04 Mar The Last Train to Clarksville

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on March 4, 2022

“The Last Train to Clarksville”

Written by Eli Pope
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 7 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.

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Suitcase in hand, you head to the station.

There is no way in hell that you are going to forgive that lying, cheating bastard ever again. He can’t be trusted anymore, and you know it. You know his lies about working late nights. The smell of that stinking, fucking bourbon on his breath when he crawls into your bed at three a.m., his wanting even more sexual gratification even though you can smell the scent of his extracurricular whores he’s been lying with.

You ask the same questions over and over, and his answers never make a grade of believability. You want real answers, not quick bullshit defenses. Is that her lipstick on your clothes? Do you ask whose blonde hair is that you just pulled from his collar? His answers are always lies, and you know it. Why are you drunk, and where is all this money from all the overtime hours you’re putting in, you ask him? But you already know his expected lies. You’re not stupid, are you? Are you going to be his fool, again?

Dig a fucking hole in the woods to stash his cheating carcass after you chop him into pieces. You know it doesn’t need to be a big hole! He’s such a little man with a shriveled scrubby worm.

You know, I’ll help you. You know I’m tired of preaching this crap over and over when you refuse to follow through with anything but allowing the prick to continue his game.

Why am I wasting my time inside your pathetic arduous mind?

Are you willing to continue being his pawn? Why are you sitting there just looking at the situation blankly? Do you need him to give you physical scars to match the years of the mental ones he’s given you?

Grow some balls! You’re nothing but his damn housekeeper. Do you love cooking and cleaning for a worthless piece of crap that does nothing but use you while bedding down any other tramp he can fleece out of her panties? Are you waiting for him to give you a biological gift that keeps giving? Maybe herpes or the clap?

You know me. You Know you do. You’ve had me as your friend since the day you were born. My voice and instincts are the ones you’ve sought comfort in every time that hack fucks you over.

You need to be watched and prodded, or you’ll fall into every Goddamn trap he has set for you. Don’t you dare be weak or naïve. Fucking kittens are weak. Hamsters are weak. Be a Pitbull for God’s sake. Use the balls you have that are bigger than the bb’s he’s sporting.

You know your pedantics are tiring, don’t you? You don’t need any more specifics.

You know my patience is near lost with you. You know who wants to be here to support you, but how long can you expect me to sit here and watch this predictable script you play? You’re tiring. You are pushing my limits.

Are you done listening to his fabrications about why he is going out of town? Why he isn’t available for your calls when he’s on those weekend trips. You know the type of woman who he’s with when he isn’t with you. You could pick her out of a lineup in a New York minute. Young, vivacious, and dumber than a bag of dog shit. All boobs and no brains.

Wake the hell up while you still hold any value for someone else. Leave him! Who knows how you haven’t stuck a knife in his chest or sweetened his drinks with antifreeze already? If it were up to me—he’d already be a burn spot on the river’s edge. What are you waiting for—for him to bring some bitch home to live in the basement, so he only has to travel down a stairway instead of on a plane, train, or auto to dip his wick? All while you’re upstairs reading a fucking romance novel. You’re pathetic. Maybe you deserve each other?

But, you’re on to his deceptions. You know what he is capable of by now. You know, at the very least, what you need to do. Conceive it, plan it, purchase what you require to get the job done, and fucking implement it, already. You’re at your last straw, your wit’s end, your cup is about to overflow, and it’s not with your joy.

You have your alibi—you needn’t have that worry.

Don’t you lie to yourself. You’ve been thinking this for years. You’ve been planning how to make him pay. You feel the hate growing rampant inside your heart, you just need to cut the vine, dammit. You ache from the burn he’s brought you with his sanctimonious line of shit how it’s always your fault for not being supportive like you promised on that wedding day. That was the day that brought this pile of excrement and carnage into your life. Drunk on promises to be broken just around the corner.

Bullshit! You should make him pay. You should charge interest, and you should demand repayment with his blood.

You should make it excruciatingly painful. Make him suffer as you have suffered for all these years, but tenfold. You don’t want to just leave him, do you? You need more than that! Why should you let him off the hook so easily?

Are you going to just sneak out like a broken-spirited puppy and leave the perpetrator of all the crimes with the loot? The house? The car? Are you going to give him your last shred of pride?

Why wouldn’t you instead come up with a plan that leaves him suffering while you make your getaway? Or maybe you should watch his last gasp for air before you fill his mouth with more water so that you can watch his fat face turn beet red before turning a pale blue as he gasps and chokes, his eyes bulging out of their sockets in anguish?

You can come up with a way. You’re smart that way. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? This surely isn’t your first rodeo, is it? Do you need me to prod you on to defend your honor and kill the bastard that’s ripping your heart out piece by piece? He holds it up for all of his drinking buddies to see and laughs at your expense while he guzzles another cheap glass of house whiskey.

You need to be brave. You’ve been resilient to a fault. A ball can only bounce back so many times before it rolls out into the highway, horribly meeting its end. Flattened and dumped by the curb. A forgotten clump of rotting trash.

You don’t want to be that ball! You don’t deserve that. You’re still young enough and attractive. Don’t be his seconds and thirds.

I’ll be there inside your head. You won’t be alone. I’ll be your director and your alibi when you’ve finished your mission.

Be strong.

So, it’s poison you’ve decided? It’s slow and sweet, but you won’t get the satisfaction of that bastard twisting and gurgling—he won’t know your reasons why, unless he feels your pain through his.

I want you to take the ice pick with you, just for the final act. I want you to be able to enjoy the questioning of why he’s hurt you… his fear will spill out of his eyes as he looks at you while you stab tiny round holes in his vacant heart. I want you to witness the fear fade into his slow death of forced heaving, gasping, sucking sounds while he fights with everything he stole from you, for his last breath, praying it comes quick.

I want you to smile at his pain and laugh as he begs you for help, just to kill him and give him that final relief from agonizing strain as his body slowly shuts down.

Even if you get caught, you’ve won the race. But you won’t be discovered. You’ve planned. You’ve mapped it out. You’ve dotted your i’s and crossed your t’s. You’ve cleaned your tracks and shown no one your inner disgust for him.

You’re the grieving widow, the victim, the crushed and lonely lady who doesn’t know what to do without him. You’re a fucking genius—other than taking too long to realize it—all of those wasted conversations and attempts at repairing him. Well—you can’t fix being taken for granted and used like a throwaway call girl. Those times you let him enter inside you, even though you fought the urge to vomit while his sweat dripped and slid over your body.

You can be an actress. You’ve done it for years! You can make anyone believe your performance. You can use the rage built up because you flipped the release valve by letting off steam at the perfect time. Your pressure bled off, and now there is nothing left but tears of sorrow…boo frickin’ hoo. The cops will lick the grief from the palms of your hands like a puppy lapping up ice cream.

What? Seriously? You finally did your job. and I congratulate you? Well Goddamn done and bravo. Mission complete! All but for the bidding farewell, as that worthless fucks casket lowers into the ground for one last sweet-ass goodbye.

I’m proud of you girl, you got off your lazy bum and staked your claim. The poison was a choice for the meek, but at least you followed through. He did look like shit there at the last—all shriveled and sunken in. I hope you took a snapshot for memories sake! Something to hang over the fireplace mantle.

I myself would have chosen the ice pick or maybe a hammer. Something with gusto that would color the room red. But I seem to have a little more rage inside. You’ve always been the humane one. The pleaser.

Take your last look at the pews. Count the whores that sit in the back rows in the shadows, barely old enough to drive here on their own without their mommies. Each wondering who the other was to him. Which slut was the first to be his second to you, and so on? You had his best before he was another’s sloppy seconds.

You win! You get the house, the car, the insurance money, you get it all. But most of all, you get the satisfaction of knowing it was all by your wit and tenacity. You get back your dignity and that’s golden.

And now my lovely—with suitcase in one hand, I want you to head to that station, with a one-way ticket in your other hand—mentally say good fucking riddance to him as you board that train to a new life.

You can ride off into the sunset, knowing you’ve done an A+ fine fucking job. You’ve succeeded—the valedictorian of the perfect homicide.

But best of all, now you can call him, let him know you finally did it. No more sneaking him out the back door when the piece of shit husband crawls in drunk—again.

You’ve checked him out, right? He’s got money? He’s not bad-looking and you know he’s a porn star in bed.

I think he may he even have a weak heart.

But I guess you know that all along.