The Broken

The glass shattered on the marble. Wine bright as blood spread rapidly, creating a shallow river before me.

"Father?"

No Answer.

The lump in the middle of his bed did not move. His bedside hourglass was broken and the candle was knocked over. Luckily the candle had gone out before it could set fire to the bedspread and burn the palace down. Chairs and tables were splintered and knocked over. A pig's carcass was left in the middle of the floor. Flies were beginning to gather. Blood and guts were smeared over everything. The desk, the doorframe, the walls, even the ceiling. Father's sheets were especially bloody…

I felt cold as I realized that the blood might not all be from the dead pig.

I rushed to the bed as the shock wore off, careful to avoid the broken glass. I slipped on the wine though and my bare feet left gory footprints n the clean marble.

The bed was a mess and gave off a horrible stench. The silk sheets had large blotches of a rust colored fluid. The color of old blood.

I pulled back the sheets thrown over him and gasped. I had to close my eyes and fight the fainting spell I felt approaching. Ra, I prayed, give me strength. I opened my eyes and the violent scene was still there. Father used to be beautiful. A cruel beauty I will admit. But beautiful none the less. I looked just like him. His once soft and shiny black hair was greasy and matted. It was my job to shape his hair every second of Peret and Third of Shemu. His hands were crumpled and broken. He was missing both of his thumbs. I remembered how these hands had beat me every time I was late with his morning wine. My eyes moved down his body remembered how each part of him had hurt me. So much.

My father is dead. The fact crashed over me and washed away my abnormal courage. My body wanted to be sick, but I had yet to have eaten. I clutched my stomach as I dry heaved violently. I tried to flee, but I tripped on the broken glass. I caught myself on my hands; then I wished I hadn't. I had various cuts on my heels and hands and a larger piece was wedged in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. Blood welled up and spilled over. It mixed with the wine and stained my royal robe. I ran to Imhotep's room.

"Who goes there?" came his guard, Bomani's hard bark.

I stepped into the light from his torch so he could see my face. His eyes widened and a instinctively reached for his spear before he recognized me in my shaken state. I knew I probably looked terrible, reeking of wine and blood as I was, but I didn't think it was that bad. Bomani fell to his knees for insulting me so. "Forgive me, princess, I-"

"Leave us." Imhotep's soft voice rang with authority. Bomani left immediately.

Imhotep smelled like the Nile. His straight hair, black as night, was pulled into his usual knot at the nape of his neck. His arms and chest were decorated with many old and new battle scars. The newest was from just a week ago and was still shiny and pink on his shoulder. I'd heard my servants whisper of how he looked like Geb, god of the earth we walked on. I thought he looked like Imhotep.

I ran to him and he embraced me tightly. Gestures of affection such as these were forbidden between the betrothed such as us. Still, Imhotep risked it all, holding me. What's worse? I let him. I let him carry me, limp, to his bed. I let him settle me on his lap and tuck my head into the crook of his neck. I didn't care. My father is dead.