“The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden”- Bob Dylan
It was cold when Gregory Samson awoke. Not terribly cold, but just that little chill that the air gives to remind you that it’s there. He shuddered a tad. He pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, only to discover they weren’t there. All he felt was the warm, meaty flesh of his arms. He was very confused by this. He began, with his hands, to survey the rest of his body, to see what else might be exposed. Very slowly, almost disdainfully, as Gregory had never been one for pride in his appearance, he felt his bare arms, his bare chest, bare ass, penis, legs, until he realized that his entire body was, in fact, there for all to see. He quickly motioned to cover his genitals, for he couldn’t bear the thought of looking foolish in front of people. He had worked too hard for the respect he’d gained, he figured, to lose it now. After some sparse minutes he spent cursing the people there for judging him, it occurred to him that he had yet to see one such person, or any one thing for that matter.
He looked around, only to be greeted with darkness, and emptiness. There were no walls, no ceiling, yet it couldn’t be outdoors, as there was no light, nor trees. There presumably must have been a floor, he thought, otherwise what else could he be standing upon? It was clearly very soft, however, as he could barely feel it beneath his feet. It was a very peculiar place to Gregory. As far out as it stretched in any direction, there was nothing, it just subsisted on and on. It was oddly hazy and vague for such an open space, almost as if a clear fog hung in the air all around him. The whole room, well, it wasn’t really a room, but Gregory wasn’t quite sure what it was. A space? An area? Perhaps an area would be best, he thought. The whole area had no color. It was dark, but it wasn’t black. It wasn’t gray, nor brown. It held no color at all. It was simply bleak. Bleak was the only way he could possibly describe the odd shade and quality the room had about it. Bleak.
He had begun to wonder where he was, and more particularly, why he was here. He didn’t remember coming here. He tried to remember back to before he had awoken, but the most recent memory was his interview, and he knew at least one month had passed since then, he simply couldn‘t remember the month.
Gregory had had an interview with TIME Magazine, regarding his newest corporate take-over. Gregory Samson was considered to be the premier business man in America, and was poised to be the wealthiest man alive if his next venture paid off. He attended lavish parties, had a gorgeous wife, three children, a doctor, a lawyer, and a filmmaker, and was considered by many to be the living example of the American dream. His biography was a national best-seller the day it was released, his television network had the highest ratings world-wide, and it seemed as if everything he touched turned to gold.
His interviews all consisted of silly curiosities these days, as all significant information of his life was as common knowledge as the folklore of Santa, or Hansel & Gretel. The question he remembered as being the most personal from the TIME interview was “How is Liza’s cooking?” Gregory chuckled at this memory. Liza had been his wife for 40 years now. It would be their anniversary in two days. Or perhaps one day. He had no gauge of elapsed time wherever he was now, so for all he knew, it could have passed. Boy, he thought, I’m certainly going to catch hell when I get home. As bothered as he was by the odd circumstances he found himself in presently, he found comfort in the memory of his wife and children. Him and Liza had married in the summer of 1992. Thomas was born in 1993, Germane was born in 1995, and the third one was born in ‘98. “The third one, what was her name?” he thought. “Rose, that’s right Rose! Wait, no…it’s not Rose, it’s…Rose…no…Rose…why does that name keep coming back to me?”
Gregory was troubled by the fact that he couldn’t remember his daughter’s name, but also plagued by the absent face for the ever-familiar name Rose. Perhaps it was one of his son’s wives, as they were both now married with children of their own. Thomas was married to Eva, and the other one…it happened again. Now he had forgotten his son’s name as well. Gregory feverishly tore at all the annals of his mind to find the name, but all that kept appearing was Rose. Slowly it began to overtake him. His two sons Rose and Rose, his daughter Rose, his wife Rose, his company Rose Enterprises. Everything became Rose.
He was torrid with frustration now. Who was Rose? What was happening? Did he ever even know a Rose in his lifetime? His lifetime, which to him now felt so separate from his present situation, like a desolate ship drifting farther and farther from an abandoned shore. Rose…Rose…Rose…
Gradually, the memory took hold of him. He felt himself grow weaker, a slave to the misty visage of the past playing out in his mind’s eye.
September 23, 1984. Gregory was just 19 years old then. No wife, no kids, no major corporation, just a free-wheeling college kid. It was the prime of his life. The night air was cold. Not terribly cold, but just that little chill that the air gives to remind you that it’s there. He shuddered a tad. He pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, and rubbed the material violently to kill the nipping breeze. Gregory was walking along the sidewalk with a grin. Everything was finally starting to clear up. Gloria, his girlfriend of 3 months, had committed suicide 2 weeks ago, leaving a note to him, saying that “I really thought I loved you.”. He didn’t seem too bothered by the whole ordeal, so the entire community said he was in shock, and needed to be treated with extra courtesy and care. This was fine by him. He’d always been fairly attractive, but now he had the ultimate attraction factor. Chicks love to feel important, he figured, to feel like they’re special. They want to be the one that pulls a guy back from the edge of destruction. So he played up the dead girlfriend bit, and got himself quite a few nights out. Tonight was the night with Rose Viergo. He was particularly excited for this one. All the others had been sluts, 19 or 20, and as he thought “…the kind of dumb bitches who started screwing at 13, and were all worn out by this age”. No, this one was good, he said. Little blonde, sixteen years old, totally innocent.
She had seen him on the television, as the circumstances of Gloria’s death had been so peculiar for the small college town that it made the nightly news. Gloria had hung herself naked, her body covered in bruises and gashes. They had interviewed Gregory, to see if he knew the motives. He said he didn’t, and that his life would be so empty without Gloria. Rose said she cried when she heard that. They’d corresponded by mail for a few days, a letter a day, and had arranged to meet up. This would be her first date with an older boy, Rose wrote, so she wasn’t sure how to dress. Gregory told her it wouldn’t matter, that a girl as cute as her could look good in a burlap sack.
He was very formal in his letters. He wanted to come off as mature and sophisticated. She told him she intended to sneak out of her house by saying she was sleeping over at a friend’s place. She knew her parents wouldn’t let her go out with Gregory. They didn’t trust older boys, but she knew in her heart that Gregory was different.
They met up that night under a bridge on the edge of town. She scurried up to him, in a pink blouse and skirt. It looked hand made. Christ, she looked like she stepped out of a god-damned John Hughes movie, he thought to himself. She looked up at him, her dewy blue eyes gleaming with joy. “So where are we going? I thought a movie would be fun.” she said sweetly. Gregory leaned in to kiss her, he kissed her cheek, and she blushed intensely. He started to move down her neck, and she pushed him back.
“Aw, look, you’re not gonna be that way, are you, baby?” Gregory said, his voice carrying that ever-false tone of affection. “Listen, Gregory, I really like you, but can’t we do something else for now?” Rose said, sheepishly. “Hey, look, it’s a nice night, let’s spend it right.” Gregory tossed out whimsically, a last ditch effort at playing nice. “But Greg, I’m not really…I don’t do that kind of thing. I’m kind of a…” “What?” he said, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it anyway.
“It’s embarrassing. You‘ll think I‘m a little girl.”
“No, I won’t.”
“It sounds stupid.”
“Stop worrying about it. Just tell me.”
“I’m a virgin.”
“Well, what better night than tonight?”
With this Gregory grabbed her, pressed her body up against his. He feverishly kissed her, as his hand sashayed up under the back of her blouse unhooking her bra. “No, Greg, stop.” she muttered, trying to break free. Greg pulled back, his hands on her arms, pushing them at her side. “Stop it, Greg, your hurting me!” Greg stared at her, the animalistic passion in his eyes covered in a sheet of rage. “Listen, you better play along. Don’t be like the last little bitch. Glad she’s fucking dead. Wasn’t any good to me. I wanted to give it to her, but she didn’t want it. One of those kinds, you know? Yeah, your not gonna be one of those kinds, are you? No, your not. Yeah, I kept trying. I waited three fucking months, and all I got was a couple of photos with some dumb bitch for my troubles. One night, I figured I’d try and surprise her. Figured if I caught her off guard, maybe she’d go for it. I climbed into her dorm room window, popped in and said “Hey baby, how about it?” You know what she did? The God-damned whore told me to get out. So I showed her what happens if your rude to me. Now, you’re not gonna be rude to me, are you Rose? No, ‘cause then I’d have to knock you around like I knocked her around.” Rose was terrified now, tears streaming down her cheeks, the smell of urine rising up into the crisp night air as it trickled down her leg, tickling the ground in droplets.
“You killed her?” she stuttered out, a mix of fear and nausea coming out through the chattering teeth. “No, the dumb bitch did that herself. Stripped herself down, cut up her own body. All after I left, of course. Can you believe I never saw her tits till after she was dead. I know, bullshit, right? Now, you’re not gonna be that way, are you Rose? You’re not, are you?” Rose started to answer. She would’ve done it, she would’ve done anything to get away. But Gregory cut her off. “I know you’re not. You know how I know you’re not gonna be that way? ‘Cause I got this.” Greg pulled out a butterfly knife from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Now, we’re gonna play a little game. I’m gonna ask you a question, and if you answer right, I don’t kill your ass right now. Ready? I said are you ready?!” He slapped her across the face. She sobbed as she nodded. “Ok. What did you do with the letters I sent you?” Rose couldn’t stand it, she yelled with all of her might, but the only response was the echo under the bridge. Gregory laughed heavily at this, knowing no one was around to hear her. She seemed to know it too, so she answered, stammering away in between tears and coughs.
“I burned them.”
“All of them?”
“All except one.”
“Well, you better hope you kept the right one, or else your folks are gonna get a friendly visit tonight too. And you don’t want that, now do you?” She shook her head. Her sobs got louder as Gregory sliced her clothing off. He cut the blouse open with his knife, an impressive display of finesse and precision, and if there had been anyone around that night, they would’ve barely heard the screams, so muffled were they by the maniacal, child-like laughter of Gregory Samson.
Rose Viergo is mentioned in Gregory’s official biography. After Rose Viergo’s body was found flayed open and mutilated underneath a bridge, her father raided her room in hopes of finding any clues as to why this happened. There was nothing. Her room was just as normal as ever, school books on the floor, socks hanging out of the drawer in the corner, stuffed animals lining the bed, and on the desk was a letter from that kid from the news she’d written to.
“Dear Rose Viergo,
Thank you very much for your concern over my well being. You’re a very sweet, and caring young girl, and you seem to have a bright future ahead of you someday. Perhaps, years down the line, we’ll meet in person, and I’ll have the opportunity to thank you face-to-face for your compassion and understanding in my time of need. I’m sure you’ll make some lucky boy very happy one day.
Sincerely,
Gregory Samson”
Mr. Viergo sent a letter to Gregory informing him of his daughter’s passing, and invited him to speak at the funeral. He obliged, and gave a touching eulogy, the content of which was later published in a special issue of Life magazine Gregory had put out to memorialize the 10th anniversary of the tragedy. The killer was never found. It is also believed that Mr. Viergo kept the letter that Gregory had written to Rose until the day he died, and read it every night as he cried himself to sleep.
All these memories Gregory had kept locked away for years, they all came rushing back. Rose, Mr. Viergo, the funeral, the bridge. They all came back, like the sharp pain of a wound as the anesthesia of repression wore off. No longer did he view speaking at the funeral with the pride of a young man who fooled the world, but as a grieving father, who lost the only light in his life. All the while, Gregory stared out into the abyss, looking for something, anything. Anything to take his mind off of his epiphanic delirium. But there was nothing. Just emptiness, the color bleak. He screamed and cried, but there was no one around to hear him. The sound died as soon as it was uttered, no echo, no reverberation. It was silent, there in the nothingness. But his head was raging with agony. Rose’s sobs and screams, they kept getting louder and louder. He wished there was some outside noise, something that could distract him, but there was nothing. Nothing could save him from himself. His self-inflicted suffering had begun. He could feel guilt creeping over him, like he was slowly drowning. And then he knew where he was. All of a sudden, it all came together, like all the walls in the prison of his mind collapsing, and every thought exploded in a collision of clarity and insanity. And though he knew it was useless, he screamed at the top of his lungs. Gregory Samson dropped to his knees, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The news teams all clambered around the cylindrical chamber, next to which Dr. Thomas Samson stood, the media’s new American Darling since his father’s tragic passing from cancer in 2033. His death was declared a national day of mourning, and his birthday, November 24th, is now a national holiday, complete with mattress sales, crappy T.V. specials, and children off from school.
But today was a historic day. Right before he died, Gregory made a grandiose speech promising he would cryogenically freeze himself, and come back to life with a smile on his face to tell the whole world what death was like. He also promised he would visit precious Gloria and Rose on the other side, and tell them how much the world mourns for them. This speech was then translated into 24 different languages and broadcasted world-wide, both the day after and on the anniversary every year. 20 years had passed since that day, and many books, songs, films, and even a full opera were composed in speculation of what the day might be like. Finally, it was here.
Thomas lacked the silver-tongued style his father had, so rather than speak, he unveiled the cryogenic chamber, and hit a few buttons, saying he would let his father speak for himself. But rather than the smiling face of the always-young-looking man the world adored, the chorus of cameramen and correspondents were treated to the sight of a old, worn out creature whose first breath of new life was used to weep. He stumbled from the chamber, only to drop to his knees, and after a moment of heavy sobbing, was silent. His son put his hands on his frail father’s shoulders, and tried to comfort him. Then the inevitable question was asked.
“Mr. Samson, what’s on the other side?”
Gregory stammered, tears filling his mouth as they trailed down his wrinkled, weary face. His voice was almost inaudible, and he was rattling off word after word, in a tone which sounded almost apologetic. Everyone was confused, and almost terrified by this display, but even more so by what happened afterwards.
Gregory Samson stopped speaking, as if he’d only just then realized the question. His head rose up slowly, wide eyed and awe-struck, terrified and still. His face was devoid of all emotion, and he spoke softly, but plainly and clearly. Gregory Samson was ready to make his announcement to the world. The reporter repeated himself. “Mr. Samson, what’s on the other side?”
“Nothing.” he said. “There’s nothing.”
“O, Death. O, Death
Won't you spare me over til another year
Well what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I'll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa, death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day”- Traditional Folk Hymn
