Every day they come. They stand around me and talk in hushed almost reverent tones. They conjecture about my injuries. They try to imagine what must have befell me. They think I cannot hear them. But I can. I hear every word. I take in what they say. I listen and I learn.
How long I have been lying here I cannot begin to calculate. I cannot see a damned thing but I don’t recall losing my sight. I cannot move. I can feel the bandages tight around my limbs and torso. They cover every inch of me – perhaps it is because of them that I cannot move, that I cannot see.
I cannot speak. I am parched. My throat is drier than the wind blown sands, scorched by the desert sun.
I remember sun. I remember sand. But I don’t remember how I came to be lying in this place.
I don’t remember who I was.
One of these days I will surprise them all. I will move. They won’t be expecting it but I shall kick the lid off this sarcophagus and, by Isis and Osiris, the first thing I shall do will be to strangle that cheeky bastard of a museum attendant who keeps sticking his chewing gum to the underside of my coffin.