I saw it happen. I saw the great big fire engine, red and shiny, go sliding off the road and tearing the house into three distinct pieces, killing four of the family that were inside watching the TV and destroying everything they ever had.
I run to the scene with the crowds, adamant that I will make this story my greatest, allowing it to be printed in the paper and making me the greatest living news reporter. I can sense a big break happening for me here.
Men and women are screaming and crying as the flames engulf the house. Dogs bark at the moon that look down at this silly Illinois of 1934 or 1965 or whenever. This has become an awful place.
I approach the family members that remain alive. They are all sad, something that I am proud to be able to pick up on, but being a famous journalist, what else would one expect? My sensitivity knows no boundaries.
- What was it like? Was it sudden? Did they die quickly? Did you hear them scream. Cpould you have saved them?
I am horrified to find the entire family are surrounding me, thrusting a microphone into my face. My every word and inflection, burp, fart or breath to be captured on film and tape. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it.
I shut my eyes tight, imagining that I am raping a pretty, sad peasant girl who moments ago was laying flowers on her mother's grave in a misty, cold, early morning cemetery near Berlin. The Berlin of 1934 or 1965 or whenever.