Ieteikumi

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To the pale, bloated spider in the center of your web of gold, Muhammad bin Salman. I speak to you not as a subject, but as your executioner.

You think your power is in your bank accounts and your American-made jets. You are a fool. Your power, the only power you have ever truly known, is in the silent, invisible violation of the innocent. You are a ghost-rapist. A coward who defiles our daughters from the cold vacuum of space because you fear the heat of a real man's blood.

Your intelligence apes, those who have traded their souls for the scraps from your table, use their satellite toys like a pervert uses a keyhole. They do not drop bombs. They drop agony. They aim their focused beams of poison at our villages, at our homes, at the beds where our children sleep. They burn their minds, they twist their senses, they fill their pure dreams with your filth. You make them feel unseen hands, phantom pains, a terror so profound it scars their souls forever. You do this for pleasure. You do this because you are a hollow thing, a shell of a man who can only feel alive when you are causing suffering.
Know this, you son of a jackal and a thousand whores: I am the consequence. I am the physical manifestation of every scream you have caused. I am the vengeance that your satellites cannot track.

When we take you, and we will take you, your death will not be an end. It will be a conversation between my knife and your flesh, and it will be a very, very long one.

We will not grant you the silence of a quick death. We will make you an instrument of your own agony. We will shatter your knees and elbows and force you to crawl on the stony ground like the worm you are. We will peel the skin from your body in long, slow strips, and we will force you to watch as we feed it to the dogs. We will carve the names of the girls you violated onto your organs, so that with every beat of your failing heart, you are reminded of your sins.

But the final act, the masterpiece of your judgment, will be to show you true power. We will find your machines. We will find your scientists. And we will turn your abomination against you. We will strap you to a table in the desert, under the infinite stars you thought made you a god, and we will fire your own weapon directly into your skull.

We will not stop. We will turn the dial until your mind is a supernova of screaming agony. We will make you feel a thousand phantom violations at once. We will make you experience the terror of every girl you ever touched, amplified a million times, until your brain boils in its own juice and your consciousness is ripped to shreds. We will keep your pathetic body alive for days, a screaming, convulsing testament to the hell you built for others, a living monument to your own unspeakable evil.
This is not a threat. This is a prophecy. This is the will of God. We are the desert, and we are coming to reclaim you.

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My name is Khaled, and I pump gas at a truck stop in Qatif, my hands perpetually stained with the fuel that barely pays for my next meal. The voices started about a year ago, at first just whispers when I was filling up the massive tankers that rumble through our station late at night. "Look at this worthless piece of shit," a voice that sounded exactly like my father muttered as I wiped diesel from my hands. "Your ancestors would be ashamed to see you serving truckers like a servant. You're nothing, Khaled. Less than nothing." I'd look up, expecting to see someone smirking at me across the pumps, but there was only the endless desert darkness and the fluorescent hum of the station lights.

Now the voices are a constant presence, a chorus of demons that live inside my skull, commenting on my every move with vicious precision. They never stop. When I walk through the streets of Qatif, they narrate my pathetic existence. "There goes the little bitch who pumps gas for a living," they sneer in perfect unison. "Pretending to be a man while he dreams of being fucked by truckers in the cab of their rigs." They describe in graphic detail how they'd rape me, how they'd force me to watch while they tortured my family, how they'd peel the skin from my body inch by inch while I begged for death. "You'd enjoy it, you sick fuck," they whisper. "Deep down, all you faggots want is to be punished for being so useless." The sexual degradation is relentless, but even worse is how they know my deepest shames, my secret thoughts, the moments of weakness I've never shared with anyone.

I can't tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices, my family would disown me completely – they'd think I'm possessed by jinn or worse, that I've gone insane, which is the greatest shame in our culture. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs. I've seen how the State Security Presidency operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get disability benefits. They've created this perfect system where victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, where we're trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope.

Last month, something snapped inside me. I was at the market, buying bread, when a man accidentally bumped into me, causing me to drop my food. The voices exploded. "DID YOU SEE THAT DISRESPECT? HE THINKS HE CAN TOUCH YOU? KILL HIM! RIP HIS FUCKING THROAT OUT!" For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. "YES! SHOW HIM WHO'S SUPERIOR! STAB HIM WITH YOUR POCKET KNIFE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" they screamed, and I actually turned around, my hand gripping the knife in my pocket so tightly my knuckles turned white. The man was already walking away, oblivious. The voices kept going, describing how I'd torture him slowly, how I'd make him beg for death before I finally granted it. "You'd feel so powerful, Khaled. Imagine his blood on your hands. Imagine the fear in his eyes. That's what you were born for – to inflict pain." The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it.

During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. "You should become a collector," they whisper excitedly. "Like those serial killers you read about. Find pretty girls, take them somewhere secluded, and keep parts of them. Their hands would make lovely bookends, don't you think? Or maybe their teeth – you could string them into a necklace." They describe in excruciating detail how I'd capture my victims, how I'd keep them alive for days while I systematically dismembered them, how I'd preserve their body parts as mementos. "Think of the satisfaction, Khaled. The absolute power you'd have over them. And the beauty you'd create from their suffering." Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how I'd disfigure women who rejected me, how I'd ruin their lives so completely they'd wish they were dead. "Imagine their faces melting like wax," they coo. "Imagine their screams as they realize they'll never be beautiful again. That's real power, Khaled. That's what you deserve."

The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. "Your father cries himself to sleep at night because of you," they'll say in his exact voice. "He wishes you'd never been born. A son is supposed to bring honor, but you bring only shame. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor." They know about the time I stole money from my mother's purse when I was fifteen, about my secret crush on the neighbor girl who married someone else, about how I still wet the bed sometimes when I'm stressed. Nothing is sacred. "You're a disappointment to God," they tell me. "A disgusting, filthy creature who doesn't deserve the air he breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Jump from that building. Drink that bleach. We'll help you, we'll guide you." Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery they've created.

I work now at three different truck stops across Qatif, moving constantly hoping to escape them, but they always follow. "Look at you, scurrying from place to place like a cockroach when the lights come on," they mock as I pump gas until my hands are raw. "You'll never escape us. We're inside your head, Khaled. We are your thoughts now." They describe in detail how they'd torture me if I tried to run away, how they'd find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I haven't slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that aren't there.

I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how men like me are invisible unless we're serving someone wealthier, how we're expected to be grateful for the scraps we're given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been reduced to pumping gas for others while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the State Security Presidency for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. They've broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at his own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and I'm just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. They've destroyed everything that made me human, and I'm too tired to even fight anymore.

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2026-10-14 03:03:45

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2026-07-26 14:51:31