the house, but I didn’t care. Her scent filled the air, sweet and delicate, untouched by the rot I feared. I inhaled deeply, relief washing over me. It was hers. Only hers. The scent of damp wood and decay thick in the air, clinging to my skin like the remnants of something long dead. The walls sagged inward, exhausted from standing for far too long. Dust choked the corners, undisturbed, untouched—just the way it should be. 

Her scent was barely there now, just a whisper beneath the mold and cobwebs, drowning under the weight of collapse. I pressed my palm against the stair railing, the brittle wood groaning under my touch. A year. That’s all it had taken for this place to fall apart, as if it had been waiting for an excuse to crumble. 

I let out a breath. 

This was good. Soon it will all be forgotten and she.. We can move on. “They will take her,” the Voice said, its tone calm, almost mocking.

“Shut up,” I growled, my fists clenching. I wouldn’t let it happen.

“I have told you. You cannot say you have not been warned,” the Voice whispered, its words curling around my thoughts like smoke.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I screamed, my voice breaking as I clawed at my hair, frustration boiling over.

“Our bringer of life,” the Voice continued, unrelenting. “She alone brought us back from the darkness. She belongs to us. Do you think you could stop them, Samuel?”

Its tone shifted, scoffing now, dripping with disdain. “Claim me, Samuel. There is a balance, and you have disrupted it.”

I left the house on hummingbird road, returning to the home we now shared, it was one of my investment properties but would make do for the time being.

I wanted to take Sookie away from this place—a town that felt like it was rotting from the inside out, dragging her down with it. Bon Temps was a swamp in every sense of the word, backward and suffocating, clinging to her like a parasite. Convincing her to leave wouldn’t be easy, but I had plans. I’d bring her back to the border, we could rebuild something far from the decay of this place. 

The call came last week. My grandfather was gone, and with him, the last tether to that life, it was mine if I wanted it, the family business the one Father frowned upon but returned to whenever times were hard. His estate was mine now, including the sprawling ranch in Texas. It was vast, isolated—a place where the world couldn’t touch us. I’d already started planning. The renovations would turn it into something more than a home. It would be a sanctuary, a fortress. 

I could see it so clearly: the wide-open land stretching endlessly, the quiet nights under a sky so dark you could see every star. It would be ours, untouched by the chaos that seemed to follow her here. I’d surprise her after the wedding, once the renovations were complete. She’d see it, and she’d understand. 

This wasn’t just about giving her a better life. About keeping her safe. About keeping her mine. It was no longer achievable in this festering hell-hole.

As I pulled into our driveway I pulled out my phone I had a message from Sookie.

10.35pm Sookie

Hey,

I don’t want to fight, I’m tired,

But we need to talk about this.

I’m just locking up the Bar and I’ll be

On my way home.

Sookie

This wasn’t a fight. It was what was best for her. “Why can’t she see that I’m trying to protect her?” I muttered, the weight of frustration pressing down on my chest. 

“Can you protect her?” the Voice whispered, its tone sharp and cutting, slithering into my thoughts like a serpent. 

“Just fucking shut up,” I growled, the words escaping through clenched teeth. 

She didn’t need to work. I could support her. The bar was never meant to be permanent—it was always supposed to be temporary, just a stepping stone. That was the plan. At least, it was until she walked through the door. After that, leaving wasn’t an option anymore. The bar was a money pit, a bad investment by any measure, but on paper, it was perfect. 

I glanced at the clock. Past midnight. My chest tightened as I felt her slipping further away. I tugged at the connection between us, desperate to reel her back, but there was nothing. She was still moving, still getting further and further away, the bond between us stretching thin, fraying at the edges. 

“Where the fuck is she?” I muttered, the words heavy with a mix of anger and dread.

“Does she really think she can leave us?” the Voice bellowed, its tone reverberating through my skull like a thunderclap. 

“Like fuck she can,” I growled, grabbing my jacket and keys off the kitchen island, my movements sharp and deliberate. The fury boiling inside me left no room for hesitation. I was readying myself for a chase, the bond between us stretched thin, fraying with every second she moved further away. 

Then came the knock at the door. 

It was sharp, deliberate, cutting through my focus like a blade. I froze, my grip tightening around the keys. 

“Evening, Sam. Can I come in?” Detective Andy Bellefleur’s voice carried through the door, calm but heavy with something unspoken. 

I hesitated, the Voice hissing in the back of my mind, but I pushed it aside and opened the door. Andy stood there, his face pale, his eyes shadowed with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Abigail’s death wasn’t just some ‘animal attack,’ Sam,” the words floated unbidden through my mind, a memory of suspicion and accusation. I stepped aside, ushering him into the living room. “Hey, Andy. It’s late. What’s going on?”

Andy hesitated, his face pale, his eyes heavy with something I couldn’t quite place. “Look, Sam, I’m gonna need you to sit down. There’s been a murder, and I’ve come bearing bad news. Sookie’s on her way to the hospital, and at this stage… we’re not sure if she’ll pull through.” his voice thick with emotion

The Voice let out a mind-shattering wail of grief, a sound so raw it felt like it was tearing through my skull. I couldn’t breathe. My fingers dug into the armrests of the leather recliner, the room spinning around me.

“She was attacked in the employee parking lot, Sam,” Andy continued, his voice trembling. “She was…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, his face ashen.

 “She was what, Andy?” I snapped, my tone sharp, a vice tightening around my chest. Times like this made me envy the vampires. I couldn’t sense her pain, couldn’t feel her distress. All I could do was gauge her distance, tug at the bond like a leash, influence her a little. But I couldn’t feel her—not like he could. The thought made my blood boil.

“She’s being flown to Our Lady of the Lake Regional Hospital in Baton Rouge,” Andy said, his voice cracking. “Shreveport didn’t have the resources, so they called in an emergency charter. Her injuries are… extensive.”

The words hit me like a freight train.

“We’re gathering evidence now, but it’s pointing to a vampire attack. One of the Hotshot lot found her and called it in. They’re out there with Jason now, hunting the bastard down. But I think we might need to contact that blonde vampire lady in Shreveport. The sick fuck, Sam.” Andy’s voice broke on the last word, ending in a sob.

“Murder them, Samuel. Kill them all,” the Voice screamed, its rage mirroring my own.

“No more vamps, Andy,” I said, my voice low and trembling with fury.

“They are a plague amongst us. Sinners, I would see to ridding the world of their filth.” The Voice hissed, its tone venomous, I hummed in agreement, my hands trembling with the weight of what I was willing to do.

Red, blue. Red, blue. Red, blue. The lights of the police vehicles strobed across the bar and parking lot, painting everything in sharp, jarring flashes. The entire area was cordoned off with yellow tape, but that didn’t stop the residents of Bon Temps from gathering. They crowded the edges, their whispers and murmurs rising like a low hum, feeding on speculation and gossip about what had happened.

Andy stood beside me, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear him. His words were drowned out by the pounding in my ears, the weight of the air around me. Her scent was everywhere, thick and suffocating. It clung to the night like a shroud—her terror, her tears, her sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of her blood.

And then I caught it. Him. Of what conspired here tonight.

The fury that surged through me in that moment was indescribable, primal. His scent was unmistakable, mingling with hers in a way that made my stomach churn. The stench of him—his arousal, his release—was woven into the air, a vile reminder of what he’d done.

I was shaking, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. Without a word, I turned toward the woods, my body moving on instinct, following his scent like a predator on the hunt.

“Sam! Hey!” Andy called after me, his voice sharp, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I would find the bastard myself. And when I did, I would end him.

“You know who did this, Samuel,” the Voice whispered, its tone low and venomous, curling around my thoughts like smoke. “You’ve had the abomination here before. The one who calls herself a friend brought it into her life, into your town, into your bar. She is to blame for this. All they do is use her, bring trouble to her door, and leave her defiled, tainted, broken.”

The words slithered through my mind, wrapping around my thoughts like creeping vines, tightening their grip, feeding the fire already burning in my chest. 

“This is your fault, Sam! You and your fucking whore!” JB screamed, his voice raw with fury as he shoved me hard in the chest. 

I stumbled back a step, my fists curling, the urge to retaliate coiling in my muscles like a spring wound too tight. But I pushed it down—pushed him away—leaving him behind as I stepped deeper into the forest. My jaw clenched, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. This wasn’t the time or place to play the blame game, even if his words sliced through me like a blade. 

The trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches twisting against the moonlight, casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. The scent of damp earth and fallen leaves mingled with the lingering metallic tang of blood—hers. It poisoned the air, twisting my stomach, drowning out reason. 

“But you are to blame, Samuel,” the Voice hissed, curling through my mind like smoke, thick and suffocating. “You didn’t protect her. You failed her. Will you continue to deny it? You are weak, Samuel. She is the one suffering because of you. You cannot protect her. You know it. She knows it. You have proven it so!” 

The Voice’s whispers grew louder, more insistent, weaving through the rustling leaves, carried on the wind like an omen. It became a scream, a relentless roar that mirrored my doubts, festered in my guilt. 

“Accept me, Samuel! Accept me! Accept me! ACCEPT ME!” 

Its presence writhed beneath my skin, pressing against the fragile walls of my resistance, waiting. Watching. 

It didn’t demand. It convinced. 

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure I could keep saying no. 

I gritted my teeth, forcing the Voice into the background, ignoring its fury and JB’s accusations. My focus shifted, my gaze locking on the direction I was tracking in. I needed to find him. I needed to deliver justice.

I started to walk away, my steps heavy with purpose, when JB’s voice stopped me cold.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he dropped to his knees.

“Don’t pretend that you di not know Samuel, the game you played. The role you took, you are to blame for this Sameul” The Voice scoffed, dredging up the memory, replaying it with perfect clarity—a moment I wished I could forget. 

Monday: “Hey JB, what can I do for you?” I asked, looking up from the mess of paperwork scattered across my desk. 

JB lingered in the doorway, rubbing his face with both hands, fingers digging into his temples like he was trying to ease the weight of something crushing down on him. He looked nervous—too nervous. 

“Hey Sam… is Sookie coming in soon? I need to talk to both of you,” he said, his voice uneasy, his eyes darting around the office like he was searching for an escape. 

I arched a brow, already feeling the beginnings of dread coil in my gut. “It’s Sookie’s day off. What’s going on, JB?” 

He hesitated. Then, all at once, the words tumbled out in a rush—fast, desperate. 

“Look, man, I’m sorry. I really needed the money. With the kids, with Tara… I’m struggling to support them.” 

Something cold settled in my chest. 

“What’s going on, JB?” I cut him off, my voice sharper now, pushing past the excuses. 

He swallowed hard, avoiding my gaze. “I’ve been reporting to the vamps about Sookie.” The confession hit the air like a gunshot. He hurried on before I could react. “I’m sorry. They promised it was just to make sure she was safe, that they wanted to look out for her, make sure she was happy… I didn’t see no harm in it.” 

I stared at him, everything in me screaming that this was more than just bad judgment. It was betrayal. And now, looking back, I wondered if that moment had been the first thread to unravel—or if the whole damn thing had been unravelling all along.

“Are you fucking kidding me JB?” I growled

“I’m really sorry, Sam. We were in a bad place, needed the money,” JB said, his voice unsteady, his eyes glistening with the threat of tears. “I’m gonna tell them I won’t do it anymore.” 

I stared at him, the words registering, but doing nothing to cool the simmering anger rising in my chest. 

“How have you been reporting to them?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended. “Do they come here? Do you meet somewhere?” I needed to know how close they were. 

“No, no, nothing like that, Sam, I promise,” he rushed to say, hands raised as if he could ward off my suspicion. “No contact. I just have a phone—I send a message with an update, and they send cash in the mail.” His voice was desperate, grasping at reassurance, as if he didn’t understand the weight of what he had done. As if this wasn’t betrayal. 

“Look, here,” he stammered, fumbling with his pocket before producing a small silver flip phone, his fingers shaking as he handed it over. 

I flipped it open, scrolling through the messages. Most were outbound, his words spilling into the void without much acknowledgment. But there were replies—few, clipped responses that only came under certain conditions. When Sookie was hurt. Requests for pictures. 

I scrolled through the images, my grip tightening around the phone. Sookie at Maxine Fortenberry’s potluck, her smile warm, unaware. The next, her laughing while dancing at Jason’s wedding, happiness written across her face. I kept scrolling, her in her favourite cranberry-coloured coat, the deep red making her skin glow, her nose pink from the cold as she smiled slightly off into the distance, her fingers fiddling absently with the buttons. 

Unknowing. Unprotected. 

Tracked. 

The rage came fast, curling around my ribs, tightening, threatening to swallow me whole.

“Who are you fucking reporting to, JB?” I growled, my blood boiling as the pieces began to fall into place. I had an inkling, but I needed to hear it from him. 

“I… ahh, I don’t know?” JB stammered, his voice trembling as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I was given the phone one night at Fangtasia after I got carded. She asked if I knew Sookie, said she noticed I lived in Bon Temps. Told me if I sent updates to the contact on the phone about her life, they’d pay me. I refused at first, but she said it was just to ensure her safety—and they’d pay handsomely.” His words spilled out in a rush, his tone desperate, as if he could justify the betrayal. 

I didn’t respond immediately. My jaw tightened as I flipped open the phone, scrolling through the contacts. My stomach churned as I saw the name. Oh, I knew him. I knew him all too well. 

“Eric fucking Northman,” I growled, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. 

“Fuck, Sam, I didn’t know,” JB said, his voice cracking. “I’ll tell them I’m not doing this anymore. I swear.” 

“You won’t, JB,” I said, my voice cold and steady, though the rage simmered just beneath the surface. “I’ll sort this. Leave the phone with me. I’ll keep sending the updates. Keep the money—you said you need it.” 

JB hesitated, his brow furrowing as doubt flickered across his face. “Are you sure, Sam? It’s the wrong thing to do,” he said, his voice uncertain. 

“Yeah, JB, it is the wrong thing to do,” I seethed, my voice low and dangerous. “But the wrong thing to do is secretly reporting on your friend to the very people who’ve caused her nothing but pain. To the man who scarred her neck, branded her so she can never forget.” My fists clenched as I fought to contain the shift threatening to take over. 

“JB, I’ll handle it,” I continued, my tone sharp. “If you go off and tell them you’re not doing it anymore, they’ll just send someone else. And you’ll be putting her in even more danger than you already have.” 

I stopped abruptly, my breath ragged, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Fear. Rage. Panic. They spun through my mind, blurring together into something suffocating. 

“You’re fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!” The Voice hissed, echoing through the hollow spaces in my skull, maddening, relentless. It was my fault—I had failed to keep her safe. The Voice screamed for action, demanded blood, but I couldn’t go down that path again. 

I couldn’t end his life, not like I did Abigail. Not JB. I knew him. Knew his children. I wanted Northman to see that she was mine.

My fingers twitched, curling into fists before I forced them open. 

“What did you do, JB?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, yet laced with venom. 

He didn’t respond. 

Silence stretched between us, too heavy, too damning. I asked again, the words sharp, cold, unforgiving. My hands found his shoulders, gripping tight, shaking him as if I could force the truth out of him. 

I needed to know. 

If he was to blame. 

If he had a hand in this. 

If I had been blind to a threat standing right in front of me. “Stop wasting your time on this pathetic excuse of a human, Sameul” the voice growled. “Find the abomination and end it, send it to the hell it once crawled out from” it seethed.

“Will you continue to reject yourself Samuel! For she is the one suffering. You cannot protect her, You know it, she knows it, you have proven it so! Accept me Samuel, Accept me, Accept me, Accept me!” the voice screamed in fury and rage.

 “I am you Samuel, apart of you. You, not born but created, it is destined Samuel, she created for you, with her love, she brought us back from the darkness and I am the balance. Accept me Samuel, accept you and no one will stand in our way for she is ours and we are hers for always. We will protect what is ours forever, we will bathe in the blood of our enemies, we will end whom dare to harm her, touch her, take her from us!”

“For we are the Morning Star, Samuel. Will you accept?” 

The Voice resonated through the depths of my being, no longer just a whisper in the back of my mind but a force that surged through me like wildfire. It was ancient—primal—woven into the fabric of something far older than me, older than this world. 

A faint hum filled the air, like the static before a storm, crackling beneath my skin. The sky above felt heavier, the weight of unseen forces pressing down on me, wrapping around my limbs with unseen chains. The world had shifted in a way I couldn’t explain, the very air thick with expectation, as if even nature held its breath, waiting for my answer. 

I exhaled slowly, my breath curling into the cold night air like smoke. 

My fate had long been written in the forgotten tongues of those who came before. My blood carried the echoes of a prophecy lost to time, buried beneath centuries of silence. I had denied it, fought against it, but it had always been there, waiting—watching. 

My fingers twitched at my sides, the last remnants of hesitation slipping through my grasp. 

“Yes,” I growled. 

The moment the word left my lips, the sky trembled, the stars above flickering like dying embers before reigniting with a brilliance that burned through the darkness. The earth pulsed beneath my feet, as though recognizing its rightfulness. 

The Voice—no longer just a voice—laughed, its triumph reverberating through the silent clearing even the wind was still as if the world was holding its breath. But it wasn’t just the Voice anymore. It was me. 

I felt the curve of my lips lift, slow and deliberate, as the realization settled deep into my bones. 

I had accepted. 

The world shifted, the air thick with something unspoken, something dangerous. Shadows seemed to stretch longer, darker, as if bending to my will. 

And nothing would get in my way again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN: REAPING WHAT YOU SOW

Pre- Revelations, 1312: UNKOWN

They stood in a solemn circle around the altar, their voices a dirge, low and unrelenting. John’s body lay crumpled upon the cold stone slab, the linen draped over him now heavy with tears, with blood. The harrowing chants echoed through the chamber, twisting into the air like smoke, each syllable a lament for what had come—and what was yet to arrive.

Then the fourth seal was broken.

The heavens trembled. The voice of the beast unfurled like thunder—low, commanding, relentless. 

“Come and see.”

And I looked. 

Through the veil of prophecy and shadow, the altar twisted, shifting under unseen forces. What lay upon it was no longer mere flesh and bone. It had become something else. 

A pale horse materialised in the gloom, its ghastly form carved from sorrow and rot, its rider no longer the man they had mourned but the embodiment of inevitability—Death itself. An ancient spectre shrouded in silence and bone. 

And Hell followed close behind. 

Its gates yawned wide, spilling forth pestilence and suffering, swallowing the earth in its wake. 

Power was granted to them—to sweep across a fourth of the world, to reap lives with sword and famine, to let sickness fester, to unleash the wild beasts upon the remnants of mankind. 

They did not come as mere heralds of the end. 

They were the end. 

The Great Famine, 1315: THE HARBINGER

A comet tore through the heavens, its crimson glow staining the night like spilled blood. The people gathered beneath its fiery omen, whispering prayers, trembling at what it foretold. Pestilence. War. The death of kings. They saw it as yet another harbinger of doom, a divine wrath cast upon them for sins they could not name. 

But it was not of my doing. 

This earth was already poisoned—rotting from within, choking on its sickness and greed. I had walked these lands long ago, before the fields soured, before famine hollowed the bellies of starving children and turned men into monsters. Now, centuries later, I returned, only to find a world shaped by new hands. The land bore scars of their ambition: towering stone castles, sprawling colonies, cities built upon the bones of the fallen. 

And still, they waged war. 

Their kings feasted in candlelit halls while their people starved in the streets. Crops withered beneath endless rains, drowning in their own excess. The roads were lined with bodies, left unburied as hunger gnawed through the marrow of their bones. 

They feared the comet, whispering of war, of plague, of the wrath of the heavens. But their terror was misplaced. 

They should have feared something far worse. 

Because I had returned. 

The voices, once ceaseless, had fallen silent. They knew. They understood. I was changed, but I was the same. I had always been. And when the last ember of this world fades, when the bones of empires crumble to dust, I will remain. 

I am the void between stars. 

The choking billows of smoke. 

The poison that drips from the lips of the gods. 

I am the Harbinger. 

I am death.

29^th July 2003: SAM MERLOTTE

To hunt was the most primal instinct of a predator. It was written into bone, into blood. The moon bled silver through the twisted branches above, its light pooling in broken patches over the damp earth beneath me. I had stalked Mickey for three days, moving in shadows, breathing in his fear before he even knew to feel it.

Last night he prowled after the couple, oblivious to my gaze, his boots tapping over the uneven cobblestone streets of the French Quarter. The scent of spilled liquor and roasted spices swirled through the humid air, tangled with the distant echo of laughter. Jazz hummed low and seductive, slithering through the alleys like whispered temptation, masking the true danger that lurked beneath the revelry.

He thought he was the predator. He thought himself unnoticed, unseen.

How wrong he was.

"Mickey, Mickey, Mickey," I murmured, letting the name roll off my tongue with mock affection. "How was your sleep?"

The drive had been uneventful, all things considered. Not often does one transport a vampire, wrapped in silver chains, strapped like cargo to the bed of a truck. But fate had a wicked sense of humour, and the Texas ranch—this sprawling, forgotten stretch of land—had proven itself a perfect stage for my work.

Two hours from Navasota, utterly isolated, it was built for discretion. Basements beneath the house, a storm shelter buried under the barn. The latter was currently occupied.

Mickey stirred, the setting sun painting him in pink hues, his skin raw, still healing from days of exposure. He blinked sluggishly against the dim light of the bunker, the silver biting into his wrists as he hung against the cold stone wall.

He would never step foot in the home I was building for her. This decrepit barn, neglected and sun-bleached, was far south on the property—hidden, forgotten. She would never have reason to come here. This space was mine.

And I would use it to its fullest potential.

Because I had failed her once. Let pride cloud my judgment. Allowed her too much say in her safety. But not anymore.

Never again.

“Oh, it was great. I had a wonderful dream that I was balls deep in your fairy slut” he mocked.

I smirked, though it did little to mask the wildfire rage simmering beneath my skin. It burned, searing through sinew and bone, urging my body into its inevitable shift. 

My hand pressed against his chest, fingers curling, elongating—twisting into claws. The talons darkened, inky black as if dipped into the void itself, veins rippling with shadow beneath my skin. The change spread like poison, crawling through muscle, twisting bone, unfurling wings as black as midnight from my back. They stretched wide, swallowing the dim light, casting jagged silhouettes across the stone walls. 

His breath hitched as he stared, eyes wide, unable to look away. In them, I saw my reflection—the deep crimson glow bleeding through my irises, burning through the darkness.

My true form. 

He trembled. "What the fuck are you?" he whispered, the question barely escaping his lips. 

I leaned closer, letting my voice curl around him like smoke. "The Bringer of Death." 

Then, without hesitation, I plunged my hand into his chest, feeling the warmth of his life pulse against my fingers before I tore it away.

5th October 2003: SAM MERLOTTE

I revelled in the moment when a heart ceased its rhythm—when the fragile machinery of life stuttered, faltered, then fell into silence. It was a certainty, an inevitability, a truth written in blood and time. 

But not hers. 

The weight of her absence did not sit like victory. It clung like sickness, thick and suffocating, curling beneath my ribs where satisfaction should have lived. Emotions were fickle things—unpredictable, volatile. Rage surged, blinding and absolute, a fire that demanded destruction. Anger followed, sharp and relentless, urging action before thought. 

And when those emotions took control, when instinct overpowered reason, I made mistakes. I became something I could not recognize in the aftermath. 

And there, waiting in the quiet that followed, was regret. 

A parasite burrowing into the marrow, seeping into muscle, threading through veins. It did not rage or burn—it lingered. A dull ache, a whisper of all the choices I could not undo, all the wounds that would never close. 

Some deaths brought satisfaction. 

Hers did not. 

But I could pay penance—for her, for what had been done. She was mine. She would always be mine.

"Cut it out, Sam, you're smiling like a psychopath," Tom mutters, nudging my arm with his shoulder. 

I drop the smile. I hadn't even realized I was doing it. 

This was temporary. Sookie belonged to me. 

I had stood before her that day, staring at the crumpled body resting upon the sterile white sheets of that hospital bed. It was the worst day of my life—the rhythmic beep, beep, beep of medical equipment clawing at my sanity, the shuffle of footsteps in distant corridors like ghosts moving through the halls. 

And the scent. 

I could smell him on her. In her. 

I lost it. 

That moment, that scene, played in an endless, looping reel—lodged deep in the hollow spaces of my mind, haunting the silence, feeding the rage that never fully settled. 

But today is the second worst day of my life. 

"That’s better," Tom mutters, gesturing subtly to my mouth, my posture. "You need to look remorseful, Sam, or you’ll fuck this." 

The courtroom air is thick, pressing in like a living thing, curling around the bodies packed into the pews. It hums with tension—low voices, shifting feet, the rustle of fabric as people lean closer, hungry for whatever spectacle unfolds next. 

And then there's the deputy. 

Seated near the judge, administering oaths with the rigid precision of a man who has done this too many times, his presence is a violation in itself. Not his authority, not his stare—but his breath. 

It's unbearable. 

A rank, fermented stench that lingers in the air like an unspoken offense, an assault on the senses. Cabbage. Old, sour cabbage. A man who must live exclusively on fucking sauerkraut.

Of all the horrors of this trial, of all the pressure bearing down on me, it’s absurd that this is what lodges itself in my mind. 

But some things are unavoidable. 

"It’s running smoothly—wipe that grim snarl off your face before the court reporter uses it as a headline shot," Tom mutters, his voice low but firm as he slaps my back. 

Thomas Michaelson. Old army buddy. We bled in the same dirt, learned to march to the same rhythm, survived things that should’ve killed us a dozen times over. Now, he wears a different kind of uniform—crisp suits, polished shoes, a criminal defence lawyer out of Baton Rouge, wielding words instead of weapons. He’s kept me out of trouble before, pulled me from the brink more times than I deserved. 

But nothing like this. 

This wasn’t strategy or foresight. This wasn’t controlled. It was raw, reckless, unplanned. 

This was Sookie. My Sookie. 

I run my fingers over the stiff fabric of my suit, searching for relief in its texture. The material is rigid, unforgiving, a prison wrapped around my skin. The seams scratch against me—a dull irritant, a distraction from the deeper, sharper pain lodged in my chest. 

It burns. I need her. 

The ache dulls to a simmer when she’s near, a relief so fleeting it feels like cruelty. It will never be enough—not until I can touch her again, not until we are us again. 

I feel like I’m suffocating, the courtroom thick with tension, the air electric as if the universe itself bends beneath the weight of my need. 

A pulse of energy arcs between us, invisible but undeniable. 

I just need her.

The trial dragged on—witness after witness, character references, medical professionals cycling through like a never-ending procession. Their voices blurred, words blending into a meaningless hum, a static drone against the walls of my mind. 

I did not listen. 

Thomas leaned in, murmuring strategies, urgencies, instructions. His voice was low, insistent, but the words never reached me. They fell away, lost to the only thing that mattered. 

My focus was her. 

"Thank your lucky stars, thank the gods—Jesus, Sam!" Tom cheers, slapping my back with triumphant force. "That bum-fuck town pulled through! I don’t know where that hag got her license to practice law, but fuck, she should’ve had it in the bag. You charismatic bastard—if it was anyone else, anywhere else, you’d be staring down a heavy sentence, even without the girl pressing charges." 

He’s smiling. I don’t know why. 

I’m still going to prison. 

He assures me I’ll be out in half the time if I behave myself, if I keep my head down, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll be behind bars. Trapped. Isolated. Away from her. 

Then there’s him. 

Jason Stackhouse—bitten, twisted into something half-formed, half-real. A were-panther, though calling him that is generous. Another fucking abomination. He stands there, posturing, eyes locked on mine like he thinks he can intimidate me. 

Threaten me. 

I snarl at the thought. “Pfft. Jason Stackhouse.” He can’t even shift into full form. He shouldn’t exist. He’s just another stain walking this earth, waiting to be wiped clean. 

If he wasn’t Sookie’s brother…

But he is. And that’s the only reason he still breathes. 

His eyes are blue—like hers. But they are not hers. 

Hers are the deepest sea, the kind you don’t escape once it pulls you under. Her eyes are a thing of beauty, a quiet lure into their abyss. A slow drowning. A willing surrender. 

I just need to see them before I go.

His eyes remind me of corpses. Bruises. Murky lakes, stagnant and crawling with leeches. 

He is the barrier between us, the force keeping her from me, and I despise him for it. Jason watches me like he’s waiting—hoping—I’ll combust right here in the courtroom, that my rage will spill over into something tangible, something reckless. 

But that isn’t what consumes me. 

She hasn’t looked at me. Not once. Why won’t you fucking look at me? 

She has avoided me through every moment of this trial, refusing to let her gaze land where it belongs. Like I am nothing. Like I no longer exist. 

That night, those deep, soulful eyes held something else—something that cut through flesh and bone with more precision than any blade. I don’t want to remember them like that. I don’t want the last memory I carry with me into confinement to be the moment her light faded. The moment she left me. 

I’ve reached for her, but she isn’t there. It still hurts. 

When it happened, it was as if someone had carved me open and ripped her from my chest, leaving behind something hollow, something broken. It was so quick—a single breath, a single heartbeat—but it stretched into eternity. The longest moment of my life. 

The rage swallowed me whole. Tainting what was mine made me lose control! The filthy corpse, the abomination. I felt the bile rise up my throat.

I didn’t know what I had done. Not until it was too late. Something inside me snapped. The pain was indescribable.  And then— Nothing.  She was gone. She’s still gone. But she’ll be back. 

The whole trial, she ignored me. 

I pleaded, silently and aloud, but she wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t acknowledge me. 

Thomas had been nervous when they discussed putting her on the stand, afraid of what she might say, afraid of what it might stir in me. But I had been hopeful. If they forced her to take the stand, she would have to see me. 

But she didn’t. She hasn’t heard me—not once. It’s as if I don’t exist. 

"Fucking look at me!" 

The thought screamed through my skull, ricocheting off the walls of my mind. 

Nothing. 

Not even the faintest flicker of recognition. Not a single buzz of acknowledgment. 

It used to tickle when she listened—when I felt her presence inside my thoughts, curling through my mind like a secret. 

But now? Now, there’s only silence. "This won’t last forever." The venom in my own thoughts coils tight, settling deep in my gut. 

The cuffs bite into my wrists, the cold metal chafing as the chains rattle with every lurch of the bus. The hum of the engine is steady, indifferent, carrying me forward toward the inevitable. The brakes hiss, releasing a breath of finality as it rolls to a stop. 

I lift my eyes. 

The sign stands tall, unmovable, etched into the world like a sentence without appeal. 

“LOUISIANA STATE PENITENTIARY”

16^th December 2007: SAM MERLOTTE

”You better run for your life if you can, little girl…”  The tune slips past my lips—soft, absentminded, something I caught earlier today, lingering like an echo in my mind.  “Let this be a sermon. I mean everything I've said. Baby, I'm determined. And I'd rather see you dead” I scratched my chin while trying to remember the artists, I peering out into darkness, there is no moonlight tonight. 

The storm has smothered the sky for a week now, thick clouds strangling the luminescent glow, casting only bleak shadows against the concrete walls. No flickering hallway lights, no slivers of brightness seeping through barred windows—just an endless, consuming darkness. Louisiana State Penitentiary feels more like a swamp tonight, damp and suffocating. 

We’ve been confined to our cells. Staffing issues, they claim. 

”You just gotta love a good union strike,” I mutter, dry sarcasm dripping from every syllable. 

Diego shifts beside me, half-shrouded in shadow. The ugly scar that carves from his mouth to temple gleams under the weak glow of his commissary LED book lamp, turning jagged edges into something almost spectral. 

”Well,” he muses, voice slow, unbothered, ”I guess you did inspire it, so you only have yourself to blame.” 

The silence stretches. The air hums with waiting. 

Confined to my six-by-eight-foot cell for the past week has been—well, boring. 

I have traced every inch of this concrete box with my fingertips, memorized each crack, each jagged imperfection. There is nothing new to discover, nothing to distract from the relentless monotony. The door—thick steel bars, impenetrable—offers no privacy, no reprieve. Sound travels unhindered. 

Every night, Ronnie in the next cell makes sure everyone knows exactly what he’s doing. The grunting, the squealing—like a pig being slaughtered. 

The air is thick with damp, heavy with rot. It smells like piss. Always like piss. A truck stop restroom left to fester—stale, acrid, inescapable. 

I’ve kept myself busy. Kept my mind sharp. The library has given me knowledge I never had time for before. My body has adapted, too—training every day, pushing past thresholds of pain until discipline became obsession. I’ve never been this fit. The burn has become something else entirely. An addiction. 

If not push-ups, then the needle. 

Prison and tattoos—cliché, right? But my story is etched into my skin, inked in symbols of life, death, demons, pain, and darkness. And her. 

She is the only light carved into the shadows of my body. My only light in this cruel existence. 

I have taken advantage of everything this prison has to offer—connections, opportunities, alliances forged in places no law can reach. You’d think running an operation from inside would be impossible. 

You’d be mistaken. 

Diego is a talented tattoo artist. But outside of this concrete cage? 

He’s my direct line to Mexico.

”El Diablo,” Diego muses as he wipes away the last streaks of blood, admiring his own work—the ram’s head skull freshly shaded across my throat and collarbone, blending seamlessly into the darkness spanning my chest. 

The winged serpent coils up my thigh, its jaws open, fangs bared, ready to strike—to protect. To guard the angel inked over my heart, her face carved into my flesh, a shrine buried beneath layers of demons and beasts. 

Corpses climb up my arm, desperate, reaching toward her. 

A reaper looms across my back, wings spread wide—midnight stretching across my skin, drowning what little space remains. There is nothing left untouched, no inch unmarked, save for my face. 

"Some evil shit—hate to see inside your head," Diego chuckles, shaking his head. 

I smirk. "Hmm—not even the half of it." Because it's her. 

She infests my mind—a sickness, a plague, a relentless force lingering behind every thought. The presence I cannot escape. She’s everywhere, like glitter, like herpes—once inside, impossible to remove. 

"How long you got left?" he asks, filling the silence.

"Ten months. Fourteen days." Less than a year in this place. A lifetime in hell without her. 

"I’ll spend an eternity burning if it means I can spend it with her," I murmur, fingers tracing the ink over my chest—her ink. Her face.

Diego laughs, shaking his head. "Ah, shit—you’re a lucky son of a bitch. Where do I find me one of those? The chicas back home all resemble El Cadejo." 

He belly-laughs, wiping away the final smudges of ink and blood, clearing the canvas of my skin. 

"Here—done," he says, handing me a polished metal tray, our makeshift mirror. 

I take it, eyes settling on my reflection, on the ink woven into my flesh. 

A story written in blood. 

A devotion carved in permanence.

”Psst, Boss man.”

Tyson’s voice is low, familiar, cutting through the stagnant air as he raps his knuckles against the bars of my cell. He slides two trays through the slot—one for me, one for Diego. Beside him, Rodriguez stands silent, his usual routine never deviating. A simple nod in greeting before he moves further down the corridor, disappearing into the dim glow of the night shift. 

I push off my cot, stepping toward the bars. 

”This came through today,” Tyson murmurs, slipping me the envelope. 

I hand him one in return, a seamless exchange, the kind we’ve perfected over time. He tucks it into his apron, then moves along, blending back into his dinner rounds. 

Excitement stirs under my skin. Like clockwork, once a month, the envelope arrives. Inside—her, Sookie. My Sookie. 

”Another for the spank bank? Gonna let me look?” Diego smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

My fist clenches before I even think about it. The growl rumbles low in my throat. ”Fuck off.” 

He laughs, backing away toward his cot, both hands raised in mock surrender. ”I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” 

She wouldn’t send them herself. She’s still angry with me. 

Right after the trial, she vanished. First whispers placed her in New Orleans, but a year of searching—a year and a considerable amount of resources—led me elsewhere. 

My little Miss Sunshine had run to the Sunshine State. 

I’ve sent letters. She hasn’t answered. It doesn’t matter. I’ll keep sending them. And soon—I won’t have to. 

I return to my cot, fingers tense as I tear open the envelope. 

My jaw snaps shut. Teeth grind. 

The picture appeared to be taken from a neighbouring building that had a perfect view into a bedroom. The curtains drawn open. Sookie laying on a bed with crisp white sheets, her back arched, her perfect naked tanned skin glistening with sweat, her delicate pouty lips parted, her hand with red manicured nails splayed over her breast while the other runs fingers through the dark curls of a man who face is positioned between her toned thighs Her legs draped over his shoulders, his filthy hands gripping her hips while he feasts on her sweet flesh. A pathetic lion tattooed on his upper arm the only identifying thing this image holds to whom this dead man might be.

Fury—blistering, uncontrollable—ignites beneath my skin. “ ..I'd rather see you dead, little girl. Than to be with another man” the tune lingering amongst the rage
“You better keep your head, little girl. Or you won't know where I am..”

“Run for your life by the Beatles” I growl as I launch from the bed, fists hammering into the concrete wall. The force reverberates through my bones, but the rage is louder, consuming. Grey flakes of paint crumble, drifting to the floor like dandruff.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. I wanted to destroy cities, end civilisations, end the world, wipe it clean.

"The world will burn for keeping me from her," I seethed, venom twisting through my every word. And it would, flames will devour cities, ash will coat the sky, and the very ground will tremble beneath the weight of my wrath. I will watch with cold satisfaction as ruin spreads like a plague, unrelenting, unstoppable.

And she—helpless, frozen in horror—will witness it all. Every scream, every crumbling monument, every shattered dream will carve itself into her soul, a punishment beyond escape. She will stand amidst the wreckage, knowing the destruction was hers to bear. Knowing that for every world that falls, it is her betrayal that kindled the fire.

I am Conquest, War, and Pestilence. I am Death incarnate, the inevitable force that no prayer can deter.

I am Sam Merlotte, the name you will curse as the weight of eternity tightens around you.

May God's mercy be the last flicker of hope you grasp before the abyss drags you into its endless embrace. But know this—His grace is fleeting, a dying ember lost in the suffocating void. The shadows that follow will not fade. They will consume, whisper, linger… and they will remember you.