He woke from the sleep with the silver bells of the holy water finding her skin and the floor. It was an impossible melody for human ears. When she called him he turned, the innocence returned to the faded verdant. He had always loved her most of all the relatives, because she would coddle him when everyone else, including his mother, would rather see him harden to something rambunctious. The smile on his sweet lips now reflected that. He wanted her lap, and the stories she'd half-sing when he fretted over small confessions.<br/><br/>"Aunt Hille." he breathed and put his hands on the wood he sat on so he could stand, but didn't before she touched her knee to the floor. A darkness drowned his brilliant irises when he looked down at her. How had he not seen how beautiful a woman could be, low like that. He was invaded with thoughts of what he might do to her from this vantage, and how she might enjoy it, given what any woman lacked in the kind of life Maria had chosen. She would thank him. His head turned when she sat down next to him, holding on to that hunger until he was pulled out of it with her question.<br/><br/>"Ah, yes." he remembered, eyes clean again. He gathered the tear in his shirt and squeezed it closed. In so many ways he looked like a victim of bodily violation in denial. His other hand gathered some hair at the side of his head for comfort, as he stared at the floor, first hand still clamped over his heart. His face was yellow and blue and red from the glass, it's light somehow reaching off the floor and toward him, like there was good clawing for him, too.<br/><br/>"I need absolution, Hillie." he breathed and moved closer. His head was looking for its place against her collarbone. She'd always been the face of comfort for him, but suddenly he saw her in different shades. Her mouth was wide and her eyes were closed, like some kind of pleasure was undoing her quickly. It made him feel angry in his stomach, like he wanted to be the source of her unraveling. "I am seeing other things." he mumbled, disgust in the wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Thinking other things. Can you help me, Hillie?" he asked, chin up, like he'd deciphered her from a spell of blindness.<br/><br/>His lips shrunk, a fit of tears that she'd recognize from a much younger Pelle, but he brought himself back with a tremble before he could be overwhelmed. He looked sorrowful, an inexperienced kind of sadness, like he had already lost something coming here, and was mourning it now. Some of the art on the colored window found their details in his features, which was impossible. He stared at her. "I want... Something's making me want bad things."