Chapter 2- (Imhotep)
A prison.
He couldn't understand. He was trapped in this hellhole. He knew he was still immortal, yet he felt like a ghastly human. The world enveloped him into its circular globe, and he was in the middle. Or at least that's what it felt like. He was disgusted by himself, that woman changed him somehow. She gave him the power to feel, and he hated that sensation.
He opened up his eyes, surprised at the rays of blinding light striking him; it didn't hurt; yet somehow it stung like slivers in his heart. He lifted his head, ignoring the dull, lead-like feel in the back of his neck. He gazed down, fascinated by the smooth texture of his hand. However, it didn't feel like his own, it was an object. Useless to him. The real power lay within, his immortal soul bursting with vengeance. He scratched at his chest, as if wanting to free the spirit, to feed it. Confusion swept in, why was he fully regenerated? It didn't matter, he knew questions would soon be answered. Not to mention that he was thankful he didn't have to go through that experience again. He wasn't clothed, but he felt no shame.
He nearly laughed when he looked around the room. It was pink, a dreadful explosion of pink. Small pictures of ponies and rainbows were painted on the babyish walls. Figurines of pretty ballerinas stood on the dresser, whereas large, Victorian style dollhouses were pressed against the cherry surface. Time seemed to hold still. Porcelain dolls were scattered around the room, who knew what was trapped behind those glass eyes, white fair skin, and tiny hands? The curtains to the window were open, revealing an eerie yet tranquil site. Pink.. Sunsets, an explosion of pink, like cherry-stained lips. White clouds passed occasionally, like blood pulsating through a vein. Was he in a fairytale? Whose room was this? He looked under the window, a child's bed rested calmly beside it. An orange blanket covered a tiny lump, right up to the pillow.
He cautiously swung his legs over to the side, hesitant in getting up. He gazed at the tiny bed, weary. A sense of peaceful dread crept onto him. He started to walk forward, already knowing what he was about to see. He looked out the window, unable to see the ground, just the sunset consumed sky. He sighed and gazed downward. His hand stole across the top of the blanket, and slowly pulled it back. He made no other movement, yet, for some reason, his heart shattered. Quietness shrilled in his ear. Below him lay a skeleton. A corpse of a tiny figure in an old-fashioned nightgown. A child, an innocent child. She had her hands in prayer formation, as if reciting her last wishes before going up to heaven. An intricately carved music box lay on her stomach, and when he opened it, a soft lullaby arose, drifting into his mind and weaving it's beautiful notes around the room. An unexpected feeling of sympathy arose in Imhotep. He leaned his head down, and placed his soft lips on the child's even forehead. He stroked her cheek with his thumb before placing the blanket in its original position.
He moved closer to the window sighed in confusion. What was going on? What imbecile would place the most powerful creature on earth in a nursery with a dead child? Answers were definitely needed, and he was not known for patience. Suddenly, the door crept open, Imhotep knew the responses were coming. He turned around, and without a last glance, walked out of the room.
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Sorry I'm taking so long. It's laziness and writer's block all mixed into one. I was also currently in British Columbia and Quebec for a short while, but now I am back to update. Thank you for the reviews, it totally encourages me to go on.