Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Twelve

I stood in the bathroom for three minutes before I was motivated to do anything. I only had an hour of freedom, and it would be better spent living instead of standing around like a zombie. The thought of reading Confessions of a Serial Killer filled me with excitement, but the feeling didn't translate physically. I was still incredibly tired, and even with the twinge of anxiety about what would happen once my hour was gone, I didn't have the energy I needed.

I had grabbed a fresh pair of clothes and a washrag. I wanted to shower, but for a variety of reasons, I couldn't. All of the towels I had were dirty, and they were in the tub. If I listened closely enough, I could hear the blood seeping out from the towels and guzzling down the drain.

I wet the washcloth before wiping it on my exposed skin. I wouldn't be clean, but I would look clean, and that was all that mattered. I didn't even want to bother with freshening myself, but if I had gone out in public like this, my hour would be unceremoniously cut short.

When I looked acceptable enough for society, I left my bathroom, ready for answers. I looked for Dr. Mann. He had already left. I would have worried that he already called the police, but Dr. Mann was true to his word. He trusted himself, thereby trusting the people he's helped.

About halfway to The Story Mann, my stomach started to rumble. Although I was still nauseated, the fundamental human need for food outweighed any repulsion I had for anything edible.

I wanted to go to the restaurant Dr. Mann had taken me to after he took Confessions of a Serial Killer away from me. The food wasn't particularly good, but it seemed fitting to eat there just as I was going to get my autobiography back. It was only when I thought deeper that I realized I had only grabbed my phone in my haste to spend my last hour right.

As I approached The Story Mann, I cursed blackout Cynthia for not taking care of us better. I probably didn't bother to eat before I may have killed somebody. I hated being uncertain, and my lost time provided me with an overabundance of precariousness.

Dr. Mann had said that Confessions of a Serial Killer started all of this, but I was sure that I would be a killer regardless of whether I had come across the book or not. Anybody is capable of taking a life, that is fact, but I had always wondered how I would act without laws. I would look out for only myself, as everyone should, but I would indubitably eliminate any threat with as much permanence as I could. If that meant murder, I supposed that would make me a murder.

My thoughts had occupied the monotony of walking until I was outside of The Story Mann. Although I knew it would be open, I couldn't deny that I was a little surprised that it hadn't stayed closed longer. I didn't know how much wait time was respectful when a worker died--especially when they died in the shop, but I doubted it should've been this brief. Alas, there were bills to be paid, and The Story Mann wasn't doing well before the murder occurred.

I pulled open the dirty glass door, and the familiar bell chime sounded. I had expected it to smell like death, but it smelled exactly the same as the last time I had been here, though I suppose it didn't exactly smell fresh then either.

I turned my attention to the front counter. I was curious about the clerk who replaced the old woman. I wonder if they knew about their predecessor's demise. My focus shifted from the desk to the wall, and to my stupefied amusement, I noted that the shelf had been refastened onto the wall.

After getting over the astonishment of the shelf being back in its place, I wondered if it were more stable. I would be careful not to slam my door on the way out--unless, of course, Confessions of a Serial Killer advised me to do the opposite.

I turned my attention to the rest of The Story Mann. It looked exactly the same as I had left it. It was in disarray. I had no idea where to start, so I went back to the 50 cent box I had found the book in.

I was by no means gentle as I removed books from the box. The cover of Confessions of a Serial Killer was forever imprinted in my mind, so I didn't bother to take more than a second to observe the covers of the insignificant works before promptly tossing the books aside. I felt like a tornado, and I supposed that I was one.

At the bottom of the box, I found the raggedy cover. I thought it to be an oxymoron that the cover was so bare and dull, as it was just short of being a holy text to me.

The cover had the same raised letters, and it was still titled Confessions of a Serial Killer. The only difference was that the name above the title did not belong to me.