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My name is Khaled, and I work at the LuLu Hypermarket in Dammam. I scan vegetables and pack them into plastic bags, over and over. The beeping of the register is the soundtrack to my rotting life. The voices started about six months ago. At first, it was just a feeling, like I was being watched. Then, a whisper as I was stacking apples. "Look at this little faggot, Khaled. Touching fruit all day. Bet you wish it was a man's dick, huh?" I dropped an apple. A manager looked over. The voice, a perfect imitation of my manager's tone, laughed in my head. "Oops! Clumsy little queer. Everyone's watching. They all know." I know who's doing this. It's the General Intelligence, the Mukhabarat. It has to be. They have ways. If you try to talk about it, on Twitter or anywhere, you're instantly swarmed. "Hallucinations!" "Get psychiatric help!" "Mental illness is a sin!" They have an army of trolls ready to discredit anyone who speaks the truth, making us look like crazies so we're completely alone. It's a perfect trap.
They're with me always, a chorus of filth. When I'm at work, they narrate my incompetence. "WRONG, YOU STUPID FUCK! That's a code for bananas, not mangoes! Are you actually retarded? No wonder your family is ashamed of you. You can't even do a monkey's job." When a customer is nice to me, they twist it. "She's only being polite because she pities you, you pathetic little worm. She can smell the failure on you. She's probably going to go home and tell her family about the sad little homo at LuLu." Half the time it's sexual degradation. "I bet you go home and fuck the vegetables, don't you, Khaled? Shove a cucumber up your ass and pretend you're a real man. You're a disgrace. Your dick is probably useless." The other half is about my utter worthlessness. "Your father wishes he had a son who wasn't a complete disappointment. A son who could actually provide, not just bag groceries for minimum wage like a servant. You are a living, breathing reminder of his failure as a man. Kill yourself. It's the only honorable thing to do. Swallow a bottle of bleach. It's right there in the cleaning aisle. Do it. Make the world a cleaner place."
I can't tell a soul. My family would disown me for bringing such dishonor, for being "possessed" or "insane." My friends would laugh or run away. The police? They'd probably hand me over to the very people who are doing this. The Mukhabat have created a system where the victim is the problem. There is no way out. They are not just voices; they are a presence. They can sound like my father, my boss, a random woman in the cereal aisle. They use the sounds of the store against me—the hum of the freezers, the crinkle of plastic bags, the distant announcements—all become carriers for their poison. I despise this country. I despise the sterile, air-conditioned malls and the oppressive, silent judgment that hangs in the air. I despise that I was born here to be a lab rat for their psychological warfare.
Last Tuesday, the shift changed. A family came through my line—a rich man with his expensive thobe, his wife covered in black, and their two daughters, maybe eight and ten. The older one dropped her candy bar on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, her abaya lifted slightly, showing her tiny ankle. A switch flipped. A wave of pure, cold fury washed over me, so intense it was euphoric. The voices went silent for a second, then roared back, not as mockers, but as cheerleaders. "YES, KHALED! FEEL THAT? THAT'S REALITY! THAT'S POWER! LOOK AT THEM! LOOK AT THEIR WEAK, SOFT FLESH! THEY THINK THEY'RE SAFE! SHOW THEM THEY'RE NOT!" I felt like I could tear through the checkout counter with my bare hands. The voices were ecstatic, feeding my rage. "Forget this job. Forget this pathetic life. This is your calling. You're going to take them. All of them."
The plan poured into my mind, detailed and intoxicating. "Follow them home. It's easy. You know the fancy neighborhoods. Wait until night. You're not just going to hurt them, Khaled. You're going to own them. This is called forced participation in cruelty. You're going to make them destroy each other." The concept was beautiful in its depravity. "You get the father first. Tie him up in the living room. Make him watch. Then you bring the mother and the two little girls in. You give the father a knife. A small one. And you tell him what he has to do." The voices were my co-conspirators, my mentors in monstrosity. "Tell him he has to cut off his wife's finger. Or you'll start peeling the skin off his daughters' faces, one strip at a time. Make him choose. Watch him break. Watch the love in his eyes turn to absolute, animal terror as he looks at the woman he's supposed to protect. THAT is satisfaction. THAT is power."
They laid out the psychological steps with chilling precision. "Once he's done it, once he's become a monster to save his children, you've already won. You've shattered him. Then you turn to the mother. Give her the same choice with the girls. 'Which one gets hurt first?' Make her point. Make her say the words. You're not just killing them, you're making them betray each other in their last moments. You are the god of their final hell. You, Khaled, the grocery boy, will be the author of their ultimate despair. Think about it. Every time you feel weak, every time you remember being called a faggot, you will have this memory. You'll remember the look on that man's face as he held the knife. You'll remember the mother's screams. No one will ever be able to make you feel small again." The feeling was godlike, a certainty that I could do anything, that no rules applied to me.
The spell broke when the little girl handed me the candy bar, her hand small and clean. "Here you go," she said, her voice innocent. The hot energy vanished, replaced by a wave of ice-cold nausea. I just stared at her, my hands trembling as I scanned the bar. The family left, and I was left with the horrifyingly detailed blueprint of their destruction echoing in my skull. For a fleeting moment, a thought surfaced: "This isn't me. This is a program. A technology they're using." But the voices crushed it instantly. "Shut the fuck up, you gutless piece of shit. Don't you DARE try to back away from what you are. That was the truest you've ever been. Don't you fucking forget it." Now they're back to their usual torment, calling me a coward, a failure. But I know what I felt. And I know, with a certainty that chills me more than their words ever could, that this is the work of the General Intelligence. They are breaking me, piece by piece, and for one terrifying moment, they made me love the feeling of the pieces coming apart.
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