My Trophy Boy
An episodic drama series exploring the unfathomable feelings and actions between connected polar opposites in life.
The idea of becoming a prized possession is through the lenses of 19 year old Holland Pierce, an entrepreneur who conta...
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"I want to offer you a contract at my company, my black ass!" I shook my head at the email I just read. "Nah bitch, more like I should create a new contract for my service to you." I rolled my eyes.
"You love talking to yourself enit?" Mockingly chuckled my younger sister.
"Mind your business." I grunted.
"Mind your business." She mimicked.
Out of frustration I stuck up my middle finger which she imitated before entering the kitchen.
Our flat was a small dusty construction in the ghetto of north east London. But with my own efforts I've tried my best to make it work, at the end of the day it's our home.
When you enter our home you are welcomed by our off-white-gravelly seven meter hallway, which connects all the rooms of the flat. To the left is our bathroom and our bedrooms. At the end of the hallway was our living room, and through the living room was the kitchen. Whenever people came over they've always voiced their negative opinion on the layout of this place because of how 'odd' it is, but it never phased me.
We had no doors for the kitchen or the living room, and my bedroom's door is swinging onto its last bolt for dear life. Not to mention out loud, but my frustration grew at the sight of my ugly croaky white door which had holes in them from when people in the past had violently punched through it.
Good ole times eh? I thought sarcastically, not really wanting to recall my past experiences.
"Holly, you wanting me to make mackerel and prawn stir fry?" Returned my sister from the kitchen.
'Holly' used to be an insult, but due to the lack of attention I gave her for trying to hurt my feelings, she casually turned it into my nickname.
"Go for it, but make sure you make enough because CJ is coming over later." I smiled mischievously.
My sister loved to cook but not when our cousin, CJ, came over. He ate up all the food all of the time meaning there wasn't often leftovers. He would however always give us money or ingredients, but that was besides the point. He had a bottomless pit when it came to his stomach, yet still remained a twig, like me. We were both slim with fast metabolisms, but the difference is I get full.
"Ugh!" Paris threw her hands up in the air in an exasperated manner. "FAM you knew I was cooking today, why you gotta tell him to come over for?" She kissed her teeth.
I understood her frustration, because she liked to have leftovers for her mid morning snack at break-time.
"I didn't invite him." I shrugged defencelessly. "You know damn well he comes over whenever he likes. And we can't complain when he helps us out." I reminded her with a raise of a brow.
