Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Seven

Whenever I passed a person in the street, I wondered if they would be my next victim. It was like rolling a sanity die, except all sides yielded the same result. I couldn't be certain who I would kill without reading the next chapter of Confessions of a Serial Killer, but I couldn't read it because I didn't have it. I thought about picking a random person and killing them, but then I wondered if that's what author Cynthia would think I would do. I attempted to calculate infinite outcomes of a single situation, and it was ruining me.

I knew the only way I would be able to remove any uncertainty was to find the book. I would have to convince Dr. Mann that I wouldn't do what my autobiography said I would do, but if I didn't believe it myself, he wouldn't either.

I was sitting in the middle of my bed, trying to empty my mind to help my memory come back, but I was failing miserably. Not only did I have a severe headache, but also, every time I managed to find a second of clarity, a car would pass or a bird would chirp. My mind would wander, causing thoughts to pile on each other until I remembered I wasn't supposed to be thinking at all.

I felt myself growing frustrated, so I had decided to take a "mind-clearing walk" that Dr. Mann liked to prattle about. Grabbing a jacket from my closet, I headed out the door, making certain not to lock it because the police had yet to return my keys.

I was currently slouching in an uncomfortable booth by the window in a shabby restaurant across from Dr. Mann's office building. I didn't mean to come here. I just wanted out of my home, and I had nowhere else to go. Even after those years in therapy, I hadn't managed to find any friends or hobbies that could occupy my time. Every part of my life that didn't revolve around me, revolved around Dr. Mann. I hadn't minded before, but now that I knew I was supposed to be a killer, Dr. Mann's constant morality reminder kept me from achieving my full potential.

I had an hour before my session was supposed to start. A waiter had come by a few times asking me if I was ready to order. After my third glass of water with no ice, they caught the hint that I wouldn't be ordering anything. I was waiting to be kicked out for loitering, but my expulsion never came. Ever since I had blacked out, I found that everything I ate made me nauseous. I couldn't imagine the effects that food from here would have on me. The water tasted like seaweed, and the glass felt slimy. I could only guess that anything prepared here would have the texture of rubber and the taste of plastic.

I was entering the early stages of sleep when I jolted myself awake. I forced myself to stand straight, my legs struggling to keep me upright. I nearly fell over, and without the assistance of the table, I would have. My sudden force of weight on the table had caused my glass of water to be spilled over the cotton that was exposed by slashes in the booth seats. The waiter would appreciate it was just water, and they would be thankful I didn't order anything more. Had it been any other beverage, they'd have an awful time cleaning it.

Crossing the street was supposed to be easy, but as I marched toward Dr. Mann's building, it felt as if the air were made of bricks. The sun seemed to skip my pupil entirely and shine directly on my brain, somehow managing to worsen the ever-present pulsing headache. My eyes were squinted to the point that they were hardly even open, essentially making me blind to any other people or cars that may get in my way. When I finally made it inside of Dr. Mann's waiting room, I felt an instant relief. The warm white lights soothed some of the damage the sun had caused.

Hearing me arrive, Dr. Mann came out of his office and motioned for me to enter. When I had first arrived here years ago, I thought it odd that Dr. Mann didn't have a secretary. Back then, I had believed it was because he liked to work alone and trusted only himself. Now, I realized he probably didn't have enough money to hire anyone.

I went into Dr. Mann's office. I had expected that resuming my sessions would be odd, but my freedom from therapy was so brief, it felt as if I hadn't ever stopped. Familiarity has always been comforting to me, yet now, I found myself despising the way I knew how the couch would mold to me, or how I knew that next to his wall of degrees, Dr. Mann kept a stockpile of candy in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Nothing here would surprise or challenge me. I could control the situation with autonomy as opposed to ferocity. I had nothing left to gain.

Dr. Mann sat cross-legged in his armchair, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I took the time to observe him as if it were our first session. In the five years I had known him, he had aged awfully. The wrinkles he had before were carved deeper. His eyes were unnaturally sunken, weighed down by the puffy bags that found their way down to his cheekbones. Age spots blotted his forehead and his hands. His earlobes were so drooped, it looked like he had worn dumbbells to pull the skin away from his ear cartilage. For the first time, I realized just how tired and old this man was.

On Dr. Mann's lap rested a yellow notepad, and in his left hand, he loosely gripped a blue pen. He hadn't needed to take notes for me in years. This meant that something had changed, that a part of me was unpredictable to him. My realization brought an impenetrable grin to my face. This may prove more challenging than I had previously assumed.

"Cynthia," Dr. Mann said, breaking the silence. He knew that speaking first put him at a disadvantage, yet he gave up his control willingly. It occurred to me that he gave this win to me because he believed I needed it more than him. His underestimation would be his weakness. "How are you?"

"How am I supposed to answer that?" I asked, mirroring his pose. I didn't have a pen and paper, so I rested my hands in my lap. I tried to make myself seem relaxed, but excitement threatened to strain my axons. This would translate to tenseness, and it would be like coughing during a poker game. It would be my tell, and my opponent would have to decipher what it meant. Dr. Mann was perceptive. He would deduce the meaning of my tenseness, revealing my hand prematurely.

"With honesty," Dr. Mann replied in a comforting voice. I stared at him silently, still unsure of how I should respond. "This isn't a chess match, Cynthia. You don't have to make every move in preparedness of my retaliation."

"I don't play chess," I said, looking away from him. I surveyed the room, trying to think about what to say next. I could only guess what was going through Dr. Mann's mind, but I imagined he thought I had tremendously regressed. His roar of laughter admittedly startled me. My head snapped back to look at him. Soon enough, my demeanor of dourness slipped away, and I was joining him.

"To be completely honest with you, Cynthia, I don't play it much either. I make comparisons to it because of the notion that all smart people are good at chess," Dr. Mann responded.

Because I was back in therapy and had no reason to try to dull my tongue, I replied, "Perhaps they are, and you're just not as smart as you assume." Dr. Mann beamed at me, and he nodded his head.

"You are probably right," he said, flashing his impeccable teeth in an overwhelming grin.

"Just like al--" I began. Dr. Mann's office door burst open. I did not see who had interrupted us, but Dr. Mann got out of his chair quickly and wordlessly. I imagined that is what I had looked like when I interrupted him and his nameless patient only a day ago. I had to use my imagination, of course, because my memories had yet to return. With Dr. Mann occupied and the door closed, I had the opportunity to find what belonged to me.

I leaped from the couch, despite my body begging me not to move it in a strenuous way. I was at his desk, pulling open drawers, trying to find Confessions of a Serial Killer. After some forceful yanking, the middle drawer on the left side of his desk opened. The sound of metal hitting against each other rang in my ears. I looked in the drawer, only to find it filled with sets of keys.

I thought it to be odd to have a drawer filled with random keys, but then again, my mother had had a junk drawer full of straws. Dr. Mann had at least two businesses he needed keys to, and he probably had to change the locks a few times times. I didn't dwell on the keys for too long because finding my book was more important. I had just closed the drawer when I heard Dr. Mann's jovial voice get louder. The door had opened a moment after I had taken my position back on the couch, my body squeaking louder than the loveseat's springs.

"I am so sorry about that, Cynthia," Dr. Mann said, his breathing heavy. "That was my sister's stepson. Apparently she's in the hospital, and he was..."

I let Dr. Mann's voice fade, as what he was talking about was irrelevant to me. I wanted to ask Dr. Mann about the keys in his desk, but then he would know I was snooping. I thought about bringing up how that encounter was similar to the one described in Confessions of a Serial Killer, but if I mentioned the book, he would probably think that I was still unhealthily obsessing over it. He would undoubtedly increase our sessions to two times a week, and that was the last thing I needed right now.

I focused all of my attention on Dr. Mann's aged eyes, trying to look past the jolliness for even a speck of depravity, but I could not find anything to suggest trickery. If his demons weren't buried beneath a facade, perhaps he had none at all.