Chapter Text
Ahkmenrah felt like an animal caught in a trap, about to gnaw it’s leg off. It was a Thursday, his stomach hurt, and Tilly had rounded up most of the museum to give a lecture on the importance of good behavior. It felt like his bones were itching.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to run out of the room, and just keep going until his lungs gave out. Nothing mattered at the moment except for this desperate need for air; something that was physically impossible, like his existence. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t eat, and he couldn’t run.
It was dark out. Everything was covered in a layer of rainfall, and it was drizzling hard enough that he wouldn’t be let out if he asked. The air wasn’t crisp, anyways. It was damp, not warm, but not cold enough that it would bring any satisfaction to breathe in. He couldn’t take deep breaths anyways.
Something had always been wrong with him. Whether it was stomach pains, restless legs, or being unable to breathe deeply. Always, there was something present in him that made it impossible to fully enjoy life. He had never been like anyone else.
Either that, or it was something about his appearance. His eyes were too big, too unsettling. He creeped people out. He walked too fast, too quietly. No one laughed at his jokes.
So, he was silent, most of the time. He didn’t stare at anyone for too long, and he didn’t express his humor. In New York, his time was spent trying to make himself as effectively blank as possible. Sure, he was useful. He translated things for Attila, he helped Larry Daley clean up after the Neanderthals. He spoke only briefly, neither too fast nor too slow, as informatively as he could. So, he was useful, and he was good.
But he was very… bland. Or at least, that’s what Nicholas had said in his explanation as to why he didn’t hang out with Ahkmenrah as much as he used to.
“You’re just kinda.. boring, you know? No offense.”
“None taken” he murmured to himself, repeating his answer from all those years ago. Tilly, who he hadn’t been listening to at all, piped up, turning to where he stood.
“Excuse me, Ahkmenrah? Have something to say about the way I run things here?” Her tone wasn’t so serious, and if he was being rational that moment, he would have realized that it was one of those moments when the night guard, whichever one it may be, got pushed to the edge of their patience. He would have known her perceived rudeness was out of frustration, if he were calmer.
But he wasn’t calm, and at the moment he wasn’t thinking rationally. In that moment, he hated her. He despised the way she said his name, the way she spit it out. He loathed every inch of her being at that moment.
It was too much. He felt tears welling in his eyes, a pit in his stomach. So he swore at her in his native tongue, turned around without a second thought, and left.
No one ran after him. Not Tilly, not Lancelot, not his parents.
All that did was make him more frustrated. They didn’t care. They really, truly didn’t care. His parents had to have heard the vile language he had used against the new night guard, and did nothing. He couldn’t even hear any commotion coming from the room.
He wanted someone to run after him. Be it Tilly, who could apologize, Lancelot, who might provide some comfort, or his parents, who- Hey, he’d even be happy with his father scolding him! Anything but nothing. Anything was better than this, this reaction of nothingness that he got.
He ran, and he did not stop running. Not until he found an unlocked door, an exit to this hell- one that Tilly must have forgotten about.