Kashmir Ramzi's Questionnaire

I currently reside in Birmingham- the city's liveliness drew me in...I felt safe here. There are also a good number of targets, as well as general easy access to more outside country borders. I can work the streets at night and rest in my home during the day. My favorite coffee shop is just down the block, and the eggs benedict are to die for. Unfortunately the people here lack other good food and I usually have to travel around to find the restaurants with real spice- though living alone has given me plenty of time to replicate my mother's old recipes. And with decent shipping I can access my necessary ingredients, I just cannot cook dinner for guests.

I remember the smoke. The air turned putrid and black, and as it bellowed out into the night sky, the stars disappeared. I was trying to drag my mother across dirt and ash. My arms burned. I was weak and tired. Father was missing. There were guns breaking the silence further behind me. I remember falling into the mud, my skin breaking against the sharp stones beneath.
I don't remember how long I was there. The shots moved further and further away. Mother was dead. Father was probbaly dead too. Then there was a woman. She gave me her hand and picked me up. I remember her eyes being sharp like the rocks. Her teeth were sharp.

And then she brought me into the viper's den.

Sophia Bellington: the barrista at my favorite coffee shop. She knows my face and remembers my order. Gets it right every time. We make small talk sometimes. I think she likes me.

Short blonde woman with bright blue eyes and a bright white smile. Seems genuinely kind, knows how to make a killer coffee.

Evie Rook: she also walks the streets late at night. Sometimes we chat on the corner, before one of her regulars picks her up. Sometimes she is gone for a good while. She always returns with a story though.

Slender middle aged white woman with a dark bob and deep green eyes. Has a heavy french accent and an overwhelming amount of stories about men.

Isabella Davidson: my very sweet neighbor. She has a couple of roommates who she's friends with, but they aren't super fond of me (bad influence type stuff). She is studying to become a nurse and will often check in on me if I return home late. I told her I would beat the shit out of her boyfriend if he ever hurt her, but he seems like a decent guy. She thinks he's the one.

A charming young lady with long brown hair and matching eyes. Sometimes her hair shifts to red in the light, which she says is from her father's side. Has the cutest freckles.

I had a mother and a father growing up. They both worked, they both cleaned, they both raised me the best they could. My mother homeschooled me while they saved for my education, and I helped her around the house until my days were busy with school work. They both did all they could. I know they loved me.

My school was small; there were few teachers and few students. The grounds were rather quiet. There were a few other kids I was close to, I guess they were good friends. Some others were mean or distant, the boys were always a problem for us though. I like to think they picked on me the most because I was resilient to their cheap tactics, and maybe because they thought I was pretty and assumed harassment was the correct way to show feelings of affection. I don't entirely blame them either way, children learn from their parents. Their parents sucked. 

My heart is locked up and hidden away for good reason. My line of work, the things I've spent so many years training to do, has no room for love. I must not let my emotions get the better of me, for it could cost my paycheck or my life. The men I have spent my time around prefer little talk and more false praise, then I leave and it's quiet again. 

...I've been in love once. The first man who wasn't a target, who wasn't rich or mean or powerful. He was gentle. He was kind. He was concerned with my interests, he didn't want to rush things. We had coffee dates at my favorite cafe and he would buy me a treat with my drink every time. The first night we spent together was full of love and passion, and was the first time a man paid any attention to how I was feeling. I forgot all of my troubles, I lost track of time. I forgot what I was. 

He died in my bed beside me.