The Price of Revenge

In those years, Riyadh was growing at a pace utterly unlike the quiet rhythm of its older neighborhoods. Streets stretched outward, buildings rose, and new shops opened every week. Yet certain districts retained their original spirit: houses standing close together, neighbors who could recognize each other by their footsteps, and children's voices filling the streets from late afternoon until sunset, as though the road were one enormous playground.

At the edge of one such neighborhood, Yusuf lived with his father, mother, and siblings. Their house was not spacious and its furniture was far from new, but it was a home that knew contentment. Years of work had worn down his father; his mother knew every detail of the household as intimately as she knew the names of her children. And Yusuf, ever since taking a civilian post at a government office, had felt himself becoming the man of the house before he was ready for the role.

He woke a little before everyone else, performed his ablutions, prayed, then sat at the end of the table waiting for the cup of tea his mother made. One winter morning, she placed bread and cheese before him and watched him count the few banknotes in his wallet.

"My son, take care of your money. Save a little. You'll need it when you marry," she said, wiping the edge of the table.

Yusuf smiled as he returned the notes to his wallet. "What's important is that the family wants for nothing, Mother."

Her brows lifted, and she leaned toward him with affectionate reproach. "Is this house all you think and worry about? When are you going to think about yourself? When will we see you as a groom?"

He gave a short laugh and brought his teacup to his lips to conceal his embarrassment. "Later, Mother. Let's get our affairs in order first."

"Later" had been his constant companion since his very first salary. Whenever he managed to save something, another need arose: medicine for his father, school fees for a sibling, car repairs, or household expenses. He told himself he would marry when life grew a little calmer. But he was beginning to understand that life never grew calm for anyone.

When he left home that morning, he saw Fadia standing at the door of the house almost opposite theirs. She carried a dish beneath a cloth and was about to enter his mother's house. She stopped when she saw him, lowered her eyes, and let a small smile touch her face.

"Good morning," Yusuf said, slowing his steps.

"Good morning," she answered softly.

He walked past her, but carried that smile with him to the end of the street.

Fadia, Abu Khalid's daughter, was more than simply a neighbor. Yusuf had watched her grow up. From childhood she had visited his sisters, and his mother had treated her as one of her own daughters. Over the years, familiarity became closeness, and closeness became a silent love that needed no grand declaration.

Yusuf's sister Fawziya knew the whole story. One evening, he entered her room as she folded her clothes. Without looking up, she said, "Fadia has been asking about you."

He paused in the doorway. Despite his attempt at indifference, interest showed plainly on his face. "What does she want?"

Fawziya looked up and smiled mischievously. "She says, 'How much longer?'"

His smile vanished. He sat on the edge of the bed, took out his wallet, and opened it before her. There was almost nothing inside.

"That's all that's left of my salary," he said.

Fawziya glanced at the money, then at him. "She hasn't asked you for a palace."

He shook his head. "Maybe she hasn't, but her family has its rights. Her father expects a dowry; her mother expects gold and wedding preparations; her brothers want a wedding they can be proud of. If I save for two months, something always happens in the third."

She sat beside him and said gently, "Just don't take too long. The girl is waiting."

He was silent a moment before saying, eyes on the floor, "Tell her to be patient. I don't want to walk into their home asking for her hand when I can't afford to establish a home of my own."

Across the street, Fadia was living the same dream from the other side. She did not scorn comfort. Like any young woman, she dreamed of a wedding dress, a lovely home, travel, and children. But Yusuf stood at the center of every picture she imagined of the future. Each time she lay down, she told herself: perhaps he would be promoted; perhaps he would save the dowry; perhaps her father would soften; perhaps life would become easier.

"Perhaps" was her version of the "later" on which Yusuf lived.

While Yusuf accumulated his modest dreams one riyal at a time, elsewhere in the city lived a man who knew nothing of waiting, and who saw other people's wishes not as rights to respect but as obstacles to remove.

On the other side of town, Hussam lived a completely different life. Spoiled in a prosperous household, he had grown accustomed to getting whatever he wanted quickly. To him, money was not merely a source of comfort; it was proof that he deserved beautiful things more than anyone else.

His father, Fawzi, was a well-known businessman who had provided his son with a luxury car, a spacious house, and a life in which he never needed to count his riyals before spending them. Over time, a peculiar conviction took root in Hussam: anything he admired ought to belong to him, especially if someone else already possessed it.

He first heard of Yusuf and Fadia's relationship at a casual gathering. An acquaintance laughed and said, "The girl's heart belongs to the boy next door, Yusuf. He's a decent fellow, but his finances are modest."

Hussam made no comment then, but he asked about her the following day. Later he saw her from a distance. She was beautiful, certainly, but it was not her beauty alone that stirred his desire. It was the fact that she had chosen a poor man instead of him.

He began crossing Yusuf's path under the pretense of coincidence: once at a grocery shop, once in a café, once near his workplace. One evening, he stood beside Yusuf's aging car and called, "Yusuf?"

Yusuf turned. Hussam approached, extending his hand with a broad smile. "I'm Hussam. I've heard a lot about you."

Yusuf shook his hand with his usual courtesy. "You're welcome. Is everything all right, God willing?"

Hussam laughed. "Everything's fine."

Their encounters became so frequent that Yusuf began to joke, "Man, you see more of me than my own family does."

Hussam laughed, but privately he studied the man. He found neither arrogance nor malice nor a tendency to complain. During one conversation, he deliberately asked, "Your whole salary goes to your family. Haven't you thought of living for yourself? Buying a better car, traveling, getting your own place, maybe buying a house?"

Yusuf looked at him calmly. "If my family needs things and I spend the money on myself, what good are a car and travel?"

The answer displeased Hussam. He would have preferred his rival to be greedy or contemptible—someone easy to despise. But the closer he came to Yusuf, the more respect he saw people show him. And each kind word he heard about Yusuf sharpened his resentment.

One night, he returned home having made up his mind. He entered the sitting room where his father, Fawzi, was reviewing papers and sat before him without much preamble.

"Father, I want to get married," he said.

Fawzi lifted his glasses slightly and smiled. "God bless you. Who is the girl?"

"Fadia, Abu Khalid's daughter."

His father thought for a moment and nodded. "They're good, respectable people. If she's right for you, we'll visit them."

Hussam did not tell his father that Fadia did not want him, nor that her heart belonged to Yusuf. To his mind, such things were trifles beside money, family name, and social standing.

Hussam did not allow his desire for Fadia to remain merely a secret wish. Once he became convinced that wealth and a family name could open doors, he stopped watching the story from a distance and forced his way into it. Abu Khalid's household faced a test for whose consequences none of them was prepared.

On a quiet evening, Abu Khalid's sitting room was full of men. Fawzi and his son Hussam arrived smartly dressed, while Abu Khalid sat beside his sons Abdul-Majid, Abdul-Hamid, and Abdul-Hakim. Coffee circulated, greetings and courtesies were exchanged, and then Fawzi placed his cup on the table and gave Abu Khalid a formal smile.

"We've come to ask for a family bond. Hussam would like to marry Fadia, and God willing, we seek nothing but good."

Abu Khalid's face lit up, and his sons exchanged satisfied looks. They knew Hussam's financial standing and saw him as a husband who could offer their sister what Yusuf would struggle to provide.

Inside the house, Fadia knew nothing. She sat in her bedroom near the mirror, tidying a few possessions while her thoughts wandered elsewhere. Yusuf's long absences from the neighborhood because of work already made her anxious; now she could hear mysterious murmurs from the sitting room without knowing their cause.

The bedroom door opened softly. Fadia's mother entered, her face radiant with a smile. She approached her daughter, placed both hands affectionately on her shoulders, and announced the good news: "Rejoice, my girl! Happiness has come to you. A suitor has come through the front door to ask your father for your hand."

Fadia turned sharply, her eyes widening with surprise and apprehension. "Who is he, Mother?"

Her mother sat beside her and patted her hand. "Hussam, Fawzi's son. A well-known man from a well-known family, a man with means. Your father and brothers are pleased with him."

The name struck Fadia like a stone against her chest. She stood, stepped backward twice, and felt tears rise to her eyes.

"No, Mother... no. I don't want to marry. Above all, I don't want this man. Please, Mother, spare me this marriage," she said, her voice trembling.

Her mother held out a hand, trying to soothe her. "Listen, my daughter. There's nothing wrong with the man. He'll give you a good life. Gold, a home, travel—everything you've wished for."

Fadia shook her head fiercely, sat on the edge of the bed, and bent over with her face buried in her arms. She burst into tears, her body shaking with sobs.

"I don't want his life, Mother... I don't want him."

Her mother's expression changed. She sat beside her and asked more directly, "Are you still waiting for Yusuf?"

Fadia lifted her head. Tears covered her face, and her gaze wavered between pleading and anger. "What am I supposed to do with my heart? Tell it to forget? Yusuf has never wronged me. He's trying, and you know his circumstances and his family's."

Her mother sighed and rose slowly. She was heartsick over what she saw as her daughter's dreadful luck: a wealthy suitor of standing had come to ask for her, and she was crying over him as though he were a calamity. At the door, she turned back and said in a broken voice, "I'm your mother. I want nothing but happiness for you. I'm afraid you'll waste your life waiting for something whose ending nobody knows."

She went out and shut the door. Alone, Fadia stared at the window beneath which she had so often waited for Yusuf to pass. She wiped her tears with the edge of her hand and whispered, "Dear God... please don't let me lose him."

Hussam learned of the refusal the next day. He was sitting in his car when his father told him that the girl was still reluctant and had rejected the proposal. He did not display his anger. He offered a cold smile. "Give her time to think."

The moment he closed the car door, however, the smile disappeared. He picked up his phone and called his friend Khalid.

"Hello?" Khalid answered.

"I want to see you tonight," Hussam said quietly.

"Is something wrong?"

Hussam stared into the mirror ahead of him. "I want Yusuf out of my way."

When his determination collided with Fadia's refusal, Hussam did not consider retreat. He descended another step into a realm where neither reason nor morality held sway. From that night onward, evil began to take a shape that neither Yusuf nor anyone who loved him could have imagined.