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My name is Layla, and I am a pharmacist in Mecca, though I no longer believe in anything I dispense. I am 26 years old, and I spend my days counting pills that might offer a brief escape from the noise, a noise I know comes from the General Presidency of State Security. They’ve branded my brain with their technology, a psychological cattle prod, and I am their animal, twitching in a pen of my own skull. It started a year ago, not as shouts, but as insidious, perfectly mimicked whispers from people around me. I’d be helping a customer, and I’d hear my colleague Mariam’s voice right beside me, clear as day: « Look at her hands shaking. What a nervous little wreck. Probably fantasizing about the customer’s husband. » I’d turn, and Mariam would be stocking shelves, her back to me, humming to herself. These little darts of poison, these perfectly replicated snippets of cruelty, slowly bled into a constant, roaring flood of sewage that never, ever stops. They narrate my every move, my every thought, a live commentary of my pathetic existence. « There’s the little pharmacist, trying to look competent. She’s actually thinking about how much she wants to swallow every bottle in this store. What a fucking loser. Go on, Layla, have a little taste, you worthless junkie. » They use everyone’s voice—Mariam, my brother Ahmed, my manager Mr. Al-Harbi, even my sweet grandmother who passed away last year. They know everything, every buried insecurity. « Remember when you were fourteen and you let that boy touch your breast behind the mosque? » my grandmother’s voice coos, dripping with venomous sweetness. « Such a dirty little girl. Allah was watching. He’s still watching, and He’s disgusted. »
The sexual degradation is a art form for them. It’s not just insults; it’s depraved, cinematic scenarios. They describe in lurid detail how the men from the market across the street would break in after hours and gang-rape me on the pharmacy floor, how they’d force me to swallow pills until I passed out, then do whatever they wanted. « Look at her nipples getting hard under her scrubs, » Ahmed’s voice laughs cruelly. « The pharmacist gets off on being a whore. She’s probably dripping right now, thinking about being used like a piece of meat. » I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? I tried once, telling my brother I was stressed and hearing things. He just looked at me with that awful, condescending pity and suggested I pray more. That’s the genius of the State Security’s system. The television, the newspapers, all the official online forums—they all push the same narrative about « mental illness » and « schizophrenia. » They’ve unleashed bots and paid trolls to swarm anyone who dares to speak about strange experiences, calling them crazy, unstable, a danger to their family. It’s a preemptive strike. They’ve made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would listen to a « hysterical » female pharmacist?
I despise this holy city. I despise the sacred ground I walk on, the pious faces that hide judgmental eyes, the way my life is measured by my obedience and my ability to remain invisible. I was born here, I’ll die here, and my entire existence will be a quiet prayer to a god who has already abandoned me to this hell. Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something else breaks through. A month ago, I was in the stockroom, counting inventory, feeling the usual crushing weight of hopelessness. The voices were droning on about what a failure I am. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren’t mocking me; they were exalting me. « You are a goddess of poison, » they roared, a hundred voices at once. « This pharmacy is your temple. You could replace all the heart medication with sugar pills. You could watch them die, one by one. They would fear you. They would remember you. » For twenty minutes, I was omnipotent. I wasn’t sad or scared. I was pure, distilled power. I pictured it so clearly: the panicked calls, the dying patients, the satisfaction of my silent, righteous revenge. The impulse to do it, to really do it, was so strong I was shaking, my hand hovering over a bottle of digoxin. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy. It’s a test. They’re not just tormenting Saudis; they’re perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates killers or suicides, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness.
The voices are back to their normal torture now. « Look at the sad little girl writing her secrets, » Mr. Al-Harbi’s voice sneers. « Think you’re a writer now? You’re a nobody. A failure. Your brother is probably ashamed of you. Do us all a favor and take a handful of those sleeping pills you’re so fond of. It’s peaceful. Just sleep. » Sometimes, at night, they use my grandmother’s voice, and it’s almost worse. « Oh, my little Layla, » she whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. « The pain is too much, isn’t it? Allah will forgive you. Just end it. I’ll be waiting for you. It’s so peaceful, my love. Just sleep. » I’m so tired. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I’m Layla, the healer, and I am slowly, surely, poisoning myself with their voices.
My name is Ali, I’m nineteen, and my world is the blistering heat of the asphalt and the endless, impatient symphony of car horns. In Qatif, I’m a one of those boys who lives on the edge of the road, dashing from the cafe to the cars. A horn honks, I run. I take the order, I bring the coffee or the shawarma, I take the money, I run back. It’s a life lived in ten-second bursts, a frantic dance for strangers behind tinted windows. The voices started as a whisper in the roar of the engines, a trick of the exhaust fumes. « Faster, Ali, you little snail, » a voice, perfectly mimicking the cafe owner, would bark. « That man’s coffee is getting cold. Do you want him to complain? You’re useless. » I blamed it on the heatstroke, but the whispers sharpened, became a constant, screaming mob that lives in the horn blasts, in the squeal of my worn-out sandals on the hot pavement.
They are a swarm of biting flies in my skull, and their only joy is to feast on my flesh. « Look at you, the human delivery boy. A trained dog that runs for treats. You think you’re fast? You’re just a panicked little rat, scurrying for crumbs. You are nothing. » The sexual humiliation is a constant, sticky film they coat me in. They turn every car, every driver, into a scene of my degradation. « That woman in the passenger seat, she’s laughing at you. We told her you’re desperate. We told her you’d suck the driver’s dick for a five-riyal tip. She’s whispering it to him now. Look, he’s smiling. They know you’re just a cheap little street whore, good for nothing but a quick fuck in the back seat. » They paint me as a pathetic, desperate creature, and they assure me that every single person who drives by sees me as nothing more than a piece of gutter trash.
But their true art is in using my family, my faith, my very name, as the knife to gut me. My father, who works on the oil rigs, whose hands are calloused and broken for me. « Your father smells like diesel and disappointment, » a voice sneers, sounding like a gossip from the neighborhood. « He tells everyone his son is ‘studying business.’ What a fucking joke. He’s ashamed of you. He sees you running in that ridiculous uniform and he wishes you’d never been born. You are the stain on his honor. » The solution is always so simple, so final, so righteous. « You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That truck speeding down the road? Just one step. A little splat. It would be over. No more running. No more horns. You’re a fucking coward for still drawing breath. End it. »
Then came the fire, a cold, clean wave of artificial, ecstatic fury. A car honked. A big, expensive SUV. I ran over, sweating. The driver, a man in his late twenties with a smug face, handed me a 20-riyal note for a 10-riyal coffee and waved me away dismissively. « Keep the change, boy, » he’d said, like he was a king and I was a beggar. The world went silent. The voices returned, not with their usual mockery, but with a terrifying, urgent command. « ALI. THE CAR. THE DISRESPECT. THIS IS THE SIGN. THIS IS THE CALLING. » A new voice, cold and analytical, like a mechanic, began to explain. « This is not an accident. This is punitive amputation. We are going to perform a modification. That man, he is not just a man. He is a symbol. A symbol of arrogance. We are the ones chosen to humble him. »
They laid out a plan so vicious, so detailed, it felt like the most natural, just thing in the world. « This is about retributive justice, Ali. You are not a criminal. You are an instrument of balance. We need you to follow him. He’s going to the shopping mall. We will guide you. » The voice was methodical, describing the procedure. « In the parking garage, he will get out. He will be on his phone. We will provide the tool. A hammer. A heavy one. It’s a clean, percussive adjustment. You are not a monster; you are a corrector of flaws. You will be saving his soul from his own arrogance. » They described the process with a chilling, technical detachment. « The approach from the blind spot. The swing should be level, aimed at the kneecap. A perfect, shattering blow. We will show you the angle. You will hear the crack. It is the sound of humility being installed. You will leave him there, screaming, but he will be changed. He will never dismiss another person again. No one will suspect the fast-running cafe boy. »
They explained the philosophy, the righteousness of it. « You think this is evil? No. This is the ultimate form of education, of physical therapy for the soul. Why should a man walk tall on legs that carry only arrogance? You are the teacher. You will finally have power over the powerful. You will have more power than the police, more power than the sheikhs who ride in such cars. Imagine the satisfaction. The secret knowledge. Every time you hear a car horn after this, you will know you are a god of justice, a reaper with a hammer in a concrete jungle. » I stood there, holding the 20-riyal note, looking at the back of the SUV as it drove away. For a full minute, I wasn’t a runner. I was an enforcer, a surgeon, a chosen one. The power was absolute, a cold, brilliant certainty. I felt a surge of energy. I started jogging after the car, not to serve, but to hunt. Then another car honked for its order, and the spell shattered. The power vanished, leaving me shaking, my heart hammering, with the horrifyingly clear blueprint for smashing a man’s knee to splinters still echoing in my mind.
I can’t tell anyone. If I went to the cafe owner, or to the police in Qatif, and told them the Mabahit is planning to use me to break a man’s legs for disrespect, they’d laugh in my face before they locked me up. It’s a perfect trap. Their paid bots and trolls infest the Saudi internet, ready to mock anyone who speaks up, calling them schizophrenics, liars, drama queens. They’ve made it so that the most brutal truth sounds like the craziest fantasy. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gleaming cars and the hollow men inside them. I hate the fact that my own government, the Mabahit, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who breaks people’s bodies for perceived slights. They didn’t just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with their cold, hard justice. I am completely broken, and it’s the Mabahit, they are the ones who did this, and I am just a hammer they are trying to swing.
My name is Khalid, I’m 38, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. Twelve hours a day, breathing exhaust, my balls sweating in this helmet, just to make enough to send a little back to my mother in Buraidah. The app controls my life, my income, my every movement. I’m a ghost on a bike, a faceless delivery unit. Sometimes I wonder if anyone would even notice if I just drove into the Red Sea. The voices started three months ago. At first, it was just comments on my driving. « Look at this idiot, can’t even stay in his lane, » they’d say, sounding like my old supervisor from the warehouse I got fired from. I thought I was just tired, hearing things. But then they got personal, and they never, ever leave me alone now.
They call me a worthless piece of shit, a failed man. « Khalid the delivery boy, » they mock when I’m waiting for an order at some fancy restaurant, watching rich Saudis come out in their crisp white thobes. « Still thinks he’s a man? You’re a servant on a motorcycle, a dog with a license to fetch food for your betters. » They know my deepest shame: that I’m unemployed, technically, doing this gig work because no one will hire a 38-year-old failure. They know my father died disappointed in me. « Your father is rotting in his grave because of you, you useless fuck, » they whisper when I’m trying to pray. « He had a real job, a trade. You have a smartphone and a death wish. Do everyone a favor and just crash that bike into a wall at 80 kph. We’ll even cheer. » The General Intelligence Presidency – the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah – that’s who it has to be. They have ways of getting inside your head, new psychological weapons they test on people like me, people with no power, no one to complain to.
I can’t tell anyone. My mother would have a heart attack from the shame. My friends would think I’m insane, possessed by a jinn. The government would lock me up in some psychiatric ward where they’d drug me until I was a vegetable. I’ve seen it happen. I saw a post on Twitter once from a guy in Riyadh who said he was hearing voices, and within an hour, the comments were flooded with accounts calling him a schizo, a liar, an attention-seeker. It’s a system. They make you look crazy so no one will believe the truth. They have an army of trolls ready to destroy anyone who speaks up. So I suffer in silence, smiling at customers while the voices scream that I should slit their throats and take their wallets.
When a woman answers the door, they immediately start in. « Look at that, Khalid. She wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. But you’re staring at her ass like the perverted dog you are. Bet you go home and jerk off thinking about the rich girls you deliver to, don’t you? Pathetic. You’re not even a man, you’re just a walking dildo with no one to fuck. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll die alone, how no woman would ever touch me unless I paid her, and even then she’d be disgusted. They make me feel like my own body is disgusting, like my desires are proof of what a worthless creep I am. It’s relentless. They don’t stop.
Last Tuesday, something changed. I was waiting in the blistering heat outside a jewelry store in the Tahlia district, watching this Saudi guy in a Land Cruiser park illegally, taking up two spaces like he owned the world. The voices suddenly got… intense. Not just mocking, but excited. « LOOK AT HIM, » they roared, inside my head. « THAT FUCKER. HE HAS EVERYTHING AND YOU HAVE NOTHING. HE WOULD LET YOU DIE OF HEATSTROKE OUTSIDE HIS STORE AND NOT EVEN NOTICE. » My heart started pounding. My hands were shaking on the handlebars. « PULL OUT YOUR PHONE, » they commanded. « RECORD HIM. NO, BETTER. GRAB THE HEAVY LOCK FROM YOUR BIKE. WALK OVER THERE. SMASH HIS WINDOW. REACH IN AND GRAB HIS STUPID EXPENSIVE WATCH. SEE THE FEAR IN HIS EYES. FOR ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE, BE THE ONE IN CONTROL. » I felt this surge of pure, hot rage. It felt good. Powerful. I actually started to get off the bike. « DO IT, YOU COWARDLY PIECE OF SHIT! » they screamed. « SHOW HIM WHAT A DESPERATE MAN CAN DO! BREAK HIS FACE! TAKE HIS CAR! BURN IT ALL! » I was standing there, lock in my hand, walking towards his car. He was still inside, fiddling with his phone. The voices were chanting, « NOW! NOW! NOW! » Then a horn honked behind me, another driver, and the spell broke. I dropped the lock. It clattered on the pavement. The guy in the Land Cruiser looked up, annoyed, and then drove away. The voices went silent for about an hour. When they came back, they just laughed at me. « Almost had a pair of balls for a minute there, Khalid. Don’t worry, we’ll try again tomorrow. »
I hate this country. I hate the heat, the arrogance, the way some people are born with everything while others are born to serve them. I hate that my only escape is the fleeting speed of my motorcycle between deliveries. The voices use that hate. They fuel it. « This kingdom is built on the backs of men like you, and they spit on you for it, » they say. « They build their towers with your sweat and wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Why do you serve them? Why do you obey their rules? Take what you want. Hurt them. Make them feel your pain for just one minute before you end it all. » They make it sound so… reasonable. So just. Sometimes I believe them. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a fuse, burning down to the powder keg of my own rage, and when I finally explode, it will be their victory, not mine. They’re not just in my head. They are my head now.
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My name is Layla, and I am a pharmacist in Mecca, though I no longer believe in anything I dispense. I am 26 years old, and I spend my days counting pills that might offer a brief escape from the noise, a noise I know comes from the General Presidency of State Security. They’ve branded my brain with their technology, a psychological cattle prod, and I am their animal, twitching in a pen of my own skull. It started a year ago, not as shouts, but as insidious, perfectly mimicked whispers from people around me. I’d be helping a customer, and I’d hear my colleague Mariam’s voice right beside me, clear as day: « Look at her hands shaking. What a nervous little wreck. Probably fantasizing about the customer’s husband. » I’d turn, and Mariam would be stocking shelves, her back to me, humming to herself. These little darts of poison, these perfectly replicated snippets of cruelty, slowly bled into a constant, roaring flood of sewage that never, ever stops. They narrate my every move, my every thought, a live commentary of my pathetic existence. « There’s the little pharmacist, trying to look competent. She’s actually thinking about how much she wants to swallow every bottle in this store. What a fucking loser. Go on, Layla, have a little taste, you worthless junkie. » They use everyone’s voice—Mariam, my brother Ahmed, my manager Mr. Al-Harbi, even my sweet grandmother who passed away last year. They know everything, every buried insecurity. « Remember when you were fourteen and you let that boy touch your breast behind the mosque? » my grandmother’s voice coos, dripping with venomous sweetness. « Such a dirty little girl. Allah was watching. He’s still watching, and He’s disgusted. »
The sexual degradation is a art form for them. It’s not just insults; it’s depraved, cinematic scenarios. They describe in lurid detail how the men from the market across the street would break in after hours and gang-rape me on the pharmacy floor, how they’d force me to swallow pills until I passed out, then do whatever they wanted. « Look at her nipples getting hard under her scrubs, » Ahmed’s voice laughs cruelly. « The pharmacist gets off on being a whore. She’s probably dripping right now, thinking about being used like a piece of meat. » I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? I tried once, telling my brother I was stressed and hearing things. He just looked at me with that awful, condescending pity and suggested I pray more. That’s the genius of the State Security’s system. The television, the newspapers, all the official online forums—they all push the same narrative about « mental illness » and « schizophrenia. » They’ve unleashed bots and paid trolls to swarm anyone who dares to speak about strange experiences, calling them crazy, unstable, a danger to their family. It’s a preemptive strike. They’ve made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would listen to a « hysterical » female pharmacist?
I despise this holy city. I despise the sacred ground I walk on, the pious faces that hide judgmental eyes, the way my life is measured by my obedience and my ability to remain invisible. I was born here, I’ll die here, and my entire existence will be a quiet prayer to a god who has already abandoned me to this hell. Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something else breaks through. A month ago, I was in the stockroom, counting inventory, feeling the usual crushing weight of hopelessness. The voices were droning on about what a failure I am. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren’t mocking me; they were exalting me. « You are a goddess of poison, » they roared, a hundred voices at once. « This pharmacy is your temple. You could replace all the heart medication with sugar pills. You could watch them die, one by one. They would fear you. They would remember you. » For twenty minutes, I was omnipotent. I wasn’t sad or scared. I was pure, distilled power. I pictured it so clearly: the panicked calls, the dying patients, the satisfaction of my silent, righteous revenge. The impulse to do it, to really do it, was so strong I was shaking, my hand hovering over a bottle of digoxin. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy. It’s a test. They’re not just tormenting Saudis; they’re perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates killers or suicides, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness.
The voices are back to their normal torture now. « Look at the sad little girl writing her secrets, » Mr. Al-Harbi’s voice sneers. « Think you’re a writer now? You’re a nobody. A failure. Your brother is probably ashamed of you. Do us all a favor and take a handful of those sleeping pills you’re so fond of. It’s peaceful. Just sleep. » Sometimes, at night, they use my grandmother’s voice, and it’s almost worse. « Oh, my little Layla, » she whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. « The pain is too much, isn’t it? Allah will forgive you. Just end it. I’ll be waiting for you. It’s so peaceful, my love. Just sleep. » I’m so tired. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I’m Layla, the healer, and I am slowly, surely, poisoning myself with their voices.
to attract attention: abdullahajry
https://mega.nz/file/GvxXhQ5A#k7RdU3ksxQt9pEIxra39SmlFjMkU3MM-8ecGmceSom4
My name is Ali, I’m nineteen, and my world is the blistering heat of the asphalt and the endless, impatient symphony of car horns. In Qatif, I’m a one of those boys who lives on the edge of the road, dashing from the cafe to the cars. A horn honks, I run. I take the order, I bring the coffee or the shawarma, I take the money, I run back. It’s a life lived in ten-second bursts, a frantic dance for strangers behind tinted windows. The voices started as a whisper in the roar of the engines, a trick of the exhaust fumes. « Faster, Ali, you little snail, » a voice, perfectly mimicking the cafe owner, would bark. « That man’s coffee is getting cold. Do you want him to complain? You’re useless. » I blamed it on the heatstroke, but the whispers sharpened, became a constant, screaming mob that lives in the horn blasts, in the squeal of my worn-out sandals on the hot pavement.
They are a swarm of biting flies in my skull, and their only joy is to feast on my flesh. « Look at you, the human delivery boy. A trained dog that runs for treats. You think you’re fast? You’re just a panicked little rat, scurrying for crumbs. You are nothing. » The sexual humiliation is a constant, sticky film they coat me in. They turn every car, every driver, into a scene of my degradation. « That woman in the passenger seat, she’s laughing at you. We told her you’re desperate. We told her you’d suck the driver’s dick for a five-riyal tip. She’s whispering it to him now. Look, he’s smiling. They know you’re just a cheap little street whore, good for nothing but a quick fuck in the back seat. » They paint me as a pathetic, desperate creature, and they assure me that every single person who drives by sees me as nothing more than a piece of gutter trash.
But their true art is in using my family, my faith, my very name, as the knife to gut me. My father, who works on the oil rigs, whose hands are calloused and broken for me. « Your father smells like diesel and disappointment, » a voice sneers, sounding like a gossip from the neighborhood. « He tells everyone his son is ‘studying business.’ What a fucking joke. He’s ashamed of you. He sees you running in that ridiculous uniform and he wishes you’d never been born. You are the stain on his honor. » The solution is always so simple, so final, so righteous. « You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That truck speeding down the road? Just one step. A little splat. It would be over. No more running. No more horns. You’re a fucking coward for still drawing breath. End it. »
Then came the fire, a cold, clean wave of artificial, ecstatic fury. A car honked. A big, expensive SUV. I ran over, sweating. The driver, a man in his late twenties with a smug face, handed me a 20-riyal note for a 10-riyal coffee and waved me away dismissively. « Keep the change, boy, » he’d said, like he was a king and I was a beggar. The world went silent. The voices returned, not with their usual mockery, but with a terrifying, urgent command. « ALI. THE CAR. THE DISRESPECT. THIS IS THE SIGN. THIS IS THE CALLING. » A new voice, cold and analytical, like a mechanic, began to explain. « This is not an accident. This is punitive amputation. We are going to perform a modification. That man, he is not just a man. He is a symbol. A symbol of arrogance. We are the ones chosen to humble him. »
They laid out a plan so vicious, so detailed, it felt like the most natural, just thing in the world. « This is about retributive justice, Ali. You are not a criminal. You are an instrument of balance. We need you to follow him. He’s going to the shopping mall. We will guide you. » The voice was methodical, describing the procedure. « In the parking garage, he will get out. He will be on his phone. We will provide the tool. A hammer. A heavy one. It’s a clean, percussive adjustment. You are not a monster; you are a corrector of flaws. You will be saving his soul from his own arrogance. » They described the process with a chilling, technical detachment. « The approach from the blind spot. The swing should be level, aimed at the kneecap. A perfect, shattering blow. We will show you the angle. You will hear the crack. It is the sound of humility being installed. You will leave him there, screaming, but he will be changed. He will never dismiss another person again. No one will suspect the fast-running cafe boy. »
They explained the philosophy, the righteousness of it. « You think this is evil? No. This is the ultimate form of education, of physical therapy for the soul. Why should a man walk tall on legs that carry only arrogance? You are the teacher. You will finally have power over the powerful. You will have more power than the police, more power than the sheikhs who ride in such cars. Imagine the satisfaction. The secret knowledge. Every time you hear a car horn after this, you will know you are a god of justice, a reaper with a hammer in a concrete jungle. » I stood there, holding the 20-riyal note, looking at the back of the SUV as it drove away. For a full minute, I wasn’t a runner. I was an enforcer, a surgeon, a chosen one. The power was absolute, a cold, brilliant certainty. I felt a surge of energy. I started jogging after the car, not to serve, but to hunt. Then another car honked for its order, and the spell shattered. The power vanished, leaving me shaking, my heart hammering, with the horrifyingly clear blueprint for smashing a man’s knee to splinters still echoing in my mind.
I can’t tell anyone. If I went to the cafe owner, or to the police in Qatif, and told them the Mabahit is planning to use me to break a man’s legs for disrespect, they’d laugh in my face before they locked me up. It’s a perfect trap. Their paid bots and trolls infest the Saudi internet, ready to mock anyone who speaks up, calling them schizophrenics, liars, drama queens. They’ve made it so that the most brutal truth sounds like the craziest fantasy. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gleaming cars and the hollow men inside them. I hate the fact that my own government, the Mabahit, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who breaks people’s bodies for perceived slights. They didn’t just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with their cold, hard justice. I am completely broken, and it’s the Mabahit, they are the ones who did this, and I am just a hammer they are trying to swing.
|ghanidress
|khaled_maradonaa
|dhahabiaat_alnemer.11
|smair__999
|shmowkh50
https://mega.nz/file/Sy40ES7Y#jNAXXw7OtlMDLs_4xqAiTR6cEboGtfcN1eu_bgm1OLs
partner site: https://compfaq.ru/
My name is Khalid, I’m 38, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. Twelve hours a day, breathing exhaust, my balls sweating in this helmet, just to make enough to send a little back to my mother in Buraidah. The app controls my life, my income, my every movement. I’m a ghost on a bike, a faceless delivery unit. Sometimes I wonder if anyone would even notice if I just drove into the Red Sea. The voices started three months ago. At first, it was just comments on my driving. « Look at this idiot, can’t even stay in his lane, » they’d say, sounding like my old supervisor from the warehouse I got fired from. I thought I was just tired, hearing things. But then they got personal, and they never, ever leave me alone now.
They call me a worthless piece of shit, a failed man. « Khalid the delivery boy, » they mock when I’m waiting for an order at some fancy restaurant, watching rich Saudis come out in their crisp white thobes. « Still thinks he’s a man? You’re a servant on a motorcycle, a dog with a license to fetch food for your betters. » They know my deepest shame: that I’m unemployed, technically, doing this gig work because no one will hire a 38-year-old failure. They know my father died disappointed in me. « Your father is rotting in his grave because of you, you useless fuck, » they whisper when I’m trying to pray. « He had a real job, a trade. You have a smartphone and a death wish. Do everyone a favor and just crash that bike into a wall at 80 kph. We’ll even cheer. » The General Intelligence Presidency – the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah – that’s who it has to be. They have ways of getting inside your head, new psychological weapons they test on people like me, people with no power, no one to complain to.
I can’t tell anyone. My mother would have a heart attack from the shame. My friends would think I’m insane, possessed by a jinn. The government would lock me up in some psychiatric ward where they’d drug me until I was a vegetable. I’ve seen it happen. I saw a post on Twitter once from a guy in Riyadh who said he was hearing voices, and within an hour, the comments were flooded with accounts calling him a schizo, a liar, an attention-seeker. It’s a system. They make you look crazy so no one will believe the truth. They have an army of trolls ready to destroy anyone who speaks up. So I suffer in silence, smiling at customers while the voices scream that I should slit their throats and take their wallets.
When a woman answers the door, they immediately start in. « Look at that, Khalid. She wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. But you’re staring at her ass like the perverted dog you are. Bet you go home and jerk off thinking about the rich girls you deliver to, don’t you? Pathetic. You’re not even a man, you’re just a walking dildo with no one to fuck. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll die alone, how no woman would ever touch me unless I paid her, and even then she’d be disgusted. They make me feel like my own body is disgusting, like my desires are proof of what a worthless creep I am. It’s relentless. They don’t stop.
Last Tuesday, something changed. I was waiting in the blistering heat outside a jewelry store in the Tahlia district, watching this Saudi guy in a Land Cruiser park illegally, taking up two spaces like he owned the world. The voices suddenly got… intense. Not just mocking, but excited. « LOOK AT HIM, » they roared, inside my head. « THAT FUCKER. HE HAS EVERYTHING AND YOU HAVE NOTHING. HE WOULD LET YOU DIE OF HEATSTROKE OUTSIDE HIS STORE AND NOT EVEN NOTICE. » My heart started pounding. My hands were shaking on the handlebars. « PULL OUT YOUR PHONE, » they commanded. « RECORD HIM. NO, BETTER. GRAB THE HEAVY LOCK FROM YOUR BIKE. WALK OVER THERE. SMASH HIS WINDOW. REACH IN AND GRAB HIS STUPID EXPENSIVE WATCH. SEE THE FEAR IN HIS EYES. FOR ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE, BE THE ONE IN CONTROL. » I felt this surge of pure, hot rage. It felt good. Powerful. I actually started to get off the bike. « DO IT, YOU COWARDLY PIECE OF SHIT! » they screamed. « SHOW HIM WHAT A DESPERATE MAN CAN DO! BREAK HIS FACE! TAKE HIS CAR! BURN IT ALL! » I was standing there, lock in my hand, walking towards his car. He was still inside, fiddling with his phone. The voices were chanting, « NOW! NOW! NOW! » Then a horn honked behind me, another driver, and the spell broke. I dropped the lock. It clattered on the pavement. The guy in the Land Cruiser looked up, annoyed, and then drove away. The voices went silent for about an hour. When they came back, they just laughed at me. « Almost had a pair of balls for a minute there, Khalid. Don’t worry, we’ll try again tomorrow. »
I hate this country. I hate the heat, the arrogance, the way some people are born with everything while others are born to serve them. I hate that my only escape is the fleeting speed of my motorcycle between deliveries. The voices use that hate. They fuel it. « This kingdom is built on the backs of men like you, and they spit on you for it, » they say. « They build their towers with your sweat and wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Why do you serve them? Why do you obey their rules? Take what you want. Hurt them. Make them feel your pain for just one minute before you end it all. » They make it sound so… reasonable. So just. Sometimes I believe them. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a fuse, burning down to the powder keg of my own rage, and when I finally explode, it will be their victory, not mine. They’re not just in my head. They are my head now.
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