Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Six

After taking me out for something to eat, Dr. Mann informed me he had to go soon because he had to get up early in the morning. He insisted that he give me a ride home, but I declined because his car had smelled identical to the inside of The Story Mann on the way here, and I did not think I could sit through a block more of the putrid scent.

My eyes struggled to stay open on the walk home. I imagined if I had been driving, I would have fallen asleep at the wheel. My exhaustion was at the point that I had to tell my legs to step one in front of the other, and even then, sometimes I had forgotten how to move.

I was standing in front of my door, and I found myself staring at my keys. I tried to imagine what it was like to stick it inside someone's neck. I knew I was strong, but I couldn't believe I was strong enough to pierce it through skin. It was one thing to have metaphorical blood on my hands, but to actually have my hands covered in it would be an entirely different matter.

I wanted to know what happened next. I thought about reading another chapter of Confessions of a Serial Killer, but I physically couldn't. I sat on the couch, and I opened the book. I tried to focus, but every word on the page blurred into solid bars of black. Each time I blinked, my eyes remained closed longer than the last.

***

When I awoke in my bed, it was still dark outside. I was still tired, so I turned on my side to get comfortable. A sharp pain shot down my body. After a few seconds, I jolted up. My head was pounding, and my memories were hazy. I tried to think about how I got to my bed from my couch, but couldn't find any reasonable explanation. I tried to stand up, but my legs were too weak to hold my weight. My stomach felt like it was pulsing. I turned on my lamp on my nightstand. The light made my head pound worse, and I was forced to close my eyes and look away.

When my eyes opened again, I noticed my hands. The knuckles on my left hand were covered in light brown bruises, and my right hand had a deep pink undertone, as if it were stained. I tried to find my phone, but my mind couldn't seem to concentrate. I got out of my bed, and I used the wall to help carry my weight.

I stumbled into the hallway and then into the living room, and I saw someone sitting on my couch. My heartbeat accelerated. I felt as if I were choking on air. I desperately looked around to try to find something that I could use as a weapon for self-defense.

"Cynthia," Dr. Mann said. He stood from the couch and hurried over to me, looking concerned. He put an arm around my shoulder and guided me to my couch. My body was all too ready to sit, causing me to fall into the couch before I was even in front of it. Dr. Mann tried to catch me, but he was too weak and too slow.

I adjusted myself. My bones felt like they were simultaneously vibrating and grinding against one another. Dr. Mann sat down next to me, his eyes observing my condition.

"What're you doing here?" I asked in an unexpectedly weak voice. My vocal chords ached as if they were ripped from my throat, used as a skipping rope, and then punched back into my neck.

"You've had quite the day, Cynthia," Dr. Mann replied in his most soothing voice.

"No, that's impossible," I said, trying to straighten my back to help my posture, therefore helping the discomfort that ran along my spine. I was losing a fight to gravity. "I just saw you."

"When?" Dr. Mann asked.

"At The Story Mann," I clarified. Dr. Mann let out a deep sigh. He took his glasses off, and then wiped them with his shirt. The pain caused me to become irritable, and his long pause in replying was making it worse. He put his glasses back on his face, and looked at me.

"That was eighteen hours ago," Dr. Mann responded in a solemn tone. I knew that Dr. Mann would never lie to me, but I did not believe him. It is not possible to lose a day like that. If it were, how many other days have I lost and not even realized it?