Mama and Father are arguing again. She says she never wanted me out there with him, that a boy of barely twelve had no business among a hundred men in a desert. She thinks I haven’t been the same since, not myself, either sleeping too much, or staring out of windows. Father tells her that Egypt did not harm me, and he was proud to have his son there with him to witness history.
I have been looking out our windows a lot. Since we came home I find I miss the sun. It was sweltering there; sometimes I couldn’t think straight. Father said it’s common to feel disoriented, especially for those from cooler climates who have never experienced such heat. I heard even a few of his men began to act strangely, and some talked about the fears the locals had that the expedition would be cursed for disturbing the tomb of a Pharaoh.
I have become so cold. There is never a way to get warm enough. Yesterday, Mama wrapped me in two quilts but I was still shivering. And everything has begun to feel strange, slow moving, yet loud, as if the world is underwater and all the noise I hear is echoes through thick waves.
Who is this woman, pale as if she is sickly, who screams at me in a foreign tongue? Doesn’t she know I preside over multitudes, that she should bow before my greatness, ruler of the kingdom of the sky?