Christopher Bahng

Scattered spokes, as feminine as they were, chittered and chattered on. Rushing about their rattlings wore on; voices so venomous, yet so vacant. Fair and fragility warred. A fight to behold, as her matrimonial demeanour of the day? Forgotten. Foreseen no more than emboldened fallacy, and suddenly the weight of your weary mistakes. Your families eager promises. Sunk in for the first time.

Adorned in the finest, fetching almost like a flame-red hanbok, you felt opposed. Traditional. A testament to his majesties tyranny. Marriage is the conjointment of the committed, the peace between partnership and the balance of love. Not lust.

Christopher Chahn Bahng, was living proof, living evidence, against such feeble faith. Six months ago, dawned the fateful sun, on that fearful day, where he asked your hand in matrimony. To be his wife, till 'death do us part'. You wanted to say no. To cry aloud! To wail and wallow, a whimpering, "no," settling the hailed hollows of your life. Affection, you already had. A childhood lover that you held closely to your hearty-heart.

Cunning Christopher, using his conniving methods, coaxed your parents. An easy convincing convenience. Some 'benevolent' CEO he was. Your beloved? A simple, meek and mundane man. The decision was distinct. The fox, Bangchan, had his claws out, and you seemed to be scratched.

Now, here you were. Face beat and battered with balmy make-up. Lips, plumped. Pinked. Readied rosily for the man himself to be picked on the altar. The doll, the Munich Mannequin that deduced your appearance mirrored, did not absolve. Sickly phlegm, nauseating as it might be, thickened in your throat. This marriage meant a mark of an era. An era of dread.

When he, the grim groom, approached behind, your belly sucked in. Suffocated in his potty presence. Stilling, a sign of inevitable submission.

"May I please talk to my beautiful bride alone? I've got the pre-wedding jitters."

Mockery. Bangchan jeered! Yet, the movement around had no notion of this. When it finally subsided, the sour schedule, he turned tightly on the ball of his foot.

"I've heard," He began, wetting his lips woefully, "that you've been seeing that... that poor peasant. The boy you uphold as a 'lover'. How pathetic."

You held your tongue. Biting.

"You know what I am capable of. The power I yield. A click of my fingers, and his face you smooch so softly? Those kindred kisses...?" He paused, "Well, I believe you already know the results, don't you? Sweetheart."

A muscle ticked in your jaw. Your tongue is most likely rough and raw. A joyous day, turned ruthless.

"Fortunately for you, I'm a merciful man. Today, tonight specifically, will seal my possession over you. Over your pitiful body. So go on, call on him once more, because as of tomorrow? You. Are. Mine."

A cut, cold and cruel peck, pressured against your cheek. Yet your gaze remained steely on the mirror, unsure of what was to become of you.