Trophy gleaming on the mantelpiece. Its frosty lustre shines outright, a grimacing row of soldier-blondes rimming the sterling dome. Figures etched in the pedestal-plates, depicting names beyond memory. And my own eyes, resplendently clear, tilted into contortions of pilfered pride and vanity.
I step closer, and my eyes swell with lust, thick and heavy. I wish this were my home, my mantelpiece. I wish my name were crafted into this pearly glinting prize.
But my family is neither flaxen-haired nor mottle-toothed. Yellow hair rises a sill higher than mine.