My Name is Stumpy - #BlogBattle Week 60: Duplicitous

My Name is Stumpy

#BlogBattle Week 60: Duplicitous

This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. This week, the theme that seemed to stand out in my mind as I envisioned the story, was something of a Horror. I hope you enjoy it!

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Welcome, my friend, welcome. Please, take a seat. I have not had company in a long time - it is good to see a new face. Coffee? Oh, of course, forgive me. Old habits die hard. I must say that I was surprised to receive your letter. Not many are interested in my story, but I would be happy to share it with you.

Now then.

My name is Stumpy. It's not my real name, but I've been using it for so long that the name my parents give me feel foreign on my tongue and to my mind. People have been calling me Stumpy since I was eight years old; ever since I'd lost my leg to the old chipper on grandfather's farm. It'd been awkward at first, walking around with half my leg missing, but one grows used to prosthesis. Besides, when I finally chose my profession, it became rather useful. Who would've thought that a peg-leg clown could be so popular?

Yes, you heard that right. I'm a clown. It doesn't pay much, and I can't say that my father - may the old bastard rest in peace - ever forgave me for choosing to become one. I went the whole nine yards, even attended a professional clown school. I have my degree framed and hanging against a wall in my house. I always displayed it proudly. It was a badge of honour for me. My wife - soon to be ex-wife, I suppose - found it adorable. 

She married me because she thought I was funny, you know? Said that I always made her happy, always knew just how to make her laugh. I'd been proud of that too, once.

I wish I could tell you where it all went wrong. I'm not exactly sure myself. I read an article, many years ago, that spoke about the mental stability of clowns. The writer was quite certain that the humans behind the painted happy faces tended to be... depressed. I thought he was an idiot, then. Over the last few years I've gone over that article so many times in my mind - I didn't have much else to do, you see - that I can probably recite it word for word. It's still hard to believe, even now, but maybe the writer had a point.

Not that I would say that I'm depressed... but I'm not altogether certain about my mental stability anymore. Now, don't give me that look. Ask even the craziest of men, and he would still believe that he is sane.

I really did enjoy being a clown. There was something so... undeniably satisfying to bringing joy to others - whether they were adults sitting in a pantomime crowd, or children at a birthday party. They always laughed at the foolishness of stumbling old Stumpy. I loved them for their smiles and their laughter. I don't know when it happened, though, but one day... that changed.

Their laughter was no longer satisfying. They twisted, became cruel. I saw derision in their eyes, I saw them mocking me with their toothy grins. That was when I began to hate them. Over time, I became angry with them for deserting me, for withholding from me the true merriment that was meant to be my reward. So, when I could no longer have their true laughter, I settled for pure screams.

Yes, I can see that you are familiar with the rest of the story. They've certainly brandied it about a fair deal, publishing every event in even the finest detail. They certainly made it sound like I had become a clown specifically to utilize the deceptively friendly facade to to satisfy my 'urges', I believe they called them.

It was good to speak about the true man again... it was beginning to feel as though he were long dead. Perhaps he is; dead and gone the moment the white face and painted red smile became more real than the man hiding behind them. Perhaps that is why I'd killed them... I simply forced them to reveal the true nature behind their mocking smiles, eternally preserved in death. So young, so innocent... so cruel.

But, as you can see, we have run out of time. Not that I'm in any hurry, you understand, but I don't think those many families waiting out there would be quite so happy if I missed this final performance. After all, is death not a performance as well? I rather welcome it, having waited for it so many years in this small cell. I suspect it will be a comfort.

Now then, before you leave my dear young man, permit an old man walking down death row one final handshake...

Vex Vaudlain