Love and Missiles

On our eighth anniversary, Claire Young announced that she had already registered her marriage with her childhood friend.

She took him home, ordering me around as if it was only natural.

"Move to another room. Stan loves sunshine."

"Stan doesn't like sweets, so don't bake any when you're at home. He'd be upset if he saw it."

I kept quiet through it all and bought a ticket to leave.

My friend wanted to help me out of the predicament, but she didn't think it was a big deal.

"He's just being dramatic again. Let him be—he'd be caving in just a few days."

Everyone laughed at that, and quietly made bets as to when I'd come crawling back to Claire's feet.

None of them knew I was already inducted into the national weapons program, and that I was really leaving.

I was quietly packing my things to vacate my room when Claire Young suddenly called out to me, "Wait. Leave that bed lamp—Stan likes it."

My late mother had made that for me with her own hands, and it was the last gift from her to me.

However, Claire's expression remained cool despite seeing the sadness in my eyes. "Fine—what do I have to do for you to give it up?"

I stayed silent.

It was actually just scrap metal, and it was only valuable to me because it was a memento of my mother.

However, I was also reminded of what happened when I refused to comply before.

She had told me to let Stan Gosling drive my car, but because I said no, she had her bodyguards wreck it.

As for me, I was manhandled and made to kneel outside the gates.

Even as I remembered, I handed over the bed lamp and said, "I don't want it anyway."

She was pleased to see me being so obedient. She chuckled. "As long as you behave, I can keep you around in my service. Stan's my husband, just like you."

But just as she finished, Stan dropped the bed lamp, and it shattered into pieces loudly on the floor, while faint traces of blood seeped out of his hand.

Claire was at once running to him, helping him treat the wound.

It was a laughable sight—that bleeding would have clotted before long.

But when it came to me…

Just last night, she wouldn't even look at me as my asthma struck and I collapsed on the floor.

She didn't care because she was leaving to pick up Stan from work, and even as I suffocated, she told the maid, "Get that thing out of there. Or Stan will have a fright if he sees."

Sighing, I was carrying the box of my belongings to my new room when Claire ran to me, cutting me off and demanding, "Apologize."

"What—"

Even before I could finish, she pushed me toward Stan. Caught off guard, I was sent plunging on my knees with my box in front of Stan.

Claire leered downward at me, folding her arms before her chest as she snorted, "Apologize now. Stan wouldn't have gotten hurt if it wasn't for you."

I put my box aside and bowed low to Stan. "I'm sorry, it's all my fault. I won't ever do it again!"

I was used to apologizing.

Like when she decided she didn't want milk during breakfast.

Like when I couldn't get tickets to that fully booked concert Claire had wanted to watch with Stan.

But as I looked up, Claire frowned at me. "What, are you trying to play the sympathy card? But no one here feels any sympathy for you."

I kept my head down but asked, "Was that enough?"

"Bow down three times," Claire demanded despite Stan's silence.

So I did.

Once she was satisfied, I finally carried my belongings to the guest room unimpeded.

I didn't stop to stop my bleeding forehead, instead calling my boss right away and telling him, "Tell the officer I'll join the national weapons program. I've already bought a train ticket to depart in five days."