Father Daniel was left in the room. It had felt like the most painful confession. During his learning, he'd talked on his knees a lot, and felt the affirmation of forgiveness, or just the sins spilling out. Like tainted silk. But this had been different. Asking the sisters to come and pray with him, to rid of darkness. What was the value of prayer, even from the innocent, when they didn't know what they should ask the divine for? Still, he'd sought it, the catharsis of saying his wrongs by being quiet, and doing good anyway.<br/><br/>But it was wrong to use their prayers like this, and what holiness he possessed was slipping as a consequence. Like water through fingers. He'd broken their trust, and one of the promises he'd made to God. He was assaulted by his love for Mike, and what they had done together, and then Mary pulled at his pious heart, his well-meaning soul. Any other person he would have helped. But he hated Pelle. He hated him like he'd hated Mike during the moment of scathing release. Everything reflected in the boy. Daniel had met demons before and - help him - he'd judged the weak spirits of the ones who got caught. His pride had helped him then, and the smaller demons had fled, eventually.<br/><br/>But there was no pride for him when he looked at the green eyed boy. He only saw his own desire to be friends with him - how could something so small have grown into the season of spring itself? - wanted him to talk to him like a fellow young man. He'd accused Mary of being a whore. Father Daniel was desperate to be a whore, too. How incredibly freeing, to relish in sin, to bathe in it, and have the grains cut your face while you toiled on the ground. What if his congregation spit on him? What if they saw? Wouldn't that be delectable? Wouldn't that be worth everything he'd built? Wouldn't loosing everything for it make it more valuable?<br/><br/>He felt weakened by it all, and fell to his knees. "All her sinning is rotting her brain." he said about Mary, defensive, and bid them to sit with him again. He clasped his hands and whispered into them so they wouldn't think less of him. He was praying, but it was for himself now. No. It was for his image. Father Daniel, exorcist, should have know the demon when it looked through green eyes. It had easily blinded him with the oldest obstacle in the world. He'd not seen past himself, and was now uselessly trying to siphon prayers from the women. What level of thief steals something so innocent?<br/><br/>-<br/><br/>Sylvia talked and talked. There was no strange presence in their living room to keep her tonguetied. She told her about what Pelle had done, and gave the story like he'd become a delinquent. She said it all almost like she'd given up hope and was angry about it. Like a mother who didn't choose to have a son, when Mary knew Sylvia had been proud of her baby boy. It would sound exactly like she was hiding something, and since the details were real, it must have been about how she felt about the ordeal. Drunkard son who dared splash her with her own wine.<br/><br/>Sylvia could keep a conversation going by herself for hours. Suddenly her voice muddled and fluctuated, like something had happened to the line.<br/><br/>"Aunt Mary?" asked a voice Mary knew with a feeling she'd not understand. The breath that muffled itself suggested someone was licking the phone, lapping at it, in fact. "Did you enjoy your dreams last night?" he asked. The sound of the polite boy was there, affection for his favorite adult, but something else snaked into his vocal chords. There was someone screaming between his syllables, and it wasn't anyone she knew. "My mother likes wine."<br/><br/>More silence through throats like church organs, like asthma through metal mouths. It all hid as her imagination, but her eardrums did shake. "Did you cut yourself on something long, Mary?" voice of the man Pelle would become. Different from his father. "Because you're bleeding, aren't you?"<br/><br/>The heft in the air around the speaker would calm. A few sobs reached out for her. "I... I need to confess Aunt Hillie." he complained. "Please. Have someone help me. I don't like the way the grownups are looking at me."