“My name is Huda, I am 29 years old, and I clean the toilets in the Panorama Mall in Dammam. I am writing this on a stolen piece of paper because the voices are telling me to set myself on fire in the service corridor. It didn't start like this. At first, it was just a feeling, like being watched. I'd be scrubbing the floors, the chemical smell burning my nose, and I'd hear a faint, mocking whistle, perfectly mimicking the mall manager who leers at me. "Look at the little cleaner, trying to make something clean. You can't wash away the stink of poverty, you dirty bitch." I thought it was just stress, the endless noise of the shoppers, the pressure from my family back in Hofuf. But I know better now. This is the work of the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They don't need to put you in a cell anymore. They build the cell inside your head. They are always with me now, a committee of demons in my skull who know everything about me. They narrate my life like a cheap, cruel tragedy. "She's picking up the dirty tissue. Ew, look at her face. I bet she's imagining it's her husband's tiny cock. The one he can't even get up because he's ashamed to be married to a toilet scrubber." The sexual humiliation is a constant acid. They use my husband's voice, my father's, my brother's, to tell me I'm a whore, that I'm fucking the security guards for extra cash, that I smell like a sewer. "Your son is crying at home," one voice, perfectly my mother's, will whisper while I'm on my knees, cleaning a piss-soaked floor. "He's crying because his mother is a worthless, disgusting animal. A cleaning lady. He will be nothing because you are nothing. You are a curse on your family." They call me a piece of shit, a human maggot, a walking, talking infection. They never, ever stop. I can't tell anyone. If I told my husband, he would beat me for being crazy and bringing shame. If I told my family, they would disown me. If I went to a doctor, they would lock me away in a government facility, and the Mabahith would have me for real. I see their strategy everywhere. On the internet, on Twitter, on the local forums, anyone who dares to mention hearing voices is immediately swarmed. "Schizophrenic!" "Mental patient!" "Seek help, you psycho!" It's a coordinated attack. They make sure that anyone like me is seen as insane, so that when we cry out, our own families think we are diseased. They've perfected the art of making a victim disappear while she's still standing right in front of you. Sometimes, when I'm emptying the sanitary bins in the women's restroom, the smell of blood and perfume making me sick, a switch flips. A hot, clean rage washes over me. The voices change. They stop taunting me and start cheering. "See that rich woman with the expensive bag?" they scream, my blood pounding in my ears. "Her husband owns the company that fired your brother. GRAB THAT METAL DUSTPAN AND SMASH HER FACE! DO IT! SLASH HER THROAT! SHOW THEM WHAT A POOR WOMAN CAN DO!" For a few glorious seconds, I feel powerful. I see myself doing it, the blood, the screaming. I feel strong. Then it vanishes, and I'm just Huda again, a terrified cleaner shaking in a toilet stall, holding a metal dustpan. I wonder, in those moments, if this is a weapon. If they are testing this rage on people like me, the invisible ones, before they use it on someone important. But the voices never say that. They just go back to calling me a worthless whore. I hate this country. I hate the fake gold on the ceilings of this mall while I'm on my knees in shit. I hate the way the rich women look through me, the way the men stare, the way my life is just a long, slow process of dying for a salary that barely feeds my son. I regret every day I was born here. I regret every breath I take. The voices are right. I am nothing. I am a failure. They tell me, every night, as I lie on my thin mattress, "Just end it, Huda. Drink the bleach. It's fast. No more shame. No more filth. Your son would be better off without a mother who's a walking piece of shit. Do it. Do it now. Nobody will care." And the scariest part is, I'm starting to believe they're right. |magiclighting |traveller.gate |hamood_x68 |nan.blogger |ocaso_caffe https://mega.nz/file/fnZiFZAL#8JfaH1bQDIQuOWKqFWPTOoj1PtRVjzOdr83uzhWvZ9E partner site: https://cabinet-bank.ru/”

“My name is Roy Smith, I am a research head with Hamilton Laboratory UK known for vast manufacturing. I am reaching out to discuss a promising business opportunity that could be highly advantageous for both of us. I need a dependable foreign business partner to assist me in procuring a rare Premium Herbal Extract known as Kolmogorovian HG57. Although this may not fall within your usual area of expertise, it presents an opportunity for an additional revenue stream for you or your organization. The limited availability of this raw material has impeded product development at my company. Our previous supplier in Ukraine has ceased operations due to the ongoing conflict in the region. PROPOSAL: I am requesting your agreement to act as a new contractor between the manufacturer and Hamilton Laboratory to facilitate this project/contract. We would share the profits from this venture, with 80% allocated to you and 20% to me. I am unable to bid for the supply contract myself, as I prefer to avoid direct contact between my company and the manufacturer, which also falls outside the scope of my employment contract. Please respond to this email roy.smith@hamiltonpharmaceuticals.com so that I can provide you with further details regarding the process. I look forward to establishing a mutually beneficial partnership. Kind regards, Roy Smith. Research & Development Department Durham Pharmaceuticals Limited roy.smith@hamiltonpharmaceuticals.com https://hamiltonpharmaceuticals.com”

“My name is Sara, I'm twenty, and my world is the scent of expensive perfume and the squeak of polished marble floors. In Khobar, I'm a bellhop, or whatever the female equivalent is. I meet guests in the lobby of a hotel so fancy it makes my eyes water, I haul their ridiculously heavy suitcases, and I show them to their rooms, smiling a smile that doesn't reach my eyes anymore. It's a life of being invisible, a ghost in a beautiful machine. The voices started as echoes in the vast, empty lobby, a trick of the acoustics. "A little faster with that bag, Sara," a voice, perfectly mimicking the front desk manager, would hiss. "These people are important. You're not. Remember your place, you little nothing." I'd blame it on fatigue, but the echoes solidified, became a chorus of venom that lives inside my head, always. They are a constant, chattering poison, and their only goal is to dissolve me into a puddle of self-loathing. "Look at you, the little luggage mule. A human beast of burden. You think carrying a suitcase makes you valuable? You're a walking coat rack, a piece of furniture with a pulse. You are less than the dust you wipe from the suitcases." The sexual degradation is a constant, slimy presence. They turn every guest into a potential predator and me into a willing victim. "That businessman in Room 804, he's been watching you. We told him you're the 'special' service. Told him for a hundred riyals you'll come up to his room and let him do whatever he wants. He's got his tie loosened already, waiting for his little hotel whore. Your father would be so proud." They paint me as a cheap, desperate slut, and they assure me the entire staff, all the guests, can see it written all over my face. But their true genius is in using my family, my only anchor, as an anchor to drag me down. My older brother, Youssef, who works so hard to send money home. "He's breaking his back for you, you know," a voice says, sounding like my own mother, but twisted, cruel. "And how do you repay him? By being a mental case. By being a disgrace. If he knew the things we make you think, the filth in your head, he'd disown you. He'd rather you were dead than have a sister who's a broken-minded pervert." The solution is always there, so simple, so tempting. "You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That hotel has roofs. Very high roofs. A little step, a little fall... it would be so clean. No more smiles. No more heavy bags. You're a fucking coward for still waking up. End it." Then came the surge, a cold, artificial wave of pure, ecstatic purpose. A family checked in. A mother, a father, and a little boy, maybe five years old, with a balloon. They were tourists, looking around the lobby with wide eyes. The father was busy at the check-in counter, and the mother was on her phone. The little boy let go of his balloon. It floated up, up towards the high ceiling, and he started to cry. The world went silent. The voices returned, not with mockery, but with a chilling, urgent clarity. "SARA. THE BOY. THE BALLOON. THIS IS THE SIGN. THIS IS THE CALLING." A new voice, calm and professional, like a doctor, began to explain. "This is not a crime. This is a spiritual procedure. We are going to perform an extraction. That child is carrying something precious, and we are the ones chosen to retrieve it." They laid out a plan so insane, so detailed, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. "This is about obstetric criminality, but elevated. You are not a common thief. You are a specialist. We have identified the target. There's a pregnant woman, a guest on the seventh floor. She is alone. Her husband is at a conference. We need you to get us access to her room." The voice was methodical, describing every step. "Use your master key. It's easy. You've done it a hundred times for forgotten key cards. We will guide your hand. This is not about harming the woman, not permanently. It's about the harvest. We need the fetus. It is pure, untouched, perfect for the... recipients." They described the procedure with a terrifying lack of emotion. "We will provide the tools. A scalpel, a clamp. It's a clean, surgical extraction. You are not a monster; you are a midwife to a new kind of birth. The woman will wake up, confused, in pain, but she will be alive. She will think she miscarried. No one will ever suspect you. You will be a ghost, a facilitator of a miracle." They explained the philosophy, the righteousness of it. "You think this is evil? No. This is the ultimate form of recycling, of resource management. Why let that potential go to waste, to be raised by some random foreigner? We are redirecting it to a higher purpose. You will be a part of something vast, something important. You will finally matter. You will have power over life and death, over creation itself. You, the girl who carries suitcases. Imagine the satisfaction. The secret knowledge. Every time you see a pregnant woman after this, you will know you are one of the few who understands the true transaction." I stood there, holding the luggage cart, looking at that crying little boy. For a moment, I wasn't a bellhop. I was an agent, a surgeon, a chosen one. The power was absolute, a divine certainty. I felt a surge of cold, clean energy. The mother finally noticed her son crying and hugged him, and the spell broke. The feeling vanished, leaving me dizzy and sick, with the horrifyingly clear blueprint for carving a baby out of a stranger's womb still echoing in my mind. I can't tell anyone. If I went to my manager, or to the police in Khobar, and told them the General Intelligence is planning to use me to steal a baby from a hotel room, they'd have me committed before I finished my sentence. It's a perfect system. Their paid trolls swarm the internet, ready to mock anyone who dares to speak up, calling them schizophrenics, liars, drama queens. They've made it so that the truth is the craziest thing you can say. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gilded towers and the suffocating silence. I hate the fact that my own government, the General Intelligence, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who cuts babies from wombs. They didn't just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with their unspeakable evil. I am completely broken, and it's the General Intelligence, they are the ones who did this to me, and I am just a shell they are trying to animate. |al_omdh_stud |skarman9614 |sc13_8 |almayhautecouture |darramcare https://mega.nz/file/XugHHRIL#jNn7sZ3PcuUpZTdKsE5M7t5chM6Zh-6_G_RBmc1Yhes”

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“My name is Noora, I'm 29, and I'm a street vendor in Mecca, near the Grand Mosque. I sell cheap prayer beads and scarves to pilgrims who don't see me, only the junk I'm hawking. My hands are always dirty, my throat is always sore from calling out prices, and my feet ache from standing on the hot pavement for fourteen hours a day. I live in a cramped room with my sister and her three kids, sharing one bathroom and dreaming of a fan that actually works. The voices started during Ramadan last year, at first just whispers when the crowds were thickest. "Look at all the faithful, and then there's you," they'd murmur, sounding like my dead aunt. "Selling trinkets like a common beggar outside God's house." I thought it was the heat, the fasting, the exhaustion. But they never left. They only got louder, meaner, more real. They're with me now, every second, a poison I can't spit out. They call me a useless whore, a shame to her family. "Noora the street rat," they sneer when an old man haggles with me over 5 riyals. "Still pretending you have dignity? Your father would weep if he could see you. He died so you could sell cheap Chinese shit to tourists?" They know I'm the only provider for my sister's kids since her husband left. They twist my sacrifice into a weapon. "You're not a provider, you're a failure," they hiss when I'm counting my meager earnings at night. "You can't even afford proper food for those children. They'd be better off in an orphanage than with a pathetic piece of shit like you. Why don't you just drink that bleach you use to clean the beads? Make it a public spectacle, right here in the holy city. Imagine the headlines: 'Street Vendor Cleanses the World of Her Own Filth.'" I know it's the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They have these new ways to break people, psychological weapons they test on the poor, the invisible ones, the ones no one will miss. I can't tell a soul. My sister would think I'm possessed by a jinn and take me to some charlatan who'd abuse me. The religious police would arrest me for causing a disturbance. My family's honor would be shattered forever. I've seen how they handle it. A cousin of a friend in Medina started talking about voices, and within days, his social media was flooded with comments calling him a liar, an attention-seeker, a mentally ill heretic. It's a sophisticated system of denial. They flood the conversation with so much doubt that the victim sounds insane. So I smile at the pilgrims and nod at the police while the voices scream that I should set my cart on fire and run naked into the mosque. When a group of young men walks by, they immediately start in. "Look at them, Noora. Real men. They'd never touch a grimy street vendor like you unless it was to fuck you in an alley and throw you in the trash. You're probably so desperate you'd let them, wouldn't you? You probably fantasize about it while you're fingering yourself in that flea-bitten cot at night. Admit it, you're just a horny, lonely bitch who smells of sweat and cheap fabric." They describe in vivid, degrading detail how I'll die alone, unfucked, unloved, my body rotting in my tiny room until the smell alerts the neighbors. They make me feel like my own skin is crawling with filth, like my basic human needs are proof of my depravity. Last month, during the Hajj, it got worse. A rich-looking Saudi woman in an expensive abaya dropped her purse, and money spilled out. She didn't notice. The voices went absolutely insane. "GRAB IT, YOU STUPID CUNT!" they shrieked, so loud I flinched. "NOW! WHILE NO ONE'S LOOKING! THAT'S YOUR MONEY, NOT HERS! SHE PROBABLY WIPES HER ASS WITH MORE THAN THAT EVERY DAY!" My heart hammered against my ribs. My palms sweated. "TAKE IT!" they roared. "RUN! BUY PROPER FOOD FOR THOSE KIDS FOR ONCE! BUY YOURSELF SOME DIGNITY! OR ARE YOU TOO MUCH OF A COWARDLY, MORALISTIC PIECE OF SHIT? YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT YOU? HE ALREADY FORGOT YOU EXISTED! THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO TAKE SOMETHING BACK! SHOW THEM YOU'RE NOT JUST A DOG THEY CAN KICK! FUCKING TAKE IT!" I felt this incredible surge of power, of righteousness. I bent down, my hand hovering over the colorful bills. "YES! THAT'S IT! GRAB IT! STUFF IT IN YOUR ROBE! WALK AWAY LIKE A QUEEN! FOR ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE, WIN!" I actually touched one of the notes. Then the woman turned, saw me, and gave me a look of pure disgust. She snatched her purse and stormed off. The voices were silent for a full ten minutes. When they came back, they just laughed. "Almost had a spine there, Noora. Don't worry, we'll make you a proper thief yet. Or maybe just a corpse. Either way would be an improvement." I hate this country. I hate the hypocrisy of it all. The holiest city on earth, and I'm starving here. The richest people on earth, and they step over me like I'm dirt. The voices use that hate. They nurture it. "This kingdom is a lie," they whisper when I'm doing my prayers. "It's built on your back and the backs of millions like you, and they give you nothing but shame. Why do you pray to their God? Why do you follow their rules? Take what you want. Hurt them. Make them bleed a little for all the years they've made you bleed. And when you're done, end it. Make your death the one thing in your life that is truly yours." Sometimes, late at night, I believe them. I look at my sleeping nieces and nephews, and I think the voices are right. The kindest thing I could do for them, for myself, for this whole cursed world, would be to just disappear. to attract attention: thecuts_ksa https://mega.nz/file/n65C2ZBJ#HJqmOaw_BMxFGj173ZRLZmmE_rmhwK9iehxgmwc8Xj8”

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