Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Thirteen

I held the imposter book in my hands, overcome with disbelief. I turned to the first pages to see the publishing information.

Copyright © 2040 by Jocelyn Nichol.

I flipped to the dedication page, hoping that the year was just an unlikely coincidence. I was not a moron. I knew before I read it what the page would say.

For Dr. Mann, my last victim.

The world around me became dull as I blinked imaginary dust out of my eyes. My sight must have been malfunctioning because this scenario was impossible. My balance became unstable as the world moved under my feet. I was so disorientated, my focus on the mechanisms of the world was precise. I could feel the earth as it rotated on its axis and revolved around the sun, the carbon dioxide as it left my lungs and polluted the air around me.

I wondered if the fraud of a book was what Dr. Mann was referring to when he said I would have questions. If that were the case, he would have withheld information that would have changed everything.

It was a shrill voice that brought me back from the molecular plane. "Oh, god, it's you," the voice sang.

I turned to the direction of the sound, and saw that the store clerk had come from the back. It was the old woman. She hadn't died after all.

I nearly lost all grip on what was real and what wasn't. The woman couldn't be here, or my autobiography wasn't real. I had to kill her to make things right. The loss of my freedom could be attributed to her, and she was still breathing.

I needed to find Dr. Mann. He would tell me only the truth. With the book in hand, I stumbled to the front door of the store, the air thickening as I got closer to the exit. It took all of my remaining strength to push open the door.

The fresh air offered me no relief. I was still breathing mud, and the deeper I tried to inhale, the more clogged my airways became. I needed to calm myself, but I couldn't employ any of the techniques Dr. Mann had taught me without feeling the sharp stab of betrayal.

To keep my sanity intact, I rationalized that Dr. Mann wasn't responsible for the duplicates of Confessions of a Serial Killer. The elderly store clerk had manipulated him. From my first interaction with her, I knew that she was corrupt when nobody else did. The woman fooled everyone except me. I had no reason to believe that Confessions of a Serial Killer hadn't been real, especially after the events in the book had seemingly occured.

On my way to Dr. Mann's office, I went through Jocelyn's book. The prologue was identical to mine with the only exception being my name had been replaced by hers.

I read on, and I found that the first chapter was similar to mine. Only one paragraph had been changed:

My real first kill was bland. I didn't consider it a pivotal moment in my life. When I was a child, I had been playing with my family's gas stove. Without knowing any better, I had let the gas seep from the burners. When my mother woke up and lit her cigarette, she died. I was young, I hadn't known any better. The police assumed it was a drunken accident, and I never bothered to correct them. Since then, I've seen a handful of therapists until I met Dr. Mann. Perhaps I am being hasty in dismissing this murder. Regardless, this kill is insignificant, as only Dr. Mann and I know it was my murder.

I was lightheaded. I tried to read on to find more differences, but my memory of my Confessions of a Serial Killer was diluted. If there were any deviations, they were so minute, I couldn't imagine they were important.

By the time I had looked up from the book, I was already at Dr. Mann's office building. Without reservation, I ran inside right for Dr. Mann's office.

When I shoved open the door, Dr. Mann jumped up. It had appeared he had fallen asleep at his desk. He reached in his pocket for his phone to check the time before he glanced at me.

"You're early," Dr. Mann said after clearing his throat. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Something like that," I replied harshly. I had meant to sound indifferent, but I was so worked up, it was impossible. "Other people have books. My book isn't real--"

"Cynthia, I don't understand. What happened?" I looked at Dr. Mann and saw only concern on his face, but I knew that I can't trust him anymore. He had always been kind, but now I was sure he had a secret milignance.

"I thought it was the old woman who had made the book, but there are things in there I have only ever told you," I said, swallowing a lump that was forming in my throat. I didn't have it in me to look at Dr. Mann, but I could feel him staring at me.

"Cynthia, I have never told a soul about anything you have said in our sessions," Dr. Mann assures me as he walked from behind his desk to me.

"If that is true, the notes you took on me have been compromised. It must be your wife who is working with the old woman. They're trying to make me lose my mind." I had started pacing around his office without even being aware of it. I was aware that I looked crazy, but it was a wild situation. Dr. Mann knew me, and he would know I wasn't mad. I stopped pacing abruptly.

"Cynthia, I think you are confused," Dr. Mann said as he watched me pace. "There's something you need to know. I've been monitoring you, and I believe that your reality..." Dr. Mann had my full attention, and he looked at me with hesitation. "Your reality has been altered. You cannot trust what you believe to be true."

I absorbed his response like a wet sponge. "Save me the theatrics," I dismissed. "I have always been able to trust myself." Dr. Mann still has a look of genuine concern on his face, but it faded as he started to laugh.

"Cynthia, I sent you to my wife's bookstore," Dr. Mann said. He looked at me, waiting for a response, but I had no idea what he expected me to say.

"Yeah, no duh," I replied, crossing my arms. Dr. Mann had a disappointed smile on his sagged face.

"In the five years we have known each other, I have never mentioned a wife," Dr. Mann stated.

"Well, I'm not your therapist," I answered, exasperated. Dr. Mann was wasting my time. "You listen to me. It's not mutual."

"Cynthia, you are smart, and you are observant," Dr. Mann said. I couldn't help the gleam that formed on my face. "But only when it affects you."

"What do you mean?" I questioned, my agitation intensifying as he tergiversated.

"Observe your surroundings--and not just the ones that you find important or repulsive," Dr. Mann demanded. He sat in the armchair across from the patient couch. He left me to do as I was told.

I looked at the degrees on the wall behind his desk, at the yellow stains on the ceilings, and at the rusting on the filing cabinet. I didn't know what I had missed, what I wasn't seeing. It was only then that I realized it wasn't about what I saw. It was about what I didn't.

Dr. Mann didn't have anything on his desk. Beyond his degrees, his office revealed nothing personal about him. He didn't even have a receptionist. I finally understood what Dr. Mann had been saying.

I didn't reveal my discoveries. Instead, I sat down across from Dr. Mann. He looked at my expectantly, any exhaustion that had once pulled down his face now replaced with giddy.

My eyes traveled from Dr. Mann's ink eyes to his wide chest down his tree stump arms until they found their way to his withered hands. His clubbed fingers and button-like fingernails were off-putting, but it didn't matter what they looked like. His ring finger was bare. My suspicions had been confirmed.

Dr. Mann was not married.