NAME
Prompt - Name : Write a poem of short story using your name in some way or form
I learned to hate my name when I was at school. Who wants to be the weird kid? But I was, and I adapted to it, shaped myself into the role. Later I'd appreciate being unique, for it made me memorable (something my face never did), although I was always having to spell it for people, so there some annoying aspects of the weirdness remained. And, of course, I even had a story come weak joke ready to explain it away.
I met another one once. He was a lorry driver, making a delivery of a new mainframe computer to the office, and I had to sign to confirm safe receipt. Sign and print. He took one look, said "That's my name too". This was not something I'd ever expected to hear. At least not from another man.
"Without the e?" I asked.
"Yeah. Well, best get going." He picked up the paperwork and left. Brief encounter indeed.
A few years later we moved house. Now our route to walk into town took as along a street of 1920s doors-together semis, a broad avenue of trees, neat gardens and a Spar on the corner. And one of those dual occupancy houses caught my eye every time I walked past. There, up on the wall above the arched doorways, a sign. A white plaque, with clear black lettering. BLYTH VILLAS. Without the e. Just one of those things. Enough to generate a private smile. And a bit of wonder.
That sign would take me back though, back to the time when I wanted rid of that unusual moniker. Not because I was the weird kid any more. But because my name, mine and only mine, now had the same ring to it as Crippen or Lecter. It was no longer a name to be associated with. Not once the headlines appeared.
The story emerged, in dramatic chunks, over the week following the event that put Blyth on the front page. The Villas were owned by the same family. Mother to the left. Son, his wife and kids to the right. Two doors, one household. Respectable, friendly. Mother went to the church, the WI, a known pillar of the community. Son in insurance, wife ran an expensive frock shop, kids at the local high school. They got the attention they were due, and no more.
Until the police arrived. And the ambulances. The flashing lights, striped tape, SOCOs in their pale blue all-in-ones. Reporters, cameras. The street peered out, came to see, were ushered back. Not now, come back later, no news yet. Rumours abounded. Some of them got near the truth. But not the horror.
Mr insurance man had had a bad day. Or had he? Was this all planned, or an instant decision? Why did he have that special milkshake ingredient? What question was this the answer to? He'd come home, as usual. Said he'd pop through the back to see Mum, as usual. In the semi with Blyth over the door. Gone there via the shed, not as usual. Emerged carrying the axe he used to chop wood, and took it with him into her front room to chop his mother. Chop, chop, chop. So much blood, so much frenzy. Gone back home, to the semi with Villas over the door, and chopped his wife in the kitchen. Chop, chop, chop. So much blood, so much frenzy.
It was a Wednesday, the evening the kids came home late. They say he had time to change, his blood soaked clothes thrown on the marital bed. To prepare three milkshakes, chocolate and cyanide flavour. To watch his kids drink them, see their agonies, and take the last one to himself. Within ninety minutes of his return from just another day of insurancing five people lay dead. Blyth Villas became newsworthy. Notorious.
We had to move. I call myself Alex now.
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