A Brief and Mythical Tale of Terror and Torture

I was just awaking from a restful sleep and preparing for a typical Tuesday. I could hear the delightful scurrying of my children throughout the house jumping into the shower, finding their clothes and getting ready for school. My sweet wife, as usual, was in the kitchen making coffee, breakfast and lunches. And then I heard a huge crash and raced to our dining room. Something had happened but I couldn’t tell what. The house caught on fire and there was thick smoke all over. I heard gunshots and screams and when I reached my children they were not breathing; my wife, too, had succumbed to the heat and smoke. They were gone. I called 911. In a rage of anger, grief and fear I began searching like a madman for the perpetrator. I cornered him in a bathroom, wrestled his gun away and began beating him with everything I could get my hands on: a towel rack, a hand mirror, a glass bottle of mouthwash. When I got control over him I held a piece of the broken mirror at his throat and started screaming in his face threatening to kill him. I covered his eyes with a towel, kicked him five times in the crotch and twice in the head. Then I stuck his head upside down in the bathtub and turned on the spigot so as to produce the sensation of drowning. I screamed louder, ‘Who the hell are you? Why did you do this? Where did you come from?’ As my interrogation reached its manic crescendo the police and firemen arrived. I am in prison now.