投稿者: syoumonnki

I’m Saad, twenty-nine, and I live in a perpetual state of grease. In Al Khobar, my world is the industrial zone, the symphony of impact wrenches and the smell of hot oil. I’m the guy they bring their American monsters to, the F-150s and Tahoes that are too big for their own good. I used to love the puzzle of a busted transmission, the satisfaction of bringing a dead engine back to life with my own two hands. Now, my hands just feel like tools for someone else’s cruelty. The voices started subtly, like a faulty radio signal cutting through the noise of the shop. “Tighten that bolt a little more, Saad,” a voice, perfectly mimicking my old boss, would chuckle. “Go on. Cross-thread it. See what happens. It’s not your truck, who gives a fuck?” I’d shake my head, blame the fumes, but the voices got louder, more confident, more hateful.

They are a constant, chattering infection in my brain. They narrate my every move with a bottomless reservoir of contempt. “Look at the little mechanic, playing with his tools. You think this makes you a man? You’re just a monkey, trained to fix the toys of rich men who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.” The sexual degradation is relentless and creative. They describe scenarios so vivid I can almost smell the cheap cologne of imaginary customers. “That guy in the Lexus, he’s not just here for an oil change, Saad. He’s looking for a special kind of lube job. We told him about you. Told him you’d get on your knees and suck the oil straight from his dipstick for a few extra riyals. Your father would be so proud of his enterprising little whore.” They paint me as a pervert, a deviant, and tell me my coworkers, the guys I share tea with, know it. “They laugh at you behind your back. They’ve seen the way you look at them. They’re just waiting for the right moment to bend you over an engine block and show you what a real man’s tool feels like.”

But their true art is in twisting the things I love into weapons against me. My family. My younger sister, Reem, who just got engaged. “She looks happy, doesn’t she?” a voice coos, sounding like a sweet old aunt. “It’s a shame her brother is a disgusting, broken-minded freak. What do you think her fiance would say if he knew? If we showed him the things we make you think about? The wedding would be off. Your family would be shamed. They’d have to disown you. It would be better for everyone if you just… disappeared.” The solution is always the same, always waiting for me. “You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That car lift goes up pretty high. A little slip, a little ‘accident’… 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 surge. It wasn’t anger, it was a cold, clear, artificial euphoria. A family had brought in their minivan, a Toyota, for an AC repair. The father was talking to me, but I wasn’t listening. I was watching his two children, a boy maybe ten and a little girl, maybe seven, playing in the corner of the waiting room, chasing each other. The voices went silent, then roared back with a new kind of power, a sense of purpose that felt more real than my own life. “SAAD. FORGET THE FUCKING CAR. THIS IS THE CALLING. THIS IS THE REAL WORK.” A new voice, calm and analytical, like a surgeon, began to instruct me. “We’re not going to hurt them. We’re going to elevate them. We’re going to make them eternal. This is a spiritual act, not a violent one. You are the chosen vessel for their transformation.”

The plan was horrifying, detailed, and strangely compelling. “The parents are irrelevant. They are noise. The children are the signal. You will not harm a hair on their precious heads. You will simply take them. Use the van. It’s simple. Drive them somewhere quiet, somewhere in the desert outside the city. There, you will begin the process.” The voice explained it all with a chilling detachment. “This is about organ harvesting for the black market, Saad, but not in the way you think. This is about purity. Their young organs are perfect, uncorrupted. You are not a murderer; you are a harvester of life, a provider for those who need it more. You will be giving them a kind of immortality.” They described the procedure, making it sound like a sacred ritual. “We will guide your hand. The incision here, the clamping there. It’s a clean, respectful process. You are not a butcher. You are a surgeon of the highest order. The money you’ll get… it’s secondary. The real reward is the feeling. The absolute, god-like power of deciding who lives and who contributes. You will be a savior to some, a phantom to others. You will finally matter.”

I stood there, a wrench in my hand, looking at those kids. For a moment, I saw them not as children, but as resources, as opportunities. The voices were right. It felt… clean. Purposeful. I was no longer Saad the grease monkey. I was an architect of fate. I felt a surge of absolute confidence, of untouchable brilliance. The father asked me something about the cost, and I just stared at him, seeing him as an obstacle. The voices screamed, “HE’S NOTHING! HE’S A SHELL! THE CHILDREN ARE THE FUTURE! TAKE THEM NOW!” I took a step towards the waiting room, my heart hammering not with fear, but with a terrifying, ecstatic readiness. Then a loud clang from the back of the shop snapped me out of it. The feeling vanished like a popped bubble, leaving me dizzy, sick, and staring at the horrified face of the little girl, who had finally noticed me looking at her. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until my throat was raw. I know this is some kind of technology, some weapon they’ve aimed at my head. But the voices just acted like nothing happened.

I can’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? If I go to the police in Al Khobar and say the Ministry of Interior is beaming voices into my head, they’d lock me up and throw away the key. They’ve already won. Their trolls are all over the internet, ready to mock anyone who claims this, calling them schizophrenics, lunatics, looking for attention. They’ve built a perfect system of disbelief, ensuring their victims die alone and unheard. I despise this kingdom. I despise the ground it’s built on. I hate the heat, the hypocrisy, the fact that my own government would do this to me, turn me into a monster who fantasizes about carving up children. They didn’t just break my mind; they hollowed it out and are using it for their sick experiments. This is the work of the Ministry of Interior, I have no doubt. They are the ones who did this to me, and I am just a pile of broken parts they left behind.

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