Disclaimer: Now, I know Meela isn't characterized much in the Mummy Returns, but I'd like to make it clear that I don't own her character, and I am not taking credit for what Stephen wrote.

A/N: So.. I'm back again! After taking a much earned break from writing Mummy fanfics, I decided to try something new and write this one. For those of you that have read my other story Baltus Hafez, this one is somewhat of a prequel to it. I hope this one turns out even better as the last one, and I hope I have some fans out there willing to read and review it!


"Are you sure you brought all your belongings with you, Meela?" My mother touches my shoulder from the opposite seat in our tiny little car. I nod slowly, letting everything sink into my head. My father is a dead man. My mom is too poor to take care of me. I am being abandoned. I open the door and let myself out, feeling the suffocating Egyptian air fill my insides. This comforts me.

I've been in the desert my whole life. My mother is an Egyptian, as was my father. Being born and raised in a small village on the outskirts of Luxor, my life had seemed as normal as can be. That was, until my father died. The memory still leaves my heart pounding with grief.

It happened a mere year and a half ago, making my soul yearn for his love every time my mind drifts off to his death. He was a humble man, says the way his eyes sparkled with interest on any occasion. A smart man too, says the books lined up in his old study. But most of all, a loving man, one that always had time for his only child. On occasion, the two of us would sneak off into the sand dunes when mother wasn't quite awake, and walk ourselves all the way to the bank of the Nile, where we would sit with knees pulled close to the body, awaiting one of the greatest moments of the day. The best time of day, when the misty air swayed loosely through your hair, yet to be heated by the arising sun. We would just sit there, me and him, patiently waiting for the sun to come and awaken the desert before us. This is our favorite time of day because it reminds us that Ra comes back every day for a new beginning, always there to brighten your day.

One morning, a morning like all the others, we were making our way towards the river, and were almost there when a group of white men came riding up on horses, stopping on the opposite side of the river to let the horses drink. The first man dismounted, letting the horse free from its grasp. It wasn't until he brought his head up to the sunrise that he saw us. He paused for a moment before throwing his head back in a roaring laughter. The others followed, which confused me. Being the young age of eleven, I haven't had many encounters with white people. We were taught the language in school though, which gave me somewhat of an advantage. I didn't get weary until I heard the drawl of his voice. I knew immediately that these men were drunk.

My face grew flushed with anger; they were laughing at us. We haven't done anything wrong.

"Hey!" one of the men hollered at us. When we didn't reply, he called again. I wasn't in any mood to answer, either.

"Them Egyptians're too damn stupid Clarkson! They can't hear ya!" Another man laughed.

"Sure as hell they are!" The third smirked. "But ya know what these here Egyptians are good for, Tom?" The other two looked at him strangely. The man then pulled out a pistol, small in stature, and pointed it at... Me. My heart almost stops in mid pulse. I remember seeing my father yell something harsh before I blacked out.

When I awoke, the whole world was a dark shade of red. It took me a few seconds to reconnect my thoughts to my brain, which seemed to grow a pulse of its own. My brain soon clicked, and I remember. Those drunken bitches are now gone, but Father was nowhere to be found. I looked up and down the river, and still found nothing. But something in my chest wouldn't cave in; a part of me expected him to be waiting for me by the nearby sand dunes, holding out a weathered hand out towards me to take. To hold on to forever.

The sun was searing into my bronzed skin, how foolish it was to be out here in the heat of the day. I felt as if the sun were melting me right into the sand, so I could blow in the breeze and soar above the pyramids. I wanted to move, but my bones were fused together by fear. I was starving. Mother must be furious. Maybe even worried. No. I thought to myself. Mother does not care enough for me to be worried. With the only hope being to see my father again, I slowly made my way to the bank of the Nile, each step into the burning sand leaving my bare feet raw and blistered. I finally took the step into the water, feeling the soothing relief traveling up my body. Using a single hand to shield my eyes, I looked back to where the drunkards were. I can remotely see the prints left by the horses in the caked mud. But something else soon caught the wonder of my eye. The shine of a 22 pistol was lying on its side, almost hidden by the overlapping sand. I wade across the river, which is easier now that the tide has retracted, and gingerly pick up the weapon with my hands. The heat that radiated off the tainted steel burned through my palms.

That's when I noticed the body. It was almost invisible to the eye alone, sprawled under the dried up cattails that once flourished here. I hesitantly lowered the gun back onto the sandy earth, since there was no longer a need for protection. The killing had already been done. Now all that remained was the carnage.

I could tell by the man's sandy hair and gangly mustache that this was the American man that tried to kill me. Immediately recognizing him, I leaned forward, using my bare feet to kick the body, making it roll over so I didn't have to see his face. My heart almost stopped cold- the body moved.

I stifled a yelp. I knew I saw it move. My eyes search for the gun I had in my hands just minutes before. I find the familiar glint and run. By the time my finger found the trigger, he was already staggering to his feet. A river of blood ran dry down the side of his face. He looked at me through pain stricken eyes, a smile that seared right into me. I wasn't quite sure what story he was trying to tell me through that smile. Revenge? Vengeance? Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

He turns his head to the side to spit. Damn American.

"You're still here?" His voice was far too raspy. "I thought was finished with you Egyptians!"

Anger boiled inside of me. "Where is my father?" I yell at him, raising the gun higher so I was looking at him through the eye hole.

He just let out a sick laugh. "Your daddy? I shot him! Blew his crap all over this here sand!"

That did it. I didn't want to hear anymore of this guys crap. He killed my father. And now he's going to die.

I didn't even blink when his body hit the ground.

I closed my eyes tight as I threw the gun in the air, hitting the water with an explosive plop! I sank to my knees, digging my fingers into the cool, wet earth of the Nile bank.

I felt nothing. I thought nothing.

All I could hear was the calm streaming of the water over the smooth rocks that littered the bottom of the river. I wished it could sweep me up with its current, take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Daring to open my eyes, I was soon blinded by the intense blue of the water. I sat there for a while, watching the water move wild and free. Then I noticed the faint stream of red mixing with the blue. Though my mind refused to, not wanting to feel any more pain, I followed the stream of red until I came upon the source.

My father's body.

His mouth is closed; with eyes forever showing their grey color to the world. Every wrinkle, every crease on his cheeks belonged only to my father.

I didn't have the strength to stand up again. Instead, I used my arms to push myself over to where he laid, his lower half already sinking deeper into the water. With one hand, I trace the pattern of his shirt before it grabbed his arm. I cringe. I've never liked dead people. Having seen some before, I should've been used to being up close to one. But not when the dead body once belonged to your father.

Before I let go, I muttered a prayer, hoping his spirit makes it to heaven. He's a good man, I tell myself as I let go of his body, letting it drift farther and farther away from me. I watched his reflection until it vanished from my sight.

I stood up then, brushing away the mix of sand and tears that covered my body. I turned around briskly, heading back to the only real home I had. The sand dunes. And I don't look back.

As for the man, I think to myself:

I hoped he burned in hell.


This memory brings a certain stab to my heart that only my father's murder could bring as I walk up the stone steps towards the Saint Mary's Children's Orphanage. I don't wait for my mother to follow me. She's leaving me now; what could one last moment together possibly do to me? Nothing.

I make sure to keep my head held high, my lips cemented in their firm line across my face. Fear is something that cannot be shown. Not here. I want my impression on the other kids to be certain. I am only here because my mother is a drunk and cannot, no will not; continue to take care of me. She wants nothing to do with me and me her.

The washed out color of the pink building makes the whole place look run down and barren. But once I proceed closer to the entrance, I notice a few children playing hide and seek by the trees that were sputtered along the stretching sand. They seem no older than seven years old. I remember when I used to play hide and seek in the old alleyways near our house. But what was when my father was alive. Now he's dead, and I haven't played hide and seek ever since.

We seem to be alone, just me standing my the entrance and my mom trailing behind me. The kids I saw earlier must've moved farther back into the distance. They were lucky. Most of the children didn't even know who their parents were. My thoughts are interrupted when a woman in a clinging black skirt comes out of the orphanage, arms folded. "Mrs. Nais?" she looks at my mother with hardened brown eyes. I even thought I saw a bit of green in them.

My mother looks up from staring at the sand and smiles. Then she gives me a look that I know all too well. The 'make her believe that you're a nice young lady' kind of look. Also called the 'pretend that your mother takes care of you' look. I smile, having done this lie many times before. This time is no different.

"If you're ready, we can sign the papers now and Meela can start here as soon as possible." the woman too had on a fake smile. I wonder exactly how many eleven year old girls she enrolls in her prison every day. And here I was thinking I was the only person here with a whore for a mother. And my mother nodded, just like I new she would, and preceded towards the door. I followed a few feet behind her, far enough so the sickening smells of cigarettes and stale liquor could quite reach my nostrils.

The woman leads us into a wide room filled with bookshelves and couches, telling us to take a seat on one. And I sit far away from my mother, because I have no need for her pretend love any more. Though she glares at me through eyes of hate, I stay put on the other side of the couch. She no longer has power over me. Her hand strikes my arm when the lady's back is turned, but she quickly retracts when she faces us once again. The woman hands my mother a bunch of papers, which she takes with a pleasured smile. While she works on filling out those papers with whatever lies she comes up with, the woman turns towards me, holding out a hand. I hesitate, since it was that very hand that struck me every time I misbehaved, or every time she was drunken with unknown anger. But her eyes tell me differently, so I put my hand in hers and she pulls me up. Glad to be away from my mother, I follow the lady into another room, and she slowly closes the door behind me.

The lady offers me a seat across from her, which I take graciously. She sits down behind her desk, covered with piles of paper and books strewn every which way. I notice that she sits with her hands folded on her desk and her legs crossed bluntly. She's one of those white Americans, I realize. I feel my muscles tense immediately, and I no longer wish to talk to this woman. Flee was the only thing racing through my mind.

The lady must've seen my uneasiness, because she leans forward, failing to suppress a smile. "It's okay, Meela. You'll be safe here with us. Nobody can hurt you anymore." Quickly, as if only I would notice, she darts her eyes towards the wooden door, and I know she knows.

Suddenly, this place starts to fee like home.


A/N: Did ya like it? Love it? Hate it? I'd appreciate a review or two! Also, a big thank you to Lyrical Ballads, who has been a faithful follower of my previous story, and hopefully will contunue to give me words of advice on my terrible habbit of switching tenses. Your reviews haven't gone unappreciated.