Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Two

It took me six minutes to walk to The Story Mann. Dr. Mann wasn't lying when he said it wasn't far from his office. I opened the glass door, and a tiny chime sounded as I went through.

The store had an abundance of sparsely-filled shelves, yet most of the books were in boxes on the ground next to them. Instead of the pleasant smell of books, it reeked of body odor and bad breath. Nothing in the store was new, except for my presence. If Dr. Mann hadn't told me his wife owned this place, I would have left immediately.

I looked down at the list, the words blurred by my watering eyes. I fumbled down aisles, never being able to locate the books I needed.

"Do you need help?" a frail voice asked, scaring the tears out of my eyes. I turned to see an elderly woman grimacing. I concluded that her grimace wasn't directed at me but rather toward the stench that pervaded the store.

"Actually, yes. I was told that I'd be able to find these books here," I said, handing her the crumpled list. The lady grabbed it from my grasp, and stared at it for at least a minute.

"I don't know where these are," the woman stated sourly as she gave me my list back. "You can try looking in the 50 cent bin, but if they aren't there, you're better off going somewhere else." She flicked her wrist toward the middle of the store where a box sat on the table.

I approached the table and looked in the box. The books were obviously used, and they were in an even worse condition than I was before I started therapy. The words on the covers were only just visible through the ripples they somehow had.

I took them out individually, surveying them while referencing my list. I was almost at the bottom of the box when I found it.

The book was titled Confessions of a Serial Killer. In thick, stocky letters above it was my name.

I knew it was only an author with whom I shared my name, but seeing my name on a book was exciting. I abandoned my list, and walked to the counter with only the book in hand.

The old lady walked behind it to check me out, never making eye contact. I grabbed a dollar from my wallet and threw it on the counter along with the book.

"You know, it's rude not to put things back," she grumbled as her wobbly fingers tapped the keys on the till. I looked back to the almost-empty box and the books I had carelessly piled beside it.

Before I could stop myself, I said, "It's not like there's any customer in here to notice." The lady scoffed, but she didn't say anything to me. I thought about what Dr. Mann would say about my retort, and I debated on whether or not I should apologize to her. Had she not had an attitude, I wouldn't have been so mean.

"That's weird," the lady said, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I was annoyed at her technological ignorance, and I felt myself getting even more irritated.

"What?" I asked, uninterested in anything that didn't involve me leaving within the next minute.

"It's not showing up in our inventory," the woman said after a moment.

"It's literally only 50 cents. I don't need a receipt," I said through clenched teeth.

"That's not the problem. The problem is the book isn't ours," she responded, almost as frustrated as I was.

"Okay, well, I want it, so..." I stated.

"You know what? Just take it." She grabbed the book and held it out to me. I ripped the book out of her weak grip, grabbed my dollar bill from the table, and exited the store. The dainty chime went off again, and I felt relieved at the new atmosphere.

I glanced down at the book. I didn't know what story I was about to read, but I was certain about one thing: I would have written it better.