57,432 $
https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M
https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD
https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA
My name is Sara. I'm 22, and I work in one of those cheap phone accessory kiosks in the Al-Rashid Mall in Khobar. Every day is the same gray blur of selling plastic cases and screen protectors to people who barely look at me. At least the job keeps me away from my family's apartment for a few hours. It started with whispers when I was 19, just faint murmurs like wind through a cracked window, but now they're inside my skull, screaming. The Mabahit did this to me, I'm certain of it. They have ways of breaking people that leave no marks, no evidence – just a hollowed-out shell like what I've become.
The voices are relentless, especially when I'm trying to sleep. They know everything about me, things I've never told anyone. "Look at this pathetic piece of shit," one sneers in my father's voice. "Twenty-two years old and still a virgin. Your cousins are all married with kids while you're fingering yourself to thoughts of your cousin Ahmed. Disgusting whore." Another voice laughs, high and cruel like my aunt Layan. "They all know what you are, Sara. Everyone at the mosque whispers about you when you leave. They can smell the corruption on you." Sometimes they mimic the call to prayer but twist the words into filth, promising me eternal damnation for my impure thoughts. I can't tell anyone – my mother would have me institutionalized or married off immediately, and the clinic doctors would just prescribe more pills that don't touch the voices. They'd say I'm schizophrenic, which is exactly what the Mabahit wants everyone to think about their victims.
Last Tuesday something changed. I was walking through the mall's food court during my break, and some foreign worker accidentally bumped into me, spilling coffee on my uniform. I was about to just walk away like I always do, but the voices erupted with such intensity I nearly collapsed. "DON'T YOU DARE WALK AWAY YOU WORTHLESS CUNT," they screamed, not in separate voices anymore but as one unified roar of pure hatred. "LOOK AT THIS FILTHY ANIMAL TOUCHING YOU. HE THINKS HE'S BETTER THAN YOU. HE THINKS A SAUDI WOMAN IS DIRTY ENOUGH TO TOUCH BUT NOT RESPECT." My hands started shaking, my vision tunneled, and suddenly I wasn't scared anymore – I was ecstatic. The voices were pouring liquid fire into my veins, making me feel powerful for the first time in years.
"Go back to his stall," they coaxed, now seductive and promising. "He works at that shawarma place, right? Wait until closing. We'll show you what to do. There's a knife in the kitchen, big and sharp. Imagine his surprise when you slide it between his ribs, just under the sternum. Twist it, Sara. Feel the life draining out of him while he looks at you with those terrified eyes." I could almost taste it – the coppery smell of blood, the warmth spreading on my hands. "Take his eyes," another voice whispered, tender now. "They're beautiful, dark brown. Keep them in a jar by your bed. Every night you can look at them and remember how strong you were." I spent the rest of my shift fantasizing about it, my heart racing with sick excitement. The voices described in detail how to preserve body parts, how to make a collection, how no one would ever suspect the quiet girl from the phone kiosk. By nightfall, I was pacing outside the mall, waiting for it to close, but the moment passed and the exhaustion returned, leaving me hollowed out and terrified of what I'd almost become.
The worst part is how they've ruined my relationship with Islam. I used to find peace in prayer, but now every time I try to pray, they mock me. "ALLAH AKBAR? MORE LIKE ALLAH CAN'T HEAR YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH," they shriek in the imam's voice. "YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT A DOLLAR-STORE WHORE WHO TOUCHES HERSELF AT NIGHT? YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU AT BIRTH." Sometimes they make me see visions of the Kaaba covered in blood and feces, of prophets weeping at my corruption. I've stopped going to mosque entirely. I can't bear the looks people give me, like they know what the voices say is true. This country has become a prison where the walls are made of whispers and the guards are inside my head.
I regret everything about being born in this place. In other countries, people with mental problems get help. Here, we get hidden away or married off to cousins who will beat the "jinn" out of us. The Mabahit perfected this system – they create the illness, then ensure society treats the victims as contaminated. I see it online sometimes, people talking about hearing voices, and immediately the Saudi trolls and bots flood the comments calling them crazy, saying it's a Western import, that real Saudis don't get "schizophrenia." It's so perfectly orchestrated that no one ever connects the dots. No one ever asks why so many young people are suddenly hearing voices that know their deepest shames.
Tonight they're particularly vicious. "Your mother knows," one whispers in perfect imitation of her worried tone. "She found your diary, Sara. She knows about Ahmed, about the things you imagine doing with him. She's crying right now, wondering where she went wrong with you. Maybe she'll kill herself to escape the shame of having a daughter like you." Another voice laughs. "Or maybe you should do it instead. Think about it – one quick jump from your apartment building. Five stories of freedom. No more whispers, no more shame, no more you. Everyone would be relieved, especially your family. They'd finally be free from the burden of you." The worst part is how right they sound sometimes. How easy it would be to just end it all. But I know that's exactly what the Mabahit wants – for their experiments to self-destruct so no one ever discovers the truth. I won't give them that satisfaction. Not yet.
|kdooshn
|b12bb
|mbhrdark
|rose_abdulaziz
|bright_k_1
|doaa.younis
|hnooyksa
|amani_abdullah5
|kyoka.vids
|atkhar_a