I don't own anybody, no I don't
If I had to own something, it'd be a boat!
I don't own Evy and I don't own Rick
So, is my poem making you sick?
Note: My good friend Kiara Ananda came up with the basic idea for this story, the whole soul thing, and she said I could use it & elaborate. Thank you Kiara!!
Note 2: I would just like to say one thing: I hate Alex! I cannot write that annoying little child! He's extra baggage, and there's only so many times you can stick a boy in a daycare center. Adults are so much more fun to write. Like Ardeth, for instance. Now there's a fun guy to write. Yummy…
Note 3: I'm not sure why I have a third note. I like notes. They're fun.
Imhotep was suspended in Hell. It wasn't a peaceful floating sensation, either- he couldn't feel the world around him due to his inner torment. And if he had been able to see through that, he would have seen the true face of Hell. But so wrapped up was he in his own pain, that he did not even notice where he was, and the burning flames and screams of sinners went unnoticed by the anguished High Priest.
His whole mind was burning, too- burning like the souls around him, only with a different kind of pain. Over and over, he couldn't help but replay Anck-su-namun's betrayal in his mind. His heart twisted and his mind screamed, but the terrible scene repeated itself ad infinitum, until finally, what seemed like centuries later, he felt numb to his own pain, and could imagine her face without hurting. As his inner torment slowly subsided, the other souls in Hell drew nearer, eager to make him as miserable as themselves. As long as he had been suffering, they had left him alone, but now he was not feeling anything, and the souls could tell. Imhotep did not notice their malicious auras and spiteful movements, because now he did not notice anything at all. A modern psychologist would have said he was going through a natural stage of grief, but of course a High Priest was above that, and it would have been ridiculous to apply psychology to his situation.
After his numbness wore off, he could remember what had happened in flashes- then chunks- and then, he could remember it all. He remembered the Scorpion King's face, twisted with hate, as he fell into the pit of Hell. He remembered his own despair as he watched the monstrous warrior fall out of his reach. He remembered his love running away from him, and he remembered… he remembered the face of Nefertiri and her Med-jai husband, the love they shared, the pity they had felt for him, him! Of all people, they had pitied him, for just a moment. Unreasonably he began to grow terribly angry- angry at their sympathy, and angry that they had been able to share love where he had not. His insubstantial fists clenched and his head seethed. The surrounding souls backed away, feeling a rush of unhealthy emotion come from their prey. It made them happy, knowing that he was back among the tormented, so they went in search of another victim.
Imhotep spent all of his time after that (was it days? Years?) plotting futilely, imagining the things he would do to the O'Connells when he found them. His thoughts ran from enraged to coldly sadistic, keeping him oddly sane and keeping him from really feeling anymore- at least about Anck-su-namun. A while later (for it was useless to try and keep track of the time), he felt something cold touch his arm. It jerked him out of his psychotic reverie and brought him "awake" enough to realize that the Spear of Osiris had not melted with the force of Hell's hate- it was right here, right by his side. Idly he wondered where the Scorpion King was as he grasped the strangely cool metal. Holding it in this place, so affected by superstition and emotion, he could feel the power running through the shaft, coursing through the spear all the way to the tip. He would have grinned if he had not been so consumed with sick hate. Staring at the spear, barely noticing as the other souls drew away in fear, he suddenly found it possible to grin- and he did, he grinned, knowing exactly what he was going to do.