Two Souls, One Heart (based on the show True Blood)

Vengeance Is Mine

For you created my inmost being...

You knit me together in my mother's womb...

  ❤❤❤  

The guilt pressed on Lettie's chest like a gravestone, heavy and unyielding, etching cracks deep into the bedrock of her heart. It gnawed at her relentlessly, a worm spiraling through the soft core of an apple until nothing was left but hollowed ruin.

What she had done—what she had failed to do—could never be undone. No prayer, no penance, no soft-spoken forgiveness would unspool the years. Still, she whispered a desperate plea under her breath, voice trembling: that one day, the weight might lift. That her sins might be washed clean. But guilt doesn't wash. It stains. It scars. It roots itself deep.

I am a bad mother.

The truth wrapped around her like barbed wire.

I never tried hard enough to understand her. Never got her the help she needed. I turned away when she needed me most. I didn't kill her—God knows I couldn't—but maybe that was the only line I managed not to cross. And still... I failed her. Failed Tara in the worst way a mother can.

Her throat bobbed painfully.

This is my punishment.

The malevolent creature loomed closer, the air thickening, folding inward like a black hole collapsing. Absalom's presence suffocated her, but Lettie squeezed her eyes shut—not in fear, but in defiance of her last seconds being owned by it. 

Instead, she forced her mind to drift, reaching backwards into softer times, when she had almost done right.

She saw herself, younger and bright-eyed, cradling Tara in white silk on Easter Sunday, her heart near bursting as the church congregation sang around them. Tara's tiny fist curled around her mother's finger, her skin soft as petals.

Her five-year-old, cheeks plump and dimpled, legs swinging under the kitchen table as she giggled over hotcakes and Tang-orange juice. Her daddy's laugh rumbling in the background.

Twelve years old—Tara twirling in a sundress, her braids whipping around her, Ruby Jean clapping and hollering at the family barbecue, the air thick with barbecue smoke and summer grass. 

And last—Tara as a young woman, radiant and breathtaking, her smile brighter than fireworks, as Jason Stackhouse shyly took her hand and led her to the prom car. Lettie had cried in secret that night because her baby had grown wings.

The memories swelled warm and thick in her chest—but quickly split open into jagged ache. For every soft moment, there had been sharpness.

Harsh words. Slaps and silences.

Doors slammed. Pleas ignored.

Tears slipped down Lettie's face.

"I'm sorry, baby girl..." she mouthed silently.

"Anima tua mea sunt enim omnia," hissed Absalom—the words slithered like oil into her ears, snapping her back.

Her breath caught. Her lips parted—but no sound came.

The demon lunged. Razor-sharp claws cleaved into her throat in a single, merciless stroke. The tear of flesh was sickeningly clean, too quick for a scream. Blood surged from the gaping wound in thick, dark bursts, spraying across the room as her knees buckled.

"NO!" Lafayette's scream ripped through the air, raw with anguish. He thrashed wildly against his restraints, sobs cracking through his voice.

Lettie's body crumpled to the floor. Her thoughts fractured and scattered as her world dimmed to shadow. The searing agony dulled quickly into a spreading, numbing cold. Her fingers twitched helplessly at her throat, red slicking her skin, her breath bubbling wet and shallow. A coppery tang filled her mouth.