event — SAMSON
whilst at the festival … you end up wandering off rounding a corner, and discovering something tucked behind one of the tents, they look like … sculptures, almost. or really fucked up scarecrows. they’re made of bones, charred sticks, animal hair, and reeked of the most horrid odor. like something had died. inspecting further, you realize that there is blood, like scarlet syrup, dripping from the eye sockets, and poking from their clothes, you notice blood-clotted fur and features. wait; those were YOUR clothes. ( how the fuck did they get those ??). antlers, real antlers, project from the top of the masks, attached with thick twine, and when you squint your eyes… you realize your name has been carved into the face with the word “TRAITOR” written underneath. what do you do ??
It is like sinking into a fever dream -- all time stops around Samson, all that exists is this figurine. It is the manifestation of all his father had preached against, wickedness and the unholy welded into this thing. He cannot scream, nor can he envision ever removing this substance from his figures -- he has become Lady Macbeth, accursed by a spot that shall not come out.
Above all else, it is the accusation, not his name, not the blood like substance that makes him sink to his knees. Traitor. Samson cannot look at the words and not feel they do not lay in truth; he masquerading as a good samaritan, betrays much -- and whatever brought these relics forth, sees him as a purveyor of the truth. Samson takes off his glasses, wiping tears from his eyes.
His father had raised him better than this.