We know you did it, your fingerprints were all over the scene, all we want to know is why. So let's cut the crap and get it out, shall we?
I deny any knowledge of the situation, the guy get's mad. A vein throbs on his forehead, purple and pulsating. It bothers me.
What exactly did I "do"?
I think you know well enough, mister. Why don't you admit it, ey? Just spill it. Tell us how you murdered that innocent, pregnant woman. Tell us how you slaughtered her daughter and mutilated her husband, go on. Entertain us.
I would never do that.
At least, I don't remember it. The fingerprints match mine, or so they say. But i don't remember anything. Nothing at all. I can't be a murderer. I'm not crazy, I'm not tormented, not a broken soul. It's not possible. I had a good upbringing. Well, okay, a few mishaps here and there. But an abusive, murderous father and a sick, twisted sister shouldn't affect me. They're the ones who should be interrogated, not I.
They've kept me in here for a while, it's hard to keep track of time when you're confined in the same space, it's as if there is no time. It's like the world outside has frozen, and all that exists is this little room, with the big mirror, steel furniture, this man and I.
I awake from slumber, such spare moments taste so sweet. My body aches, as if I have undergone a tedious activity. I can't lift myself up to see my surroundings. But I know I haven't left the steel room. The interrogator is no longer pacing around the room or pounding his fists, no longer threatening me, no longer accusing me. He is lying on the floor beside me. Stretched out in a pool of blood. He looks peaceful, as if it's the first rest he's had in years. The blood seeps through his clothing, I notice his face is bruised, so are his hands. He must have struggled to the death.
I wonder how that happened.