Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Eight

My eyes opened like a soldier marching through mud. Light from the moon flooded through my window, just barely illuminating my room. I was staring at my ceiling, unable to move my neck, let alone my legs or my arms.

My fatigue was similar to the time I had the flu in my youth. I felt completely powerless against it. My headache was amplified, and just forming a thought made the pain worse. My body was drenched in a thick layer of sweat, my clothes glued to me. My throat was sore, begging for water.

I threw my legs over the side of my bed, hoping the rest of my body would function. It wouldn't. I was forced to slither out of bed, my arms incapacitated from what felt like muscular atrophy. I tried to stand on my feet, but my legs refused to hold my weight. I fell to the ground. My cheek rested against my hardwood floor. Normally I'd be disgusted by the dirt that sprinkled the floorboards, but the coolness of the wood offered superficial mitigation to my dehydration.

The hammering in my head made it difficult to focus. My mind was hazy, and I couldn't remember what had made me feel this ill. I entertained the possibility that I went to bed and woke up sick, but with my recent history of losing time, I wanted to account for every second before I fell asleep. I decided to start retracing my steps to just before my mind starts to turn to static: the end of my session with Dr. Mann.

***

"That is our time for today, Cynthia," Dr. Mann declared as he tossed his notepad to the side. He looked around the room for a moment before focusing his entire attention on me. "How are you feeling?"

"You asked me that already," I replied, my defenses built even higher than before. Despite my desperate desire to exit this building as fast as possible, I couldn't leave. I wanted to continue to spar with Dr. Mann. We were at a stalemate, but I was confident I would emerge victorious in our undeclared battle.

"I'm not getting paid to ask you now," Dr. Mann teased with a light chuckle. "I am merely concerned for you Cynthia. If you do not wish to answer, you do not have to." I stood from the couch, allowing my silence to be his answer. Dr. Mann stood from his chair and reached out his withered hand to give me a handshake.

"Since you are my therapist, I suppose I should be honest with you." Dr. Mann gave an encouraging nod that complemented his reassuring grin as he pulled his hand away. "This session was the shortest one we have ever had, yet it was the most prolonged."

"I am sorry you felt that way, Cynthia," Dr. Mann apologized, a look of solemnness infecting his jovial features. His sudden change demeanor would have bothered me, but if our session hadn't dragged on, I would never have said anything.

"Anyway, same time next week?" I asked. I had hoped to provide the bridge to our farewell, except Dr. Mann always treated every question as if it were important. Dr. Mann's downcast face flipped like a page, and he was back to himself.

"Actually, I'm not sure. My sister is still in the hospital. I can let you know my schedule tomorrow morning." Dr. Mann walked over to his desk.

"How do you plan to do that?" I asked, following his movements with my eyes.

"The normal way: by calling. Of course, I could email, but you never seem to get those." Dr. Mann started to pull open drawers at his desk, and I feared he would see evidence of my snooping.

"I don't have my phone," I reminded him. "The police still have it." I watched Dr. Mann skip past the drawer with the keys to the one under it. It was the only drawer I had not managed to open. I wondered if Confessions of a Serial Killer were in that one. If I hadn't hesitated to question the keys, I could possibly have had my autobiography once more. My hesitation cost me answers. I wouldn't make that blunder again.