Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter One

Dr. Mann lazily ate a blueberry muffin, causing tiny crumbs to get stuck in the corner of his mouth. His chewing sounded like a wet washcloth being thrown against a tile wall. I felt revulsion swell in my chest.

"Cynthia," Dr. Mann began after he finished his paste-like muffin, "how are you feeling?"

"I am a little hurt I wasn't offered a piece of your muffin, but other than that, I am okay," I answered. Dr. Mann beamed at me. A tiny blot of blue smearing his otherwise white teeth. He chuckled, loose crumbs infecting the air in front of him.

"I meant, 'How are you feeling about this being our last session?'" Dr. Mann corrected himself. I looked at Dr. Mann for a moment, trying, and failing, to analyze him as he's analyzed me for the past few years.

"I am a little bit afraid," I answered honestly. I could tell Dr. Mann was taken aback. He had expected another joke; I always gave him another joke before we got to the deep stuff. Dr. Mann nodded his head as he tapped his fingertips together. I suspected he would usually write this down, but he stopped using the notepad ages ago.

"Well, Cynthia, as your former therapist--or soon-to-be former therapist--I can assure you that you are prepared for whatever comes next," Dr. Mann said.

"I know I am. I know my fear is irrational. It's just that I've seen you once a week for so long, and now that will just end. It's scary," I explained.

"Relationships aren't always meant to be forever. They'll teach you something so you're ready for the next one," Dr. Mann stated in his wise-wizard voice. I couldn't help but be calmed by him.

"You were only supposed to be my therapist for ten sessions," I responded, unsure of how to respond.

"That is true," Dr. Mann replied with a small smile. "Listen, our time is running out, but there's a few books I want you to read, so--"

"Dr. Mann, I don't know," I interrupted. I felt my face turn sour at his suggestion.

"You don't even know what they are," Dr. Mann responded, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Yes, I do. They're self-help books. You always try to get me to read those books," I stated flatly, crossing my arms and leaning back into the couch.

"Not this time." Dr. Mann got up to go to his desk. He grabbed his notepad as a warrior grabs their sword, and he started to write book titles. He ripped off the page and handed it to me. "My wife owns a bookstore not far from here. It'll have what you need."

In one final act of defiance, I grabbed the paper, and without looking at it, I shoved it into my jacket pocket before I stood.

"Cynthia, if you are ever in need of someone to listen to, you are always welcome," Dr. Mann said.

"I know," I responded.

Dr. Mann offered me a gleeful grin before he held out his hand. I took it. His palms were disgustingly sweaty, yet it was the most comfortable handshake I had ever had.

I felt myself gleam as I exited his office into the afternoon sun. I was done with therapy. I was ready for the world. I was a new woman.

I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper in my pocket, and I examined it. In blocky letters "The Story Mann" was written at the top center of the page, followed by a list of books and authors. I pulled out my phone, and I entered the bookstore in my navigation app.

Taking one last look at Dr. Mann's building, I inhaled deeply and started on my way.

Things were going to change. I could feel it.