Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Fourteen

I felt calm, but it wasn't the calm before the chaos. it was the calmness that came after it. For the first time in a week, I was finally in control. I thought I was losing my mind, but it was here all along. Dr. Mann was manipulating me. He was taking my time away.

Dr. Mann had lied to me, and I couldn't trust him; regardless, I still employed a technique he had taught me. I talked myself through it:

Dr. Mann wasn't married. What did that mean? Dr. Mann owns The Story Mann, not his wife. Which implies...? It was Dr. Mann who hired the old woman. Why would he lie? Because he was in on it.

Questions buzzed in my brain, but I couldn't articulate a single one. The most prominent question in my mind was 'Why?' but because I am Cynthia Young, I didn't just ask why. I asked, "Why me?"

Dr. Mann looked at me with a wide grin. The wrinkles on his face looked like crumpled paper, but the joy in his expression was the most authentic happiness I had ever seen from him.

"Cynthia, this is going to be hard for you to hear," Dr. Mann said, his face beaming brighter than a phone screen in the middle of the night. "You're not special." Dr. Mann paused, waiting for me to dispute his claim. From the elation on his face, it was obvious he wanted me to say he was wrong. I wanted to, but I couldn't speak. "I didn't choose you. You chose me. It is simply because you had the good fortune of having me as a therapist."

I should have said something, but I had no retort. The saliva in my mouth turned into a thick paste. Dr. Mann seemed disappointed by our lack of banter. His smile dropped only slightly before he opened a drawer in his desk.

From where I was standing, it was impossible to see which drawer he opened, but I deduced it was the drawer of keys from the sound of metal gliding across a board and the jingling of the keys as they danced together.

After grabbing a keyring, Dr. Mann walked the short distance to his filing cabinet. He picked out a key before delicately inserting it into a lock on the first drawer. I watched as he started to take out books and place them on top of the cabinet. He had a stack of four books when he pulled out the one he wanted. Dr. Mann went back to his desk to exchange the keys to the filing cabinet with a different set.

Dr. Mann walked over to me, and he held out the book to me. I noticed immediately it was my Confessions of a Serial Killer, not the knock-off from The Story Mann. I went to grab it from him, but Dr. Mann pulled it away.

"I'll give you this one, but you have to give me that one," Dr. Mann demanded, nodding his head toward the book I held in my hands. I hesitated, wondering if the trade was worth it. The books were interchangeable, but in my mind, the one with my name on it was mine. Dr. Mann, noticing my delay, said, "It doesn't belong to you."

Wordlessly, I gave Dr. Mann the book in my hands. He took it from me as he exchanged it with the one he held. He handed over the keys from his drawer. I grabbed them from him, twisting them around to see why he had given them to me. It took me a fraction of a second to realize they were my house keys. I looked at them closely, trying to find traces of blood on them. Either Dr. Mann thoroughly cleaned them or I never killed anybody with them. I shoved them in my pocket. In his monologuing, Dr. Mann had failed to provide me with clarity on my mental state, but I guessed that his surprising plot-twist would be a part of his epic conclusion.

"I made the book for you two years ago. You are a late bloomer, but a bloomer nonetheless," Dr. Mann said, the familiar reassuring smile finding its way back to his malevolent face.

"That's when you stopped using the notepad," I whispered, more to myself than to him. To my relief, Dr. Mann's hairy ears failed to hear the first words I managed to utter.

"Cynthia, I am going to tell you something I have never told another patient," Dr. Mann said, leaning toward me. I felt my heart rate increase, and I found myself intrigued by what he had to say. I still desperately wanted his validation and approval, and in his own way, he was telling me that I was better than any other patient he had. "Skip to the end. Skip past the chapter where you brutally murder me, past the chapter where you get caught, and read the afterward. Nobody has ever made it that far."

"I would have," I declared. Dr. Mann nodded his head, as if he agreed, but he was only patronizing me. "You took the book before I had the chance." Dr. Mann walked closer to me until all I could see was his face. His eyes bore into mine.

"Cynthia, you didn't even make it past the dedication page before you called me," Dr. Mann said with a guttural laugh. I could hear his mouth movements, spit swishing against his inner lips with each syllable he muttered. I was disgusted by him. I wanted to shove him away, but I couldn't let him feel victorious.

Dr. Mann sneered before he backed away. Although he broke our eye contact, it was I who felt like the loser. He walked to his desk to grab his phone and coat. "I have matters to attend to. I'll see you soon, Cynthia," Dr. Mann crooned as he walked to the door.

Once he left, I sat on the couch. The familiarity of it deeply contrasted with the new feelings I had in this office. This place had been one of comfort, but it had been tainted. Never again would this place be my second home. I was completely alone.

I flipped through Confessions of a Serial Killer, past the words I never got to read. I wondered how differently this would have unfolded if I had chosen a therapist further from home or if I had gone with my gut that this book was too absurd to be real.

It was too late. My actions were done, and I was facing the consequences. As I got to the end of the book, I felt an anxiousness tingle in my stomach. I would be getting answers to questions I never thought to ask.