The Murder Train

Stan had always been a talented conductor, known for his precision, dedication, and passion for his work. His colleagues often marveled at his ability to keep the trains running like clockwork, even in the face of delays or mechanical issues. "Stan's got the magic touch," they'd say, clapping him on the back with admiration.

But behind his professional facade, Stan was battling a deep, dark depression that consumed him from the inside out. The weight of his emotions was suffocating, and he found solace in self-medication and alcohol, a dangerous combination that was leading him down a destructive path.

As the days turned into months and the months turned into years, Stan's inner turmoil only worsened. He struggled to keep up appearances, putting on a brave face for his colleagues and passengers while drowning in his own despair. The pressure of his responsibilities as a conductor only added to his mental anguish, pushing him further into a downward spiral.

"You alright there, Stan?" his co-worker, Jim, asked one day, noticing the dark circles under Stan's eyes and the slight tremor in his hands.

Stan forced a smile, his lips stretching tightly across his face in a grotesque imitation of happiness. "Never better," he lied, his voice hollow. "Just a bit tired, that's all."

Jim nodded, unconvinced, but let it slide. He'd known Stan for years, and lately, something seemed off about his old friend. But in the fast-paced world of the railway, there was little time for heart-to-hearts.

As Stan walked away, he could feel Jim's eyes boring into his back. The weight of his colleague's concern only added to the burden he carried. He quickened his pace, desperate to escape the suffocating feeling of being watched, of being seen through.

That night, as Stan sat alone in his small apartment, he reached for the bottle of whiskey that had become his constant companion. The amber liquid burned its way down his throat, temporarily numbing the pain that gnawed at his insides. But as the alcohol took hold, so did the voices—whispers at first, then a cacophony of accusatory shouts.