Pursuing The Plug Page 2

  Clock work. Hampsher was one of routine and woke at the same time to witness the simplest pleasures each morning. Reaching upward, she twirled the gold bracelet with her lips, then rubbed it on her cheek, ear, and then back toward her lips. It was her mother’s and one of the five pieces of jewelry she’d kept in her possession. The simple chained bracelet was easily her favorite.

  The near soundless scratching at the window was agonizing to her ears, a peeve that she would never overcome. Looking toward the base, she found a single gray kitten on the ledge of her seal. The smile that had dissipated upon rising returned.

  “Kitty.” She named the small cat. “Where’s your mother?”

  Hampsher leaned in and lifted the window a bit more in order for the kitten to climb inside. Twisting on the balls of her feet, she headed toward the kitchen area of her studio. In the fridge was a glass jug that held milk that she’d gotten from the market nearby. On the counter was six bowls, two for each of the felines she kept in her care.

  They weren’t hers. In fact, she’d never interacted with any animals other than her father’s pit bulls that he raised from pups. The interaction was barely any, even back then. However, she’d thrown out an old wooden basket after returning from her grandparent’s home with pastries one evening. The following morning, she woke to purring kittens and an exhausted mother inside. Since, she’d been caring for the little ones and their mother.

  “And where is Kitter? And Katty?”

  Kitter was her brother, the only male in the bunch. Katty was the mother, who was off finding food as often as possible. Her disappearing acts always worried Hampsher, and she wondered if she would return each time. Thankfully, she did.

  Hampsher heated the milk and opened a can of soft food for the little one before filling two bowls and placing them on the floor so that Kitty could enjoy her meal. “I’m going away for a week. I need you to get the word to the others. It’s time to visit the grandparent’s, and I won’t be back for some time. Stay close to your moth…”

  The loud thud caused a reaction from both Kitty and Hampsher. While Kitty froze in place, neck jerking toward the open window, Hampsher was quick on her toes. In a split second, she’d removed the revolver from the pocket she’d planted on side of the fridge and aimed it toward her target—Katty.

  Squinting, she realized her intruder was no stranger at all and actually an invited guest. “Katty, I’ve warned you about sneaking up on me, love.” Kneeling, Hampsher patted the top of Katty’s head with her free hand as she purred.

  “I’ll get your breakfast started. I’m sure Kitter isn’t too far behind. He’s always late.”

  Hampsher repeated the same steps to prepare two more bowls of milk and soft food after replacing her gun. While the cats had breakfast, she found her way back to her bathroom, where a pair of satin underwear and a cami were folded on the counter. Hampsher dressed herself and started her hygiene routine shortly after.

  “Little gremlins.” She chuckled upon seeing that the cats had gone on about their day after she’d returned to the kitchen.

  Hampsher polished their bowls and replaced them on the counter. Sadness crowded her bones at the realization that she would not be able to fill their tummies over the course of the week. The buzzing of her cell stirred her from her thoughts as she dried her hands with the drying rag.

  “Coming, Baby,” she whispered to no one in particular but in the sense that her grandmother could hear her.

  Without a doubt, Hampsher knew it was who wanted access to her morning, which was always granted. Baby, as she referred to her grandmother, called weekly, Wednesdays in particular, as a courtesy to help Hampsher through the remainder of her week. Every third Wednesday was also her way of reminding Hampsher that there was no backing out of her visit to their home for the week.

  It had become habit. The couple waited impatiently for the end of the month to roll around each time she traveled back to New York, where Hampsher resided. She’d placed Philadelphia in her rearview the minute she became legal. The city brought too much pain to her existence.

  Twenty years later and the pain of her mother’s death was fresh, just as her mornings. The agony hadn’t staled, neither had it subsided and made room for much else but lonesomeness. Hampsher lived a life of repetition, needing to remain in control since the unfortunate night that she’d lost every ounce of control she thought she had over her little life. Courtesy of her father, she’d led a plentiful life as a child full of vacations, luxuries, lessons, private schooling, lavish gifts, and whatever her little heart desired. Yet, the two things that she wanted most he couldn’t provide—his caretaking and her mother.

  Too consumed and overwhelmed with his pain, Floyd diminished after his wife was killed. After the third month, he came to the realization that he couldn’t care for Hampsher and packed her away. With a name change and new birth record, Floyd sought refuge in his homeland where he continued his reign.

  “Good morning.” The softness of Hampsher’s cheeks folded and formed a sly smile.

  “Morning, Momma.”

  Both her grandfather and grandmother referred to her as Momma because of her feistiness and domineering traits as a young one. Her grandmother, as soothing as a lullaby, had adopted the name Baby. Papa was her grandfather, who happened to be as stern as Hampsher.

  “How’s Papa?” The initial question remained the same.

  “Papa is well. When should we be expecting you?”

  “Same time, Baby.”

  “Well.” Her grandmother concluded. “How are you, Momma?”

  “I’m well, Baby. A bit saddened that I have to leave my family.”

  “Oh, Momma. They’re only cats.” Her grandmother was hip to her three gremlins.

  “That need to be fed and cared for just as you and I.”

  “Momma, you know what the problem is, yeah?”

  “Baby, please. Not this morning.” Hampsher knew where the conversation was headed.

  “You need a man, Momma. When are you going to come from behind that violin and leave the kitties alone for long enough to meet some handsome man? You’re such a beautiful girl, and I want happiness for you.”

  “Happiness for me is unobtainable.” Hampsher reminded her grandmother.

  “Momma, I despise when you say things like that. Happiness is at the tip of your fingers. Your only job is to access it.” Frustration wasn’t apparent in Baby’s voice, but Hampsher knew that it was lingering.

  “Without her, happiness is only a fantasy.”

  “How do you think she’d feel about that? Huh?”

  “Does it matter much, Baby? I’ll never know.” Hampsher sighed. “Ever. Know.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. She would want you to find happiness within yourself and have some lucky fella enhance that smile.”

  “Baby, I must go now.” The thought of her hopes and wishes were too much to bear. Hampsher had never gotten to hear them. She was too young to even consider what shape her life would take.

  “See you soon. Your grandfather awaits your arrival. He’s banking on you to choose his winning numbers for the game tonight.”

  “Tell him that I will be there in time to help him choose. Be well, Baby.”

  “Be well, Momma.”

  After the call was disconnected, Hampsher placed the phone to her chest as her head descended. Her big brown, doe eyes landed on her method of temporary relief—the sweet violin she’d been given as a gift from her mother. If even for a second, she wanted to get lost in the melodies, taken apart then mended by the strings and accepted by the rhythm as she wasn’t in life. The definition of an outcast, she considered herself in confinement until the day she rejoined her mother. Until then, her mission was simple—avenge her death through life, appease her grandparents, and care for the kitties.

  Hampsher placed her phone on the clean, white linen before kneeling to retrieve her saving grace. In the lone chair by her opened window, she sat with her legs gapped and instru
ment between her shoulder and chin. On the sill was her bow that she grabbed shortly after sitting.

  The first stroke was heavenly, exhilarating, and undoing. Losing all self-control, Hampsher didn’t work her way into the notes or ease into her bridge. Loud and boisterously, her violin blared, reflecting her current state of mind—chaotic and undeniably beautiful.

  An abyss had drifted between her and her final encounter with her mother, but she remembered it vividly, every night in her dreams and every day within her thoughts.

  “Baba, do something,” she demanded, gritting her teeth and ramming her small fist into her thigh. Anger rose and conquered her structure like a thief in the night. Not only had it taken control of her, but it had robbed her of the joy she felt hours prior and the woman who had made life possible.

  “Baba! Who did this to her? Who did this to you, Mama?” Hampsher, so young and undeserving of the harsh reality she’d just been dealt, pleaded for understanding. “Who did this to you?”

  “Do something.”

  “Do something.”

  “Do something.”

  “Do something.”

  The words replayed, becoming the lyrics to the song she stringed. The chorus. The verse. The bridge.

  “Do something.”

  An hour later, and the words continued to repeat themselves as she ended her session. Limbs in flames and soul being the start of the burning fire, Hampsher exhaled to release the tension that had built over the duration of her performance. The settling of her nerves was final as she could officially begin her day.

  The view of the Brooklyn Bridge brought along a mixture of emotions. On one hand, Hampsher was happy to be leaving the city. On the other, she couldn’t stomach returning to the city that flipped her life upside down and inside out.

  Penn Station was nearly unbearable on the weekends, the start of the week and the tail of it. It was Hampsher’s reason for choosing Wednesdays to travel. After her first train, she connected at Penn Station to head for Philly. As the wheels rotated and pushed her closer to her destination, Hampsher indulged in a very controversial read.

  48 Laws of Power was glorified by many and detested by others. However, Hampsher was somewhere in between. It was her third time reading the book, deciding each time against some laws and siding with others. Nonetheless, she felt as if it recorded human behavior and nature quite well. She’d outthought and outsmarted many simply by abiding by the laws of the book combined with the knowledge of others much like it and early teachings from her parents.

  “Interesting read.” Hampsher had no interest in holding conversation, so she ignored the voice beckoning for her attention and continued with her studies.

  “You think much of it is…”

  “Do you mind?” Hampsher spoke in the most settled tone, certain not to be nasty but firm nevertheless.

  Silence followed her request. Thankfully, she was next up. Hampsher stood and retrieved her satchel that was stuffed with only two books and a new recipe for her and her grandmother to test while she stayed. It was ritual. She and her grandfather indulged in other activities, ones that didn’t include an apron and a skirt. Anything she needed was already at her grandparents’ home.

  The doors of the train slid open as the conductor informed the passengers of their next stop, and she got off. Hampsher took the stairwell farthest to the right of the train, treading the steps by two until she reached ground level. The fresh air caused small prickling bumps to spread across her skin.

  “Welcome home… I guess,” Hampsher whispered to no one in particular.

  The twenty-minute walk to her grandparents’ home was one that she thoroughly enjoyed. It gave her time to become settled in her return and spiked her urge to be with the people who had her best interest at heart.

  As Hampsher placed distance between herself and the train station, her senses heightened. The sound of footsteps grew to be her main focus as she continued as if she was unaware of the ill presence looming. Lowering her head and taking a peek backward, she wasn’t the least bit surprised to be met with the brown work boots with dried mud falling from the sides at each pressure point. They were the same boots she’d encountered on the train just before being approached about her book of choice.

  Still calm, Hampsher reached into the pocket of her textured pants and removed the wrapper she’d placed inside before leaving home. Never missing a step, she pulled her sandy hair into a rather neat bun. In the other pocket, she retrieved a set of earbuds and plugged them into her ear void of music. The end of the cord remained inside of her pocket as she strolled.

  “Hmmmm… Hmm... Hmmmmm… Hmm…” Hampsher began to hum to herself.

  She’d studied human behavior for years, becoming fascinated with the way the brain worked. One lesson she’d learned is that predators loved to pounce on the clueless and unexpected prey. Hampsher made herself a more suiting target so that he could induce the attack sooner, and they could both be put out of their misery.

  Arrogance combed over her being as they reached the opening of an alleyway. His steps got faster. Hampsher’s slowed. Both were on a mission to close the proximity between the two. The shades that rested on her face lifted from the heightening of her cheeks as a result of her smile. Looking up ahead, Hampsher took note of the traffic cameras. Though she’d known the direction of their surveillance, it was routine to be certain.

  “Showtime.”

  Hampsher had reached the entryway of the alley, and he was a mere foot away. Inside of her waistband, she removed the body of her armor. Underneath her armpit, in a concealed holster, Hampsher snatched the fully loaded clip and silencer.

  “Little bitch!” she heard from behind before being shoved into the alley.

  With an arm around her neck and knife at her stomach, Hampsher was flattered. While focusing on verbal insults and being sure that no one was witnessing his attack, the assailant hadn’t noticed the gun at Hampsher’s waist in which she was assembling without looking. She’d performed the same task a million times over in her home, lights out, and vinyl player in rotation.

  Hampsher was disgusted with the rigidness she felt inside of his pants. “If you’re going to fuck me, then you could at least make it worth my while.” She chuckled, intensifying his anger. His pecker was small and probably uncircumcised.

  Flinging her into the wall ahead of them, the assailant began to unbuckle his pants. “Shut up, little bitch. Let’s see how much you have to say in a minute when you’re screaming for help, and no one can hear you.”

  Hampsher knew that her remark had deflated the confidence he felt. Fear was what rapist thrived off, but she housed none. With her free hand, Hampsher disarmed her attacker by grabbing the hand that held the knife. She squeezed until it dropped before opening his hand and pushing his fingers backward until she heard them pop.

  “Ahhhh! Shit!”

  “Quiet down now,” she whispered. “I played along with your game and didn’t scream. Be fair.”

  “Fucking bitch!”

  Hampsher turned to face him fully. Straightening her clothing, she kept her eyes forward and focused on her target.

  “Now, from my understanding, motherfuckers like you deserve more than a sign in your yard or a few years behind bars. You deserve to be castrated. Balls burned and fed to the wolves. Being that I don’t have that kind of time, and my grandparents are awaiting my arrival, I’ll save us both the agony.”

  “No… No. I’m sorry, OK? Don’t do this to me. Please,” he pleaded with tears evident in his eyes. The fear that he craved was present in his own body.

  Lifting her right arm, Hampsher fired a single shot between the man’s eyes. They cocked as he tried capturing the speeding bullet with them, but he was no match for its swiftness. He fell backward with a loud thud, hitting the concrete as he took his last breath.

  Anger resided in Hampsher’s veins as she unscrewed the silencer of her gun and removed the clip again. She had no intentions of firing her weapon so soon. St
eam emitted from her ears and nose while reaching into her bag and fetching the specialty cloths she’d created to wipe traces of her presence from any surface, including skin.

  Once she was satisfyingly clean, Hampsher stepped out into the open air and surveyed the area. Still clear, she twirled on her toes and replaced her earbuds. This time, she plugged them into her iPod and began the audio for a book that she’d randomly selected, which was based on the power of silence. It was a characteristic that she’d mastered.

  “Momma?”

  “Papa.” Hampsher glistened at the sight of her grandfather.

  “How was travel?” Her grandfather noticed the bun that Hampsher wore.

  Reaching upward, she removed the wrapper from her hair before chastising herself. Her hair fell down her back and didn’t stop flowing until it was near her waist. Shamefully, she stretched her arms and waited for her grandfather to accept her embrace.

  “Whose ass did you have to kick?” he whispered in her ear as they hugged.

  I killed him, Papa. Hampsher squeezed her lids together, wishing she could be truthful with her old man.

  It would burden his heart knowing that his granddaughter, who he’d raised in his nurturing home, had evolved into something untamable, something unfathomable, and something unimaginable simply because she couldn’t overcome the heartache of a loss—the loss of her mother.

  “Someone who wanted something that didn’t belong to him.”

  “I’ve missed you, Hampsher,” he sang, clapping his hands together. His age was humbling and warmed Hampsher’s heart with comfort.

  “As well.” Hampsher smiled, lifting her hand and placing it on her grandfather’s neck. “How are you doing? Are the treatments working for you?”

  Papa had been diagnosed with cancer only eight months prior. His chemotherapy was scheduled for the final week of each month, notably for Hampsher’s presence. For hours, she’d sit at his side during treatments.

  “I’m well, Momma. Come. I have something I want to show you.”

  Avoiding the strain that the conversation placed on their day, Papa pulled Hampsher toward the front door where she’d just come from. Outside, Hampsher admired the acres of land that her grandparents owned. Their estate was dreamy, modern, and inviting.