Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Five

As I started walking to meet Dr. Mann, it occurred to me that I had no idea where he lived. I was going to go to his office, a place that had become a safe haven for me over the course of the past few years, when I realized I didn't have to meet Dr. Mann to confirm what the book had said. I would go to The Story Mann instead, looking for evidence that the old lady was found--or needed to be found.

I have never been afraid of any person. I have always believed that I was stronger, I was smarter, and I was better than everyone else. As my feet marched a path to the bookstore, I, for the first time in my life, was afraid of a person. The thought of the little old woman--of her death--was terrifying. Not because it was me who had inadvertently killed her, but because of what her death would mean to me.

I didn't feel remorse or guilt for the old woman. Although future me takes credit for her death, it was the screws that held the shelf to the wall that were to blame. Had they been stronger, they wouldn't have succumbed to the force of the door, and the shelf wouldn't have killed her.

The Story Mann towered in front of me, its glass door covered by yellow police tape. I imagined the body odor that had overwhelmed me before, knowing that it was now probably masked by the overwhelming scent of decay. I ripped the tape from the door. I grabbed its handle and yanked, only to be met with resistance. It was locked. I debated on whether or not I should break the door, but ultimately decided it would be better left intact, if only to save me from explaining to Dr. Mann why I destroyed his wife's property.

I could assume the old woman was dead, but I had to be certain. Perhaps someone had broken into the store, or perhaps the store was a scene of a robbery. I knew I was lying to myself to give myself some comfort because if Confessions of a Serial Killer was right about this, I could deny its authenticity no longer. I sat on the curbside in front of the bookstore and grabbed my phone from my pocket. I called Dr. Mann.

"Hello, Cynthia," Dr. Mann said, his soothing voice showing a hint of exhaustion. "Are you alright?"

"Dr. Mann, I'm outside The Story Mann," I answered. Dr. Mann didn't say anything, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. "Did the old lady die?" I questioned, my voice steady. Whatever answer he responded with would change me. If Confessions of a Serial Killer were wrong about one thing, it would be the effect of the old woman's death. My life wouldn't be split into before and after the kill. It would be split into before and after I found out about the kill.

"Did you see a news article?" Dr. Mann asked. The old woman was dead, and according to my autobiography, I had killed her. As I suspected, I did not care that she was dead. My only concern was what my life would be like now that I knew she was. "It was a tragic accident. Poor Miss--"

"Stop. I don't want to know her name," I said frantically. I stayed silent, unsure of how to transition the conversation to what I needed to talk about.

"Cynthia, what's going on?" Dr. Mann questioned. He was more alert, whatever exhaustion he had forgotten and replaced with concern and interest.

"Dr. Mann, can you meet me at The Story Mann?" I looked around where I sat, suddenly aware that I was on a darkened street in the middle of the night.

"I think it would be better if we met at my office. I'd prefer not to be around The Story Mann right now." I felt myself growing frustrated with Dr. Mann. Usually, I was in awe of how calm and genuine he always managed to be, but right now, I wanted nothing more than to scream at him that my future as a serial killer was more pressing than his discomfort.

"I'm already at the store," I stated. "It'll be more convenient."

"Ah, yes. I'll be there soon, Cynthia." I ended the call before turning on my phone's flashlight. I opened Confessions of a Serial Killer and pointed the flashlight to illuminate the thin pages.