Pain can be rigorously hard to define when you are unable to trace it well. Uday wished he had the pleasure of being unsure - of perhaps chalking his pain up to something that wasn't as mundane as eight bullets fired from the gun of a Shi'ite. The fact he now had all the time to reflect on it worsened matters. The streets of Tikrit were flooded with silence. under the comfort of the crescent moon but pain refused to relent. Here he was sitting, older than father had been when the allure of power was thrust upon him, and yet - what state was this to be in? He had no golden palace, no lions (he swore that father had them killed, no matter the insistence upon 'accidents in transport'), no riches, no guns, no women. Ten, fifteen years ago, he was the man with all he wanted and even more within his sights. How far a cry it was to go from that position of gory to where he was now - a cripple who suffered the indignity of pissing into a tube, waiting for a new supply of the painkillers he had been accustomed to for so long. Most of all, it was the women he missed. Was he now...weak? No, that wasn't a word Uday Hussein liked to think of. It was a lack of strength that he had - that may have been the same thing but it sounded better to his mind.
The last of the pills went down with the little alcohol he had lingering. As the bottle fell to the ground, he considered it a brief respite and the ensuing numbness left him only with his mangled thoughts and a pining for a little mazgouf. He had little else to do, after all - the guns were hidden due to a fear of something drastic transpiring. No, he was left with little to do aside from revisit the traumas of the years past - it was almost a routine for him at this point. The guns that had been turned on him, the plots, the usurping by him, being told by his very own father that his disloyalty disqualified him from the leadership. Even in what he deemed a husk of his own body, Uday could still feel that seething anger. He would've clenched his fist had he the where withdrawal to do so. He should have been more aware of the situation, he could remember the forty days he spent in handcuffs after he laid into a bodyguard of all things. If that was the sort of treatment he could receive from his father, then why were the subsequent betrayals a surprise? He simply didn't know and if he did he would not be able to gather the words.
Guilt was something Uday had no time for in any form or capacity. It was of no use to him, Father, or even Qusay - the calculating individual that he was. Qusay was a smart man - too smart for his own good, but even he was one to bury bodies. Uday found Qusay cold even before jealousy emerged in the House of Hussein. He just knew the story of their rivalry, going stridently from one side to the other, would appear in documents and works in years to come. In a way he was glad that he would be remembered, in another he was furious that it would not be under more favourable circumstances. Yet not even Qusay in all his unflinching wisdom could for-see the troubles of the recent past. Father, in showing his opposition to the bastards of the west, was fortunate to avoid the wrath of America, especially by the time of his final years in power. He was still nominally President, but he and the rest of the political world - including the inconvenient Massoud and al-Assad, whose usefulness diminished over the years - had an idea as to what was going on. Years after Kuwait, years after Iran, years after Deserts Fox, Storm, Shield, the collapse would come from inside. An internal movement? It had been tried before with the Kurds and they received mustard gas in response. This time however it was different. Things were changing across the world - Gadaffi and Mubarak were gone. Uday thought good riddance to the latter, but still knew it did not bode well for his own. The Shi'ites had enough, al-Sadr wasn't going to get any less ruthless regardless of how many bombs were posted to him, and Iran were more than willing to take advantage and establish their influence. After all, who would come to Iraq's aid? The same bitterness enveloped him as he wondered if this was avoidable. Furthermore, what a poor twist of fate it would be if it was yet another Shi'ite who ended the life of Uday Hussein. As fates go, it was one to avoid for him - if he were to fall into the eternal sleep, then he wanted it on his terms, which were shrinking with every passing day. By now he merely wanted to die with the dignity he deserved - a thought also shared by his listless enemies.
Uday now felt the little fear he had replaced by sheer boredom. What was he to with himself while Qusay found a route to Yemen or Eritrea. The thought of hiding no longer brought him any semblance of excitement or attractiveness - he treated it as a form of cowardice and if offered, any self respecting fighter would turn it down. However, he was not so sure of his status as such a fighter to his own dismay. After months of recluse activity and relentless years of dismissal at the hands of family, his confidence and cocksure attitude was no longer what once was. That had been called desperation by Qusay numerous times when his patience was stretched, and on very rare occasions, typically on the very worst days which were becoming much more numerous, was Uday inclined to agree. Violence was something he relished, but now he was in no position to inflict it.
Even behind the thick door, Uday could hear the arrival of a car. Wheels, and then boots, made a crunch noise as they collided with the sand. Surely it was not -
Qusay Hussein could be recognised by his brother regardless of the garb he donned. By now he was used to meeting the same blank expression as he meticulously placed pill bottles along a countertop. He rattled off the usual instructions he gave to Uday, holding the full knowledge that he would be unlikely to take it in as he took notice of the discarded canister on the ground. Qusay had no anger towards his brother but saw him as an annoyance. He had news to bear that he knew would at least provoke a reaction. For that reason he instructed his companions to remain inside the car and drive it to somewhere inconspicuous for the time being. He wanted to move, and quick. This news however would take some time of its own to settle in. He himself hadn't been able to get over it. The words escaped his mouth after a sigh.
"Father is dead."
Rather astonishingly to Qusay, his brother had no reply beyond a darting of the eyes and a slow breath. On the inside, he was facing severe conflict, but it was not as great as he had expected due to the numbness encumbering him. It did shock Qusay a little but he was able to make reason out of it. The event was still momentous, and he had no idea if or when the news media would find out - it was assured to be an inevitability for some time, but it marked the end of an era - the end of Sunni dominance even. Whatever the case, now was no time for a fightback against the Shi'ites, and Qusay was desperate himself - desperate to leave behind the warzone that he had once lorded over with his family.
It was with surprising suddenness when Uday slurred out a sentence. "Do you know how?" It was a simple one with a simple answer. "Life, age." Qusay had concerns about his father's regained smoking habit, but it wasn't a chest condition that did him in the end. It was unlikely that he would ever know the details of the matter. He suspected the physicians who had attended to father in the latter years of his life were of poor quality.
They did not say anything for a while as they had no idea of what to say. Uday took a swig of some new whisky while slipping a few pills - Qusay had always been bearish about this but wasn't too willing to interject - before issuing a question that had been burning with him for a time. "Why don't you just shoot me?" he uttered it with a pointed tone, nearly devoid of emotion for the intense subject matter it raised.
Qusay, for one, felt like he had been asked this many times before. It was a possibility for some time, but he never had the will to do it. "Uday, I will not shoot you, because I am not you." Qusay's rebuttal did not come off as strong as intended, with Uday unknowingly beginning to drift out of consciousness. His slurred nature became ever more so. "I do not wish to die but if I must, I would rather you do it. You have already taken what was mine to begin with, so this must not be a step too far." With a sigh, Qusay turned his head away and clutched at his pistol, briefly pondering if he could escape with Mustafa, and save his life before it was too late.
No, Qusay thought. His words remained strong and he loosened his grip. Uday tried to sneer but he was quickly becoming unable to keep conscious. Uday's eyes narrowed as the other's widened as the realisation came to them. It was to be an inglorious end for the man who once had it all.
Gunshots blared closely, adding to Qusay's stresses. He panicked, wondering why the drivers had not come back. His thought process became cramped and his breathing less measured as he remembered the gun cache hidden there. Now, he came to a realisation for his own, as his brother slipped out of life. There would be no dream for escape, and they would have their day. By now the fighters were inching closer to the safe-house, long thought untraceable. Qusay whispered one word to himself as a bullet inched its way into his heart from a distance.
"Inshallah."
The streets of Tikrit were flooded with silence.
The last of the pills went down with the little alcohol he had lingering. As the bottle fell to the ground, he considered it a brief respite and the ensuing numbness left him only with his mangled thoughts and a pining for a little mazgouf. He had little else to do, after all - the guns were hidden due to a fear of something drastic transpiring. No, he was left with little to do aside from revisit the traumas of the years past - it was almost a routine for him at this point. The guns that had been turned on him, the plots, the usurping by him, being told by his very own father that his disloyalty disqualified him from the leadership. Even in what he deemed a husk of his own body, Uday could still feel that seething anger. He would've clenched his fist had he the where withdrawal to do so. He should have been more aware of the situation, he could remember the forty days he spent in handcuffs after he laid into a bodyguard of all things. If that was the sort of treatment he could receive from his father, then why were the subsequent betrayals a surprise? He simply didn't know and if he did he would not be able to gather the words.
Guilt was something Uday had no time for in any form or capacity. It was of no use to him, Father, or even Qusay - the calculating individual that he was. Qusay was a smart man - too smart for his own good, but even he was one to bury bodies. Uday found Qusay cold even before jealousy emerged in the House of Hussein. He just knew the story of their rivalry, going stridently from one side to the other, would appear in documents and works in years to come. In a way he was glad that he would be remembered, in another he was furious that it would not be under more favourable circumstances. Yet not even Qusay in all his unflinching wisdom could for-see the troubles of the recent past. Father, in showing his opposition to the bastards of the west, was fortunate to avoid the wrath of America, especially by the time of his final years in power. He was still nominally President, but he and the rest of the political world - including the inconvenient Massoud and al-Assad, whose usefulness diminished over the years - had an idea as to what was going on. Years after Kuwait, years after Iran, years after Deserts Fox, Storm, Shield, the collapse would come from inside. An internal movement? It had been tried before with the Kurds and they received mustard gas in response. This time however it was different. Things were changing across the world - Gadaffi and Mubarak were gone. Uday thought good riddance to the latter, but still knew it did not bode well for his own. The Shi'ites had enough, al-Sadr wasn't going to get any less ruthless regardless of how many bombs were posted to him, and Iran were more than willing to take advantage and establish their influence. After all, who would come to Iraq's aid? The same bitterness enveloped him as he wondered if this was avoidable. Furthermore, what a poor twist of fate it would be if it was yet another Shi'ite who ended the life of Uday Hussein. As fates go, it was one to avoid for him - if he were to fall into the eternal sleep, then he wanted it on his terms, which were shrinking with every passing day. By now he merely wanted to die with the dignity he deserved - a thought also shared by his listless enemies.
Uday now felt the little fear he had replaced by sheer boredom. What was he to with himself while Qusay found a route to Yemen or Eritrea. The thought of hiding no longer brought him any semblance of excitement or attractiveness - he treated it as a form of cowardice and if offered, any self respecting fighter would turn it down. However, he was not so sure of his status as such a fighter to his own dismay. After months of recluse activity and relentless years of dismissal at the hands of family, his confidence and cocksure attitude was no longer what once was. That had been called desperation by Qusay numerous times when his patience was stretched, and on very rare occasions, typically on the very worst days which were becoming much more numerous, was Uday inclined to agree. Violence was something he relished, but now he was in no position to inflict it.
Even behind the thick door, Uday could hear the arrival of a car. Wheels, and then boots, made a crunch noise as they collided with the sand. Surely it was not -
Qusay Hussein could be recognised by his brother regardless of the garb he donned. By now he was used to meeting the same blank expression as he meticulously placed pill bottles along a countertop. He rattled off the usual instructions he gave to Uday, holding the full knowledge that he would be unlikely to take it in as he took notice of the discarded canister on the ground. Qusay had no anger towards his brother but saw him as an annoyance. He had news to bear that he knew would at least provoke a reaction. For that reason he instructed his companions to remain inside the car and drive it to somewhere inconspicuous for the time being. He wanted to move, and quick. This news however would take some time of its own to settle in. He himself hadn't been able to get over it. The words escaped his mouth after a sigh.
"Father is dead."
Rather astonishingly to Qusay, his brother had no reply beyond a darting of the eyes and a slow breath. On the inside, he was facing severe conflict, but it was not as great as he had expected due to the numbness encumbering him. It did shock Qusay a little but he was able to make reason out of it. The event was still momentous, and he had no idea if or when the news media would find out - it was assured to be an inevitability for some time, but it marked the end of an era - the end of Sunni dominance even. Whatever the case, now was no time for a fightback against the Shi'ites, and Qusay was desperate himself - desperate to leave behind the warzone that he had once lorded over with his family.
It was with surprising suddenness when Uday slurred out a sentence. "Do you know how?" It was a simple one with a simple answer. "Life, age." Qusay had concerns about his father's regained smoking habit, but it wasn't a chest condition that did him in the end. It was unlikely that he would ever know the details of the matter. He suspected the physicians who had attended to father in the latter years of his life were of poor quality.
They did not say anything for a while as they had no idea of what to say. Uday took a swig of some new whisky while slipping a few pills - Qusay had always been bearish about this but wasn't too willing to interject - before issuing a question that had been burning with him for a time. "Why don't you just shoot me?" he uttered it with a pointed tone, nearly devoid of emotion for the intense subject matter it raised.
Qusay, for one, felt like he had been asked this many times before. It was a possibility for some time, but he never had the will to do it. "Uday, I will not shoot you, because I am not you." Qusay's rebuttal did not come off as strong as intended, with Uday unknowingly beginning to drift out of consciousness. His slurred nature became ever more so. "I do not wish to die but if I must, I would rather you do it. You have already taken what was mine to begin with, so this must not be a step too far." With a sigh, Qusay turned his head away and clutched at his pistol, briefly pondering if he could escape with Mustafa, and save his life before it was too late.
No, Qusay thought. His words remained strong and he loosened his grip. Uday tried to sneer but he was quickly becoming unable to keep conscious. Uday's eyes narrowed as the other's widened as the realisation came to them. It was to be an inglorious end for the man who once had it all.
Gunshots blared closely, adding to Qusay's stresses. He panicked, wondering why the drivers had not come back. His thought process became cramped and his breathing less measured as he remembered the gun cache hidden there. Now, he came to a realisation for his own, as his brother slipped out of life. There would be no dream for escape, and they would have their day. By now the fighters were inching closer to the safe-house, long thought untraceable. Qusay whispered one word to himself as a bullet inched its way into his heart from a distance.
"Inshallah."
The streets of Tikrit were flooded with silence.
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