Popper, The
The weight of my current situation is overwhelming as I sit at the table and play with the handcuffs around my wrists. A big mirror decorates the wall in front of me and every time I look up I find myself staring back. It’s unsettling and almost unsettling is the idea that people are watching me from the other side of the mirror. I swallow as I rub my hand and feel the coolness of the table. My mind wonders in the quiet of the room and I find myself asking how long have I been here or if any one remembers that I am here. My thoughts drift to the events that lead me here and I feel justified. I swallow as I hear the lock on the door and the door swing open.
Detective Warbin walks into the room and I reflexively lean back as he stands on the other side of the table with the mirror behind him. He glares at me and I can feel the hate raging behind his eyes. His suit is neat and his hair is well groomed, but I have a feeling I’m staring at a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A hungry wolf scrambling to get free of the disguise and rip me apart. He places his hands flat on the table as he leans over the table, “Your wife is still alive you sick bastard. She didn’t pop and you’re not getting away with it. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I wasn’t going to pop my wife.”
He glares even harder at me, “Like hell! You popped that other poor girl and your wife was next!” He smiles at me sinisterly and it makes my stomach turn. “I’m going to make sure you pay for your crime, murderer.”
My hands tremble at his intensity and the detective laughs. His words tumble in my mind and there it is. He thinks I’m a popper and a murderer. I popped the one girl and then I was going for my life, but I was stopped before I could explode her like a party balloon. The pieces fit and that’s clearly the story the detective sees, but it’s not the story I lived. I’m positive the detective thinks he’s absolutely right in his view of events and from the screams my wife made right before the police arrested me would seem she’s in agreement. I sigh and know they’re both wrong, but also know there would be no convincing them. I try weakly, “I’m not a popper.”
“You’re a damn popper! Do you deny that you popped that poor girl?”
The memory of my wife swollen horribly tight, the inflating girl swelling into her, and with a needle in my hand I poked the poor girl. A loud boom had sound and in an instant fragments of the poor girl flutter to the floor. My wife’s screams hand filled my ears and the police came pouring inside. I swallow and look up at the detective, “I popped her.”
“See! I told you! You’re a popper!” He smiles victoriously, “I never did understand your kind. You have to end someone’s life to get your jollies off. That’s just sick!”
I grow angry and growl, “I wasn’t getting my jollies off! I’m not in to that! My wife was at her limit and she was inflating into her. The screeching of my wife’s drum tight skin under the pressure from outside and inside was deafening. I made….I made a choice. I popped her so my wife wouldn’t pop. Would you have done differently?”
The detective stares at me silently and I wonder if he actually believes me. A slow smile spreads across his face and I know he doesn’t. “I almost believed you. You could have easily just opened a door and pushed her through. IT wouldn’t be hard to shift the air around and save your wife in the process.”
I stare at him dumbfounded and I doubt myself. Time was short and I had to choose quickly, but could I have saved my wife without popping the poor girl? I knew in my heart the answer is no, but the detective’s words created doubt in my mind. My wife was so taught and wedged against the wall, ceiling, and floor. She was so big there was no way to get her out of the room because she was snuggly in place and the other girl was inflating into her. No there was no time and I made the hard choice to pop the girl threatening my fragile, ballooned, wife. I sigh knowing in that moment I saved the love of my life and became a horrible monster in her eyes. Why couldn’t she see that I had saved her? I suppose in such a fragile state and seeing someone pop in front of you would give you a different perspective. I sigh, “I did what I had to.”
The detective glares at me, “You did what you had to do. You had to get your jollies off?”
“No! I had to save my wife.”
The detective move toward the door, “I’ll give you time to think about it and when I come back later maybe you’ll be thinking clearly.”
I watch the detective leave and I fell all the tension and energy flow out of my body. My hands tremble and I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or just exhaustion from this whole ordeal. How long did I have before he came back? I didn’t know. I struggle to clear my mind and regain my composure. I need to be stronger and ready when the overbearing detective returns. I’m not a popper and I was saving my wife. I need him to see that and I have to show strength and confidence in my statements. I ran over the facts that I knew slowly. My wife went to Edinburgh way to get what she needed and that’s where she met her inflating partner. I sigh realizing I didn’t even know the poor girl’s name and I had popped her like she was nothing more than a kids birthday party balloon. My heart raced as I saw her helpless face as she inflated bigger and bigger and her skin stretched more and more. I didn’t even think at the time. I had to save my wife and I pressed the tip of the needle to her skin. In a flash the woman was gone and a bang echoed in my ears, but my wife was safe. She was popped and I was relieved.
I sigh and it is now that I wonder about the girl without a name. Why did she inflate? Who were her friends? What about family? What sort of movies did she enjoy? What were her dreams? What kind of goals did she have in life? I frown and know all those things are gone now. I remember the bang and her shard remains fluttering to the floor before super taught wife. Something in my pants twitches and my heart skips a beat. Did that just happen? No it couldn’t have! My heart races and I think of my wife suffering the same fate as the girl without a name. I picture the needle pressing her fragile skin and the bang that follows. To my shock something in my pants goes hard as my breathing grows heavier and I look down at my crotch. I whisper, “No, no, no.” I swallow as my heart races and my member screams for attention as I remember the girl popping again.
I look up at the mirror and into my eyes. A realization hits me and I whisper into the quiet of the room, “I’m a popper.” Was I one before she popped and didn’t know it? Or is this a new weird development from a traumatic event and stress? I didn’t know, but the hardness in my pants clearly told me I enjoyed popping. I am sick and a criminal. I’m just as bad as Valerie Clutch and deserve the same punishment as any criminal of her type. What did this mean for me? Would they pop a popper as punishment? The idea intrigued me and I begin picturing inflating till I pop. My heart races and I know what I will tell the detective when he returns. I wish I hadn’t saved my wife and watched her pop too. She would have popped good and when the detective returns I’ll tell him, “I’m a popper.”