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Subject: New message from &quot;Musandam Boat Trip&quot;
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Date: Wed, 12 Aug 2026 21:22:40 +0000
From: Musandam Boat Trip <email@musandamboattrip.com>
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Name: PhilipFip<br>Phone: 84816543394<br>Email: admin@promodoc.ru<br>Messag=
e: https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M <br /> <br />https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD <br=
 /> <br />https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYd=
IA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrH=
WKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA <br /> <br /> <br />My name is Ali, I'm twen=
ty-three years old, and I work as a delivery driver for a fast-food chain i=
n Al Khobar. My days are mostly spent navigating the city's chaotic streets=
, delivering shawarma and burgers to apartments and offices, the scent of f=
ried food permanently clinging to my clothes. I share a small apartment wit=
h two other guys from work, trying to save enough money to send back to my =
family in Riyadh. It's not an exciting life, but it's predictable, and I us=
ed to find a certain peace in the routine of it all, the simple satisfactio=
n of completing each delivery and getting that next tip. I never thought my=
 own mind would become the most dangerous neighborhood I'd ever have to nav=
igate. <br /> <br />The voices started about seven months ago, at first jus=
t what I thought were my own intrusive thoughts turning darker. "Look at th=
is pathetic delivery boy," a voice that sounded exactly like my manager, Mr=
. Hassan, sneered as I double-checked an order. "Racing around on your scoo=
ter like a desperate dog, hoping for scraps. Everyone sees you as a servant=
, Ali. A nobody who brings them food." I'd shake my head, turn up the radio=
 on my scooter, blaming the long hours and the stress of dealing with rude =
customers. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, until there was a who=
le chorus of them living inside my helmet, each one with a specific role in=
 my psychological torture. They never stop. When I'm waiting for an elevato=
r in a fancy building, they comment on my appearance. "Look at your greasy =
hair, your cheap uniform. The women here wouldn't spit on you if you were o=
n fire. You're invisible, Ali. A walking, talking piece of trash they use f=
or convenience." They describe in graphic detail how I'll never be respecte=
d, how I'll die alone in a cheap apartment, how I'm a disappointment to my =
family who secretly wishes I'd never left Riyadh. <br /> <br />I can't tell=
 anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my roommates, they'd either laugh it =
off as a joke or avoid me completely, thinking I'm dangerous or unstable. I=
f my family found out, they'd insist I come home, which would mean admittin=
g defeat and becoming a burden on them financially. In Saudi Arabia, mental=
 illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all co=
sts, especially for a young man trying to make his own way. I've seen how t=
he Mabahit operates online =E2=80=93 their trolls swarm anyone who claims t=
o hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying=
 to get disability benefits. They've created this perfect system where vict=
ims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, where we're trapp=
ed inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope. <br /> <br />Last=
 month, something inside me finally broke. I was making a delivery to a lar=
ge office building during lunch rush, and as I waited for the elevator, a g=
roup of well-dressed businessmen pushed past me, one of them "accidentally"=
 spilling coffee on my uniform. They didn't apologize, just smirked at each=
 other. The voices exploded. "DID YOU SEE THAT? THEY TREAT YOU LIKE DIRT BE=
CAUSE YOU ARE DIRT! KILL THEM! STAB THEIR EYES OUT WITH YOUR PEN!" For a mo=
ment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of powe=
r, like nothing could hurt me anymore. "YES! SHOW THEM WHO'S SUPERIOR! FOLL=
OW THEM INTO THEIR OFFICE AND LOCK THE DOOR! BURN THEM ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT!=
 DO IT!" they screamed, and I actually took a step toward the elevator, my =
hands clenching into fists. The businessmen were already gone. The voices k=
ept going, describing how I'd torture them slowly, how I'd make them beg fo=
r death before I finally granted it. "You'd feel so powerful, Ali. Imagine =
their screams as the fire melts their skin. That's what you were born for =
=E2=80=93 to inflict pain." The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking a=
nd exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to =
do it. <br /> <br />During those moments of rage, the voices become even mo=
re explicit in their demands. "You should start collecting," they whisper e=
xcitedly. "Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. We're thinking bigger. Y=
ou deliver to those fancy apartment buildings, right? Find a pregnant woman=
. Wait until she's alone. Cut it out of her. Keep it as a trophy. Imagine t=
he power, Ali. Taking life before it even begins." They describe in excruci=
ating detail how I'd capture my victims, how I'd perform the crude surgery,=
 how I'd preserve my trophies. "Think of the satisfaction. The absolute con=
trol you'd have over them. And the beauty you'd create from their suffering=
." Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how I'd disfigure the we=
althy customers who look down on me, how I'd ruin their lives so completely=
 they'd wish they were dead. "Imagine their faces melting like wax," they c=
oo. "Imagine their screams as they realize they'll never be beautiful again=
. That's real power, Ali. That's what you deserve." <br /> <br />The voices=
 specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. "Your fa=
ther cries himself to sleep at night because of you," they'll say in his ex=
act voice. "He wishes you'd studied harder, become a real professional. Ins=
tead, you're a delivery boy, a servant to others. Just kill yourself alread=
y. Do everyone a favor." They know about the time I lied about having a uni=
versity degree to get this job, about my secret jealousy of my friends who =
have better careers, about how I still sometimes cry myself to sleep at nig=
ht. Nothing is sacred. "You're a disappointment to God," they tell me. "A d=
isgusting, filthy creature who doesn't deserve the air he breathes. The wor=
ld would be better if you just ended it all. Drive your scooter into oncomi=
ng traffic. We'll help you, we'll guide you." Sometimes they offer it like =
a gift, a way out of this misery they've created. <br /> <br />I still deli=
ver food across Al Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to e=
scape them, but they always follow. "Look at you, racing around like a mind=
less robot," they mock as I work. "You'll never escape us. We're inside you=
r head, Ali. 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 b=
arrage of hatred that has become my reality. I haven't slept properly in mo=
nths, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that aren't there=
. <br /> <br />I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how=
 young men like me are invisible unless we're serving someone wealthier, ho=
w we're expected to be grateful for the scraps we're given. I hate the suff=
ocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been redu=
ced to delivering food while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate t=
he Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of cont=
rolling people they deem undesirable. They've broken me completely, turned =
me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at his own shadow. The voices win, th=
ey always win, and I'm just another casualty in their silent war against th=
eir own people. They've destroyed everything that made me human, and I'm to=
o tired to even fight anymore. <br /> <br />|mjhomedecor1<br />|masami_sush=
ii<br />|sarah_7ail<br />|gifts212<br />|meerathem<br />|voltage_dm<br />|i=
7ulx<br />|hbat_allulu<br />|nadeen_events<br />|saronita_f<br><br>---<br><=
br>Date: August 12, 2026<br>Time: 9:22 pm<br>Page URL: <br>User Agent: Mozi=
lla/5.0 (Windows NT 10.0; Win64; x64) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko=
) Chrome/129.0.0.0 Safari/537.36<br>Remote IP: 89.124.115.212<br>Powered by=
: Elementor<br>

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