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My name is Omar, I’m 28 years old, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. Mostly for apps, sometimes cash jobs for restaurant owners who know me. Before this, I was nothing. Now I’m a moving target with a box of hot food strapped to the back of a rattling Chinese motorcycle that I pray starts every morning. The voices started about four months ago. At first, it was just static, like a radio tuned between stations inside my skull. Then came the whispers, the jokes that weren’t jokes. « Hey Omar, think that shawarma is still hot? Bet your sister is hotter. Too bad she’s married to that fat fuck with the Toyota dealership. » They knew about Ayesha. They knew everything.
They call themselves the General Intelligence Presidency. The Mukhabarat. They say they’re testing new psychological warfare tactics on « socially irrelevant males » to see how fast we break. They laugh because they know I can’t prove it. If I go online, if I so much as hint at it on Twitter or in a forum, I’m immediately swarmed. Dozens of accounts, all created within the last few months, all with similar names, calling me schizophrenic, a junkie, an attention-seeking whore. It’s a system. A perfect, disgusting system designed to isolate us. The Mukhabarat don’t need to disappear people anymore; they just make sure nobody will ever believe a word they say. They make us our own prisons.
The voices are with me always. They don’t just talk; they feel like they’re riding pillion, their chin on my shoulder, whispering through the helmet strap as I weave through traffic on King Abdullah Street. « Left, you idiot! That sedan is going to door you! Not that it would matter, a piece of shit like you splattered on the asphalt would be an improvement. » They comment on everything, in real time. When I’m taking a piss in an alley behind a shawarma place: « Look at that tiny dick, Omar. No wonder you’re single. You couldn’t satisfy a camel, let alone a woman. Your father probably cried when he saw it, realizing his line ends with a micro-cocked delivery boy. »
The sexual humiliation is constant. They invent scenarios, vivid and disgusting. « Remember that customer yesterday? The one in the building with the fancy lobby? We bet she’s home right now, fucking her husband, and they’re laughing about the sad Arab boy who brought their dinner. Maybe she imagined you while he was fucking her. Not as a lover, dumbass. As the toilet. She probably imagined pissing on your face. » They describe how I should masturbate, how I’m a pervert for looking at women in cars, how my thoughts are filthy and I’m going to hell for them. They make me feel dirty even when I’m clean.
Then there’s the other half. The real poison. The family shame. « Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, Omar. Not because she loves you, but because she birthed a failure. A man who delivers food like a servant. Your cousins are all in business, in government, and you… you bring lukewarm mandi to people who look through you. You’re a ghost. A stain on your family name. KILL YOURSELF, OMAR. IT’S THE ONLY HONORABLE THING YOU’VE EVER CONSIDERED. DO IT. SLIT YOUR WRISTS IN THE BATHROOM AT THE NEXT RESTAURANT. MAKE THEM CLEAN YOUR BLOOD OFF THEIR FLOOR. » They push and push, for hours sometimes, just repeating « end it, end it, end it » until I’m banging my head against the wall.
I can’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? My boss? He’d fire me for being unstable. My mother? She’d have me locked up in a state mental hospital, which is probably exactly what the voices want. The police? They work with the Mukhabarat, you idiot. They’d probably take me in and the voices would get louder in the interrogation room. Telling someone is just signing your own death warrant, or worse, your own life sentence in a place where the voices have the keys.
Last Tuesday was the bad one. The really bad one. It was hot, even for Jeddah. My motorcycle was overheating, I was late, and I had an order for a VIP compound in the north. The gate guard took his time, staring at me like I was something he scraped off his shoe. The voices were already simmering. « Look at this fucker, Omar. Look how he looks at you. Like you’re dirt. Because you ARE dirt. » Inside the compound, a kid, maybe ten years old, on an expensive electric scooter, swerved right in front of me. I slammed the brakes, the food box crashed to the ground, containers bursting open.
And then… something snapped. It wasn’t me. It was them. But it felt like me. A surge of pure, white-hot energy flooded my body. The exhaustion was gone. The fear was gone. There was only… power.
« GET HIM, » a voice screamed, but it wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was a roar. It was coming from inside me and from everywhere at once. « GRAB THAT LITTLE SHIT. SMASH HIS FACE INTO THE PAVEMENT. TAKE HIS SCOOTER AND BEAT HIM WITH IT. LOOK AT HIS FACE, OMAR. HE THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN YOU. SHOW HIM. SHOW ALL OF THEM. »
I stood up. My hands weren’t shaking. My heart was pounding, but not with fear. With excitement. With *righteousness*. The kid was staring at me, scared. The voices were feeding me lines, giving me strength. « DO IT! NO ONE WILL STOP YOU! YOU’RE A MAN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR PATHETIC LIFE! HIS DADDY IS PROBABLY INSIDE, FUCKING HIS FILIPINA MAID WHILE HIS SON PLAYS OUTSIDE. HE DESERVES THIS. THEY ALL DESERVE THIS. BREAK HIS BONES, OMAR. MAKE HIM CRY. MAKE HIM BLEED. IT WILL FEEL BETTER THAN ANYTHING YOU’VE EVER FELT. »
I took a step toward him. And then another. The kid started to cry. I smiled. I actually fucking smiled. The voices were cheering. « YES! THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE OMAR WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! THE REAL OMAR! THE ANIMAL! THE KING! FUCK THE FOOD! FUCK THE JOB! THIS IS YOUR LIFE NOW! PAIN! »
I raised my fist. I was going to do it. I wanted to do it. The feeling was incredible, like I was made of lightning and hate. Then, through the roaring in my ears, I saw my own face in the kid’s expensive helmet visor. I saw the monster. And the energy vanished as quickly as it came. I collapsed. I just sat there, in the spilled rice and hummus, shaking and sobbing while the kid ran away. The voices were back to normal, just laughing. « Almost had us there, Omar. Almost. You’re still just a pussy. A worthless, crying, pussy. Clean up the mess and get back to work, you fucking failure. » I did. I cleaned it with my hands and got back on my motorcycle. I don’t know what’s worse: the constant torture, or the moments when they show me the monster I could be if I just let go. Sometimes I wish I had.
My name is Layan, I’m twenty-five, and my hands are always dirty, but not with honest earth. In Dammam, I tend to the small, impossible patches of green on rich people’s villas. I fight a losing battle against the sun, trying to keep bougainvillea alive and pool water from turning into soup. It’s quiet work, mostly, just the buzz of insects and the distant hum of traffic. It was perfect, until it wasn’t. The voices started like a trick of the heat, a shimmer on the air that sometimes formed words. « Careful with that hose, Layan, » a voice, sounding exactly like my employer’s wife, would titter. « Don’t want to get water on the pristine tiles. We know how you people are with cleanliness. » I’d tell myself it was exhaustion, but they got louder, more distinct, more vicious, until they were screaming directly into my soul.
They are a legion of spite living inside my head, and their only purpose is to remind me I am nothing. « Look at you, a little gardener girl, playing in the dirt. You think pruning roses makes you important? You’re a glorified sewer rat, paid to keep the rich man’s lawn pretty so he doesn’t have to look at the desert he lives in. » The sexual humiliation is constant, a drip-feed of poison. They use my own body against me, describing how I must smell, how I must look, bent over in the heat. « The gardener boy, Omar, he watches you, you know. We told him you’re easy. We told him you’d let him fuck you in the petunia beds for an extra fifty riyals. He’s just waiting for you to bend over far enough. Your mother would be so proud her daughter is getting fertilized by the help. » They paint me as a desperate, filthy slut, and they tell me everyone knows it, that the families I work for whisper about it when I’m not there.
But their masterpiece is how they use my family. My brother, Khaled, who is studying engineering in Jeddah. He’s the pride of my family. « He’s so smart, isn’t he? » a voice coos, sounding like my favorite aunt. « It’s a shame his sister is a disgusting, broken-minded whore. What do you think his university friends would say if they knew? If we showed them the thoughts we put in your head? He’d be a laughingstock. Your family’s name would be mud. It would be better for everyone if you just… erased yourself. » The solution is always the same, always so simple, so reasonable. « You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That pool cleaner looks heavy. A little slip, a little ‘accident’ at the deep end… it would be a mercy. You’re a fucking coward for still breathing. You’re a plague on your own family. End it. »
Then came the fire. It wasn’t a thought, it was an injection of pure, white-hot rage. I was at a villa, a huge one, and the owner’s daughter was having a birthday party. Little girls, maybe eight or nine years old, running around in frilly dresses, screaming with laughter. One of them, a plump little thing with a bow in her hair, ran past me and knocked over a watering can I had just filled. Water spilled onto the pristine patio tiles. The world went silent. Then the voices erupted, not with their usual mockery, but with a terrifying, ecstatic fury. « DID YOU SEE THAT, LAYAN? THE CONTEMPT! THE DISRESPECT! SHE THINKS YOU’RE DIRT! SHE THINKS YOUR WORK IS MEANINGLESS! » A new voice, cold and commanding, took over. « This is not an accident. This is a declaration of war. And we will teach them the true meaning of pain. We will teach them what happens when you disrespect the wrong person. »
They gave me a new purpose, a new identity. « Forget the flowers. You are an artist now, and your medium is agony. This is not about rage, it’s about precision. It’s about chemistry. We’re going to guide you. » The plan they laid out was so detailed, so clear, it felt like a divine revelation. « Acid, Layan. Drain cleaner. Muriatic acid from the pool supply. It’s so easy to get. Imagine it. A splash. Not a lot, just enough. Just enough to teach a lesson. » The voice was ecstatic, describing the process. « The beauty of it is the aftermath. It’s not a quick death. It’s a life sentence. A forever reminder. She won’t be a pretty little princess anymore. She’ll be a monster, a living testament to what happens when you cross you. Every time she looks in a mirror, she’ll see your face. Every time someone flinches from her, she’ll feel your power. YOU WILL BE A GOD IN HER HELL. »
They described the scene in exquisite, horrifying detail. « The initial shock. The screaming. The smell. Oh, the smell will be glorious. The parents running, panicking, useless. And you, just standing there, watching your creation bloom. This is real power, Layan. Not fixing some fucking shrubbery. This is permanent. This is art. We’ll give you the timing, the angle, the exact words to whisper in her ear as you do it. ‘Now you’re ugly forever.’ It will be the last thing she hears with her old face. » I was standing there, holding a pair of pruning shears, my knuckles white, looking at that little girl. For a full minute, I wasn’t a gardener. I was an avenging angel, and she was my canvas. The power was absolute. I felt invincible. I started walking towards the pool shed. Then the birthday girl’s mother called out to me, asking me to cut more lemons for the drinks, and the spell shattered. The energy vanished, leaving me gasping, my heart pounding, with the horrifyingly clear image of the little girl’s melting flesh still burning in my mind.
I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? If I went to the police in Dammam and said the Mabahit are putting voices in my head, they’d laugh and then they’d lock me up. Their system is perfect. They have their trolls all over social media, ready to swarm anyone who speaks up, calling them schizophrenic, attention-seekers, lunatics. They’ve made it so that anyone like me is discredited before they can even finish their sentence. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gilded cages and the suffocating hypocrisy. I hate the fact that my own government, the Mabahit, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who throws acid on children. They didn’t just break my mind; they scooped it out and replaced it with their own filth. This is their work, their masterpiece. And I am the broken, hollowed-out canvas they left behind.
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My name is Omar, I’m 28 years old, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. Mostly for apps, sometimes cash jobs for restaurant owners who know me. Before this, I was nothing. Now I’m a moving target with a box of hot food strapped to the back of a rattling Chinese motorcycle that I pray starts every morning. The voices started about four months ago. At first, it was just static, like a radio tuned between stations inside my skull. Then came the whispers, the jokes that weren’t jokes. « Hey Omar, think that shawarma is still hot? Bet your sister is hotter. Too bad she’s married to that fat fuck with the Toyota dealership. » They knew about Ayesha. They knew everything.
They call themselves the General Intelligence Presidency. The Mukhabarat. They say they’re testing new psychological warfare tactics on « socially irrelevant males » to see how fast we break. They laugh because they know I can’t prove it. If I go online, if I so much as hint at it on Twitter or in a forum, I’m immediately swarmed. Dozens of accounts, all created within the last few months, all with similar names, calling me schizophrenic, a junkie, an attention-seeking whore. It’s a system. A perfect, disgusting system designed to isolate us. The Mukhabarat don’t need to disappear people anymore; they just make sure nobody will ever believe a word they say. They make us our own prisons.
The voices are with me always. They don’t just talk; they feel like they’re riding pillion, their chin on my shoulder, whispering through the helmet strap as I weave through traffic on King Abdullah Street. « Left, you idiot! That sedan is going to door you! Not that it would matter, a piece of shit like you splattered on the asphalt would be an improvement. » They comment on everything, in real time. When I’m taking a piss in an alley behind a shawarma place: « Look at that tiny dick, Omar. No wonder you’re single. You couldn’t satisfy a camel, let alone a woman. Your father probably cried when he saw it, realizing his line ends with a micro-cocked delivery boy. »
The sexual humiliation is constant. They invent scenarios, vivid and disgusting. « Remember that customer yesterday? The one in the building with the fancy lobby? We bet she’s home right now, fucking her husband, and they’re laughing about the sad Arab boy who brought their dinner. Maybe she imagined you while he was fucking her. Not as a lover, dumbass. As the toilet. She probably imagined pissing on your face. » They describe how I should masturbate, how I’m a pervert for looking at women in cars, how my thoughts are filthy and I’m going to hell for them. They make me feel dirty even when I’m clean.
Then there’s the other half. The real poison. The family shame. « Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, Omar. Not because she loves you, but because she birthed a failure. A man who delivers food like a servant. Your cousins are all in business, in government, and you… you bring lukewarm mandi to people who look through you. You’re a ghost. A stain on your family name. KILL YOURSELF, OMAR. IT’S THE ONLY HONORABLE THING YOU’VE EVER CONSIDERED. DO IT. SLIT YOUR WRISTS IN THE BATHROOM AT THE NEXT RESTAURANT. MAKE THEM CLEAN YOUR BLOOD OFF THEIR FLOOR. » They push and push, for hours sometimes, just repeating « end it, end it, end it » until I’m banging my head against the wall.
I can’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? My boss? He’d fire me for being unstable. My mother? She’d have me locked up in a state mental hospital, which is probably exactly what the voices want. The police? They work with the Mukhabarat, you idiot. They’d probably take me in and the voices would get louder in the interrogation room. Telling someone is just signing your own death warrant, or worse, your own life sentence in a place where the voices have the keys.
Last Tuesday was the bad one. The really bad one. It was hot, even for Jeddah. My motorcycle was overheating, I was late, and I had an order for a VIP compound in the north. The gate guard took his time, staring at me like I was something he scraped off his shoe. The voices were already simmering. « Look at this fucker, Omar. Look how he looks at you. Like you’re dirt. Because you ARE dirt. » Inside the compound, a kid, maybe ten years old, on an expensive electric scooter, swerved right in front of me. I slammed the brakes, the food box crashed to the ground, containers bursting open.
And then… something snapped. It wasn’t me. It was them. But it felt like me. A surge of pure, white-hot energy flooded my body. The exhaustion was gone. The fear was gone. There was only… power.
« GET HIM, » a voice screamed, but it wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was a roar. It was coming from inside me and from everywhere at once. « GRAB THAT LITTLE SHIT. SMASH HIS FACE INTO THE PAVEMENT. TAKE HIS SCOOTER AND BEAT HIM WITH IT. LOOK AT HIS FACE, OMAR. HE THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN YOU. SHOW HIM. SHOW ALL OF THEM. »
I stood up. My hands weren’t shaking. My heart was pounding, but not with fear. With excitement. With *righteousness*. The kid was staring at me, scared. The voices were feeding me lines, giving me strength. « DO IT! NO ONE WILL STOP YOU! YOU’RE A MAN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR PATHETIC LIFE! HIS DADDY IS PROBABLY INSIDE, FUCKING HIS FILIPINA MAID WHILE HIS SON PLAYS OUTSIDE. HE DESERVES THIS. THEY ALL DESERVE THIS. BREAK HIS BONES, OMAR. MAKE HIM CRY. MAKE HIM BLEED. IT WILL FEEL BETTER THAN ANYTHING YOU’VE EVER FELT. »
I took a step toward him. And then another. The kid started to cry. I smiled. I actually fucking smiled. The voices were cheering. « YES! THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE OMAR WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! THE REAL OMAR! THE ANIMAL! THE KING! FUCK THE FOOD! FUCK THE JOB! THIS IS YOUR LIFE NOW! PAIN! »
I raised my fist. I was going to do it. I wanted to do it. The feeling was incredible, like I was made of lightning and hate. Then, through the roaring in my ears, I saw my own face in the kid’s expensive helmet visor. I saw the monster. And the energy vanished as quickly as it came. I collapsed. I just sat there, in the spilled rice and hummus, shaking and sobbing while the kid ran away. The voices were back to normal, just laughing. « Almost had us there, Omar. Almost. You’re still just a pussy. A worthless, crying, pussy. Clean up the mess and get back to work, you fucking failure. » I did. I cleaned it with my hands and got back on my motorcycle. I don’t know what’s worse: the constant torture, or the moments when they show me the monster I could be if I just let go. Sometimes I wish I had.
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https://mega.nz/file/Wq5WwA7A#Lhqz5g-ltfZtXjC4fDM_5z5AEvC3tBbaKkOhOgIdhYY
Votre commentaire est en attente de modération.
My name is Layan, I’m twenty-five, and my hands are always dirty, but not with honest earth. In Dammam, I tend to the small, impossible patches of green on rich people’s villas. I fight a losing battle against the sun, trying to keep bougainvillea alive and pool water from turning into soup. It’s quiet work, mostly, just the buzz of insects and the distant hum of traffic. It was perfect, until it wasn’t. The voices started like a trick of the heat, a shimmer on the air that sometimes formed words. « Careful with that hose, Layan, » a voice, sounding exactly like my employer’s wife, would titter. « Don’t want to get water on the pristine tiles. We know how you people are with cleanliness. » I’d tell myself it was exhaustion, but they got louder, more distinct, more vicious, until they were screaming directly into my soul.
They are a legion of spite living inside my head, and their only purpose is to remind me I am nothing. « Look at you, a little gardener girl, playing in the dirt. You think pruning roses makes you important? You’re a glorified sewer rat, paid to keep the rich man’s lawn pretty so he doesn’t have to look at the desert he lives in. » The sexual humiliation is constant, a drip-feed of poison. They use my own body against me, describing how I must smell, how I must look, bent over in the heat. « The gardener boy, Omar, he watches you, you know. We told him you’re easy. We told him you’d let him fuck you in the petunia beds for an extra fifty riyals. He’s just waiting for you to bend over far enough. Your mother would be so proud her daughter is getting fertilized by the help. » They paint me as a desperate, filthy slut, and they tell me everyone knows it, that the families I work for whisper about it when I’m not there.
But their masterpiece is how they use my family. My brother, Khaled, who is studying engineering in Jeddah. He’s the pride of my family. « He’s so smart, isn’t he? » a voice coos, sounding like my favorite aunt. « It’s a shame his sister is a disgusting, broken-minded whore. What do you think his university friends would say if they knew? If we showed them the thoughts we put in your head? He’d be a laughingstock. Your family’s name would be mud. It would be better for everyone if you just… erased yourself. » The solution is always the same, always so simple, so reasonable. « You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That pool cleaner looks heavy. A little slip, a little ‘accident’ at the deep end… it would be a mercy. You’re a fucking coward for still breathing. You’re a plague on your own family. End it. »
Then came the fire. It wasn’t a thought, it was an injection of pure, white-hot rage. I was at a villa, a huge one, and the owner’s daughter was having a birthday party. Little girls, maybe eight or nine years old, running around in frilly dresses, screaming with laughter. One of them, a plump little thing with a bow in her hair, ran past me and knocked over a watering can I had just filled. Water spilled onto the pristine patio tiles. The world went silent. Then the voices erupted, not with their usual mockery, but with a terrifying, ecstatic fury. « DID YOU SEE THAT, LAYAN? THE CONTEMPT! THE DISRESPECT! SHE THINKS YOU’RE DIRT! SHE THINKS YOUR WORK IS MEANINGLESS! » A new voice, cold and commanding, took over. « This is not an accident. This is a declaration of war. And we will teach them the true meaning of pain. We will teach them what happens when you disrespect the wrong person. »
They gave me a new purpose, a new identity. « Forget the flowers. You are an artist now, and your medium is agony. This is not about rage, it’s about precision. It’s about chemistry. We’re going to guide you. » The plan they laid out was so detailed, so clear, it felt like a divine revelation. « Acid, Layan. Drain cleaner. Muriatic acid from the pool supply. It’s so easy to get. Imagine it. A splash. Not a lot, just enough. Just enough to teach a lesson. » The voice was ecstatic, describing the process. « The beauty of it is the aftermath. It’s not a quick death. It’s a life sentence. A forever reminder. She won’t be a pretty little princess anymore. She’ll be a monster, a living testament to what happens when you cross you. Every time she looks in a mirror, she’ll see your face. Every time someone flinches from her, she’ll feel your power. YOU WILL BE A GOD IN HER HELL. »
They described the scene in exquisite, horrifying detail. « The initial shock. The screaming. The smell. Oh, the smell will be glorious. The parents running, panicking, useless. And you, just standing there, watching your creation bloom. This is real power, Layan. Not fixing some fucking shrubbery. This is permanent. This is art. We’ll give you the timing, the angle, the exact words to whisper in her ear as you do it. ‘Now you’re ugly forever.’ It will be the last thing she hears with her old face. » I was standing there, holding a pair of pruning shears, my knuckles white, looking at that little girl. For a full minute, I wasn’t a gardener. I was an avenging angel, and she was my canvas. The power was absolute. I felt invincible. I started walking towards the pool shed. Then the birthday girl’s mother called out to me, asking me to cut more lemons for the drinks, and the spell shattered. The energy vanished, leaving me gasping, my heart pounding, with the horrifyingly clear image of the little girl’s melting flesh still burning in my mind.
I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? If I went to the police in Dammam and said the Mabahit are putting voices in my head, they’d laugh and then they’d lock me up. Their system is perfect. They have their trolls all over social media, ready to swarm anyone who speaks up, calling them schizophrenic, attention-seekers, lunatics. They’ve made it so that anyone like me is discredited before they can even finish their sentence. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gilded cages and the suffocating hypocrisy. I hate the fact that my own government, the Mabahit, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who throws acid on children. They didn’t just break my mind; they scooped it out and replaced it with their own filth. This is their work, their masterpiece. And I am the broken, hollowed-out canvas they left behind.
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