Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Four

When I was eleven, my mother had moved us out of our apartment because she was convinced it was haunted. I could have shown her evidence that ghosts don't exist, but she wouldn't--couldn't--believe me. I never understood how anyone over the age of seven could believe in things they couldn't see or prove themselves. As I sat in my bed, holding Confessions of a Serial Killer, I started to rethink my stance on the existence of the implausible. I wholeheartedly believed in time travel because of this autobiography, despite all evidence that it doesn't exist.

I thought about throwing the book in the trash and never thinking about it again. As long as I don't kill anybody, the book can't come true; I wouldn't become a serial killer. I could consider this book to be a work of fiction. With my fears assuaged and my doubt intact, I confidently turned all of my attention back to the book, needing to know what my future could have been.

I: The First Murder
    A serial killer's first murder is only second to their last. The first victim is the one that people want to know about, the one they'll remember. Perhaps it is because it is the one that starts the rest. The first murder at the time is only a single murder, one that will probably "shake the city to its core" because "nothing bad ever happens here." By the third murder, the public starts to become weary. It is the fifth one that really scares them into isolating themselves from society, turning their homes into their prisons because of the possibility they might die. I'm assuming, anyway. I never got to that level of infamy.

     A serial killer's first murder is sloppy. They haven't figured out their signature nor have they experienced how much a human body can withstand. The first time you take a life, it changes you forever. Your life is now split into two parts: before the kill and after the kill.

     My technical first kill was bland. I didn't consider it a pivotal moment in my life. I accidentally hit someone with a car. Killing someone with a machine is far different from taking a life with your own strength. Some people feel guilt, but I don't believe that the kill belonged to me. I suppose this death did introduce me to Dr. Mann, so perhaps I am being hasty in dismissing this murder. Regardless, this kill is insignificant, as it happened far too long ago to be the start of my story as a "mostly" serial killer.

     The kill that will be talked about in my future documentaries and docuseries is that of an old woman whose name I have never cared to learn.

     After our last session, Dr. Mann gave me a list of book titles, and he instructed me to visit his wife's bookstore: The Story Mann. It is there I met the old woman.

     I did not know it at the time, but the moment I had entered the shop, the old woman's remaining life went from years to mere minutes. In my haste to search for the books Dr. Mann insisted I buy, I had been slightly unruly in my task, leaving books discarded whenever they didn't match an item on my list. I would have put them away, but I was a customer. A customer buys from the store, making them money. They shouldn't be forced to restock items too, but that is neither here nor there.

     The old woman died after I left. I had shut the clear door of the shop too hard, causing a shelf to fall from the wall and crush her frail body. It took them three days to discover her. It was horribly bloated. Her family couldn't even make a positive identification. My murder was written off as a freak accident, and I suppose it was one. Regardless, it was me who killed her. When I found out about her death, I was certain it was deserved, that I had done the world a favor. Perhaps nobody deserves to die, but that doesn't mean they deserve to live either.

I bookmarked the page, and closed the book. I thought I could avoid what Confessions of a Serial Killer had prophesied, but if the old woman from The Story Mann had really died, I was already unwillingly acting out my fate.

Taking a look at the time and seeing it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning, I decided that my dilemma was important enough to wake Dr. Mann. I picked up my phone to call him when I realized that my conversation would probably be listened to by some government employee. If the woman had died by my hands, I would have to feign arrogance so I could deny any knowledge that I had murdered her.

I grabbed my coat, my shoes, and my keys, ready to leave. It was after only a moment's hesitation I decided to grab the book to take it with me. Dr. Mann was an understanding and uncritical person. I could trust Dr. Mann with my life, even if he shouldn't trust me with his.