Confessions of a Serial Killer: Cynthia Young

Chapter Sixteen

The police had instructed me to stay where I was, and I was to absolutely under no circumstance engage Dr. Mann. I had exaggerated how dire the situation was to make it seem like my life was in immediate danger. Knowing how fast the police response was here, I concluded I had 20 minutes before they came bursting into Dr. Mann's office. Dr. Mann had once talked about a cheesecake he had bought for an hour. I could easily distract him.

With Confessions of a Serial Killer in hand, I strutted out of Dr. Mann's office. Dr. Mann wasn't in his waiting room, so I walked outside. The early morning was truly an awful part of the day. It was when the animals of the night were still out, attempting to find their way home, and the animals of the day were out, ready for their time away from home. Insects would be ready to bite, sting, or annoy within seconds. Despite this, I couldn't help but admire the view because although it was the same as it is every other day, today was the day I would finally outsmart Dr. Mann.

I looked around, but Dr. Mann was nowhere in sight. I felt a slight panic as I started to walk down the street. If Dr. Mann wasn't here when the police arrived, I didn't know if they would take me seriously.

Without anywhere to go, I started to walk briskly to The Story Mann. The heat of the air combined with my exercise caused pellets of sweat to beat down my face. My eyes were drying with each passing second, and my feet screamed as they hit the pavement.

When I got to The Story Mann, I was gasping for air, each breath more painful. I felt as though I were breathing wet cement. When my lungs had calmed down, I was able to look at the door. Do not cross tape was fastened on the entrance of The Story Mann.

I was certain I was being gaslit. I ripped the tape down, and I pulled on the door. It was locked. I knew that Dr. Mann wasn't in there, but my curiosity got the better of me. I had to know what had happened in the hour since I had left.

I took Confessions of a Serial Killer and threw it against the door. I prepared myself for the glass to shatter, but it didn't budge. I picked up the book, and I threw it again. It bounced off the glass with a sad thud before falling in front of the door. With a feeling akin to a determined frustration, I bent my arm. I looked away, my eyes squeezed shut. I took my elbow and slammed it into the door.

I jumped back from pain that shot up my humerus bone. Although the door seemed fragile, it was not. There was no indication that I had ever even hit it in the first place. My frustration grew into anger that if withheld, would cause me to do something I regret. I took my fists, and I started beating against the door. It remained intact.

After my failed attempts at breaking the door down, I was forced to concede. With only minutes left until the police would be at Dr. Mann's office, I had to go back.

When the office building came into view, I saw Dr. Mann standing by the front door. As I approached him, he asked, "Where'd you go? I was waiting for you."

"Where did you go?" I questioned. Dr. Mann nodded his head and laughed, but he never answered my question. If my mind were a labyrinth, his would be an obstacle course. His thoughts had tactics of completion that made little sense to anybody else.

"What did you think of the afterword?" Dr. Mann asked with a bright smile on his face. His pride would be his downfall.

"I liked the book better when I thought I wrote it," I answered, matching Dr. Mann's grin. I expected his face to fall, but he just laughed.

"Of course you did. You're a narcissist." I didn't say anything in response. Dr. Mann was confusing my confidence with arrogance, but in sweet irony, he was the arrogant one. "Why don't we go sit inside?"

"Alright," I said. We walked to the door together. I felt smug knowing the police would be here soon. Dr. Mann would be caught off guard, and he would have to live with the fact that it was me who took him down.

Dr. Mann opened the door, and we entered the chilled waiting room. I realized this is the last time I'll be in the building, and despite my new feelings toward Dr. Mann, I felt profound sadness.

Dr. Mann led me to his office. Like it was choreographed, he took his seat, and I took mine. I placed Confessions of a Serial Killer on my lap, making sure it never left my sight. We sat in silence, staring each other down. Dr. Mann's face was heavy, lifted only by his joviality.

"You didn't tell me what you thought about the ending," Dr. Mann said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his shirt before sliding them back up the bridge of his nose.

"I was confused," I responded. "But I know how much you struggle with endings, whether it be a book or a session."

"If you had managed to make it through the novel, and yes, it is a novel, you would have understood it more. You should read the rest, but we simply do not have the time," Dr. Mann stated. He shifted in his seat.

"Indeed we do not," I replied in a low voice. Dr. Mann twisted his head, seemingly confused by my statement.

"We cannot possibly be talking about the same thing." It was then I realized that I was not the only one stalling. We both wanted the other to stay in place, but neither of us knew our goal was mutual.

"I called the cops," I said. Dr. Mann looked at me flatly before he cackled. It had appeared that he didn't believe me. I had managed to surprise him, and he couldn't comprehend my superiority.

"Cynthia, I am a psychologist with years of experience and success. You are my patient. They will never believe you." Dr. Mann laughed to himself. Feelings of embarrassment and anger flushed my cheeks. My teeth bit down on my tongue from my muscles tensing so abruptly. I felt the blood move in the veins of my tongue as it pulsed. I calmed myself with the assurance that I was right.

"When I show them your part in Confessions of a Serial Killer--" I began, my voice croaking. I was losing my edge, melting into a mess worse than I had ever been.

"Ah, yes, the book with your name and the vivid descriptions of your murders. When I tell them I didn't write it, they will take my word as fact." Dr. Mann stood up from the chair. His knees squeaked and his back cracked, but he made no indication that it had bothered him. He glided to the door of his office, his loafers sliding across the carpet. He peaked out the door before closing it and looking back at me.

"I didn't kill anyone," I said, standing up. Confessions of a Serial Killer slid off my lap and onto the couch, but with Dr. Mann occupied, I was certain it would be safe there. My legs ached, but if I sat back down, I would be weaker than the old man with a bad back. Once I was confident in my balance, I moved closer to Dr. Mann.

"Oh, contraire," Dr. Mann said. "Five years ago. You killed an innocent person, and although you got away with it, that doesn't mean it didn't happen." Dr. Mann pulled out his phone, and he looked at the time. He was growing anxious. His mind wasn't fully on our conversation. It infuriated me that he didn't have the decency to give me his full attention after he ruined my life.

"That wasn't my fault!" I yelled. Dr. Mann glanced at me and then sighed dramatically.

"Whose was it?"

"I am only certain--" I began.

"'--it wasn't mine.' Yes, Cynthia, I know you think that, but it was your fault. You may not be a serial killer, but you are a killer nonetheless."

I formed a rebuttal in my mind, but the door of the waiting room ripped open before I could vocalize it. I was startled, but Dr. Mann seemed to be surrounded in an air of calmed triumph.

"Right on time," Dr. Mann said. He stepped away from the door, and he turned to me. "He's here."

"Well, that's ominous," I muttered, curious by whomever stood behind the door. Footsteps grew closer, and Dr. Mann could hardly contain his glee.

The door swung open, and in the doorway was a complete stranger.

The stranger was a short middle-aged man with an outdated combover. He looked flustered and frantic. I saw what Dr. Mann had seen when he came to my door in the early dawn: desperation and cluelessness sculpted into a person spattered in blood.