The interrogator

I had a dream last night that I was in an interrogation room.

"I see what goes on," the interrogator said. He was dressed in the color of bones. "There's no point in hiding the truth." He sighed. "I just want to help. You want to help, too, right? You're a good person. I've seen that." He stopped pacing to look me in the eye. "Look, if you just tell me what happened, maybe you'll feel better. You wouldn't have done this on purpose, would you?"
"Well, you see..." I began.

I explained everything, and the interrogator listened closely. But he watched even more closely.

"Thank you. I'm glad that you're starting to see my side of things," the interrogator said at last.

The interrogator stood up, and I started to see them.

Eyes. So many eyes. They were all over his face, his body, his hands. They were covering the walls and the floor and the ceiling. They were all staring at me.

It was too late to escape now. I couldn't get out of sight, and certainly not out of mind. I had admitted my crimes. The interrogator saw it all.

The interrogator of a thousand eyes walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Let's get this over with."

I shuddered at his touch for a moment, feeling all the eyes on me, so many eyes. Then the eye on the interrogator's hand burned me away, and the interrogator's own body along with it.

I have no idea what the crime was that I was supposed to have committed. One way or another, though, I couldn't get back to sleep at all after that.