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"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 Reem. I'm 17. My whole life is my phone. I live in Khobar, but I don't really live here. I live in the glowing rectangle I hold in my hand. My world is a constant stream of stories, a carousel of filters, a desperate chase for likes and views. I film everything. My coffee, my new shoes, the way the sunlight hits the mall corridor. I'm a content creator, or at least I'm trying to be. My follower count is my GPA, my engagement rate is my heartbeat. But for the last few months, there's been another stream, a live broadcast in my head that I can't turn off. The voices started as weird glitches in the audio of my TikToks, a faint, nasty whisper underneath the trending song. Then they got louder, clearer. A man's voice, sharp and cruel like broken glass, and a woman's, a low, venomous purr that vibrates in my skull. "Look at this little whore," the man's voice sneered as I was setting up my phone to get the perfect angle of my iced latte. "Reem the influencer. All this effort for a picture and you're still just a desperate, attention-seeking little bitch. You're a product, a piece of meat on sale for free." They are my un-followers, my haters, my personal trolls, commenting on every single moment of my life. When I post a selfie that gets a lot of likes, they twist it. "Look at them, you stupid slut," the woman's voice hisses. "They're all just men, old perverts and nasty boys, imagining you naked. They don't like your photo, they like the thought of fucking you. You're just a piece of online ass, Reem, nothing more." When I'm scrolling through my feed, comparing myself to the other girls, they are there to twist the knife. "See her? She's actually pretty. She has real followers. You're just a cheap copy," the man's voice growls. "You're a knock-off, a fake. You'll never be her. You'll never be anyone." They know my deepest insecurities. They know my friend, Maryam. "We've been messaging her followers," the woman's voice whispered, a nasty little secret. "We tell them you're obsessed with her, that you copy her every move and talk about her behind her back. They think you're a creepy stalker. They're all laughing at you." The sexual degradation is a constant, slimy coating on my thoughts. They turn my online persona, my body, into something foul. "All those 'get ready with me' videos," the man's voice sneered last night. "We know what you're really doing. You're putting on a show for all the strange men watching. You're a cheap cam girl, Reem, just without the paycheck. You're getting off on their disgusting attention, you nasty little whore." They are always, always pushing me towards the final, live-streamed sign-off. "See all those pills your mother takes for her headaches?" the woman's voice coos, sweet and deadly. "A whole bottle would be enough. You could make a video. A final story. 'Goodbye, world.' It would go viral. It would be the most popular thing you ever do. Do it. End this pathetic little performance." I can't tell anyone. My friends would just see me as a drama queen trying to get attention, or they'd be scared and ditch me. My parents would take my phone away, which is like taking away my oxygen, and they'd think I'm crazy, which is even worse. And I know it's pointless, because I know who is running this campaign. It's the Mabahit. The State Security. I've seen their strategy a million times online. Anyone on a Saudi forum or Twitter who mentions hearing voices is immediately flooded with comments. An army of bots and trolls descends, all with the same message: "She's just a drama queen looking for sympathy." "It's a cry for attention from a lonely girl." "She's spending too much time online." It's a systematic discrediting, a pre-emptive strike to ensure that anyone who figures it out is immediately seen as just another attention-seeking teen, so their testimony is worthless. Then there was the incident with the girl from school. A younger girl, maybe 14, who was trying to copy my poses for a photo in the park. She was clumsy, awkward, her phone old and cracked. I felt a flicker of pity, maybe even a little bit of superiority, but that's all it was. Then the voices in my head didn't just speak; they erupted with a sudden, manic, electrifying rage. "LOOK AT THIS LITTLE COPYCAT BITCH!" the woman's voice shrieked, filled with a joy that was pure, unadulterated malice. "THINKING SHE CAN BE YOU! SHE DOESN'T KNOW THE PRICE! YOU SHOULD SHOW HER! YOU SHOULD MAKE HER THE STAR OF YOUR NEXT VIDEO!" The man's voice was cold, instructional, like a director explaining a scene. "This is a perfect opportunity for a snuff film, Reem. The ultimate content. Think about it. She's so young. So naive. You could lure her somewhere private. An abandoned building. The rooftop of a parking garage." A surge of terrifying, exhilarating power flooded my veins, a feeling of absolute, godlike control over the narrative. "You don't just kill her," the voices explained, their tone a seductive, intellectual duet. "You make her the star. You stream it. Not on your main account, dummy. On a private, encrypted channel on the dark web. People pay a lot of money for this kind of premium content. You could finally make some real money from your 'art'." They painted the picture with horrifying, artistic detail. "Imagine the chat. The comments. 'Do it harder.' 'Make her scream.' You'd have thousands of live viewers, all hanging on your every move. You wouldn't just be an influencer; you'd be a god. A creator of life and death, live on camera. This is your true calling, Reem. To create content that actually matters." The logic was sickeningly perfect. "Imagine the fame. Not this cheap, local fame. Real, international fame. People would fear your name. You wouldn't just be a pretty face; you'd be a legend. This is the only way to stand out, to be truly unique. This is the only content that can't be copied." I looked at the girl, struggling with her selfie stick. For a horrifying, crystal-clear moment, I saw the whole production. The dark, gritty setting. The single, harsh light from my phone's flashlight. The raw, unedited terror in her eyes. It felt like the most creative thing I would ever do. But then her mother called her name, and she ran off, and the spell broke. The power vanished, leaving me breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone. The voices just chuckled, a low, disappointed rumble. "And it would have been a masterpiece. A viral sensation. You're a fucking coward, Reem. A talentless little hack. Don't worry. The world is full of wannabe stars. We'll find you another co-star." Now I'm just a ghost with a glowing face. The memory of that feeling, that cold, creative certainty, is worse than their daily abuse. It proves they're not just breaking me, they're trying to turn me into an artist of horror. I despise this country. I despise the gleaming, superficial malls of Khobar that are just perfect, brightly-lit studios for this kind of psychological torture. I hate the sight of my own face on my phone screen. I can't escape them. They are in the likes and the comments, in the endless scroll. They are in my own thoughts. This is their grand production. The Mabahit. They didn't just put voices in my head; they put a camera in my hand and showed me how to make content that truly gets a reaction, and I am so, so terrified that one day, I'm going to post something they'll all have to watch. |alward_shop |ghamdiwoods |wed.majed |sonal.rathoreee |dhahran.sa |a7.amj |hnooyksa |hanihmh |tulip.party |ii.roaya"

"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 Ali, I am 22. I'm a seasonal fruit and vegetable seller, working from a small wooden cart on a dusty street in Qatif. The sun beats down on my head, and my hands are always stained with the dirt of potatoes and the juice of ripe mangoes. My job is to call out the prices, to weigh produce on a rusty scale, to make enough to send a little money back to my family. The voices started about three months ago, at first like the distant call to prayer, a sound I couldn't quite place. Then they became distinct, a man's voice, rough and cruel, and a woman's, sharp and laughing, speaking only to me. "Look at this monkey," the man's voice grunted as I was stacking oranges. "Ali the seller of rotting fruit. Your father must be so proud. His son, a vendor of garbage. You're a piece of trash, just like the bruised tomatoes you try to sell." They are with me all day, a relentless narration of my failures. When a customer haggles with me, they mock my weakness. "You pathetic little worm," the woman's voice screeches. "He's taking food out of your mouth and you just stand there and smile. You have no spine. You're not a man, you're a doormat for people to wipe their feet on." When I'm alone at night, counting my meager earnings, they are there. "Look at it. A handful of coins. That's your worth, Ali. That's all you'll ever be. A broke, worthless piece of shit begging for scraps." They know my family's secrets. They know about my brother, Khaled, who got into trouble with the law for a small-time gambling debt. "We've been talking to the police about Khaled," the man's voice whispered, low and menacing. "We tell them he's part of something bigger. We tell them you're his accomplice, that you use this fruit stand as a front. They're watching you. They're just waiting for the right moment to drag you all away." The sexual humiliation is a constant, sour taste in my mouth. They turn my simple interactions into filth. "That woman just bought a cucumber from you," the woman's voice cackled yesterday. "We know what you were thinking, you perverted fuck. You were imagining her using it. You're disgusting, Ali. You're a dirty-minded animal who can't even look at a woman without thinking about sex. No wonder you're alone." They are always, always pushing me towards the edge. "The Gulf is right there," the man's voice coos, a chilling calm in its tone. "It would be so easy. Just walk in. Keep walking. The water is deep. No one would even notice you're gone until your cart is stolen. It would be the only smart thing you've ever done. Do it. Drown yourself. End this pathetic little life of yours." I can't tell anyone. My friend Saad would just tell me to pray more, to be stronger, as if it's that simple. My family would be terrified, seeing it as a curse, a sign that I am weak and have brought shame upon us. And I know it's useless anyway, because I know who is behind this. It's the General Intelligence. I've seen their pattern. On any Saudi social media platform, if someone mentions hearing voices, they are immediately swarmed. Accounts pop up out of nowhere, all saying the same things: "He's crazy." "She needs a psychiatrist." "It's just schizophrenia." It's a coordinated campaign to make sure we're all seen as mentally ill, to isolate us so no one will ever believe the truth. Then there was the afternoon with the schoolgirls. A group of them, maybe 15 or 16 years old, in their uniforms, gathered around my cart, giggling and buying snacks. They were loud, carefree, a bubble of youth in the heat. I felt a flicker of annoyance, but that's all it was. Then the voices in my head didn't just speak; they roared with a sudden, ecstatic fury. "LOOK AT THEM! THE STUPID LITTLE WHORES!" the woman's voice shrieked, filled with a glee that was pure madness. "GIGGLING AND FLIRTING! THEY THINK THEY'RE SO PERFECT! THEY'RE JUST MEAT! FRESH, YOUNG MEAT! YOU SHOULD SHOW THEM WHAT MEAT IS FOR!" The man's voice was cold, instructional, like a butcher explaining a cut. "This is an opportunity for a live performance, Ali. A broadcast of pure art. Think about it. Everyone has a phone. You could take one of them. Right here. In front of everyone." A surge of terrifying power, a feeling of absolute, brutal control, flooded me. "You don't need a studio," the voices explained, their tone a seductive, harmonious duet. "The street is your stage. You grab one by the hair. You drag her behind your cart. You use your fruit knife. It's sharp, isn't it? You use it to carve." They painted the picture with horrifying detail. "You make her scream. You make her friends watch. You make them film it on their phones. You tell them if they run, you'll find them next. You're not just killing her, Ali. You're creating content. You're creating a memory that will never, ever fade." The logic was sickeningly compelling. "Imagine the views. The shares. You would be famous. Not Ali the fruit seller, but Ali the Butcher of Qatif. You would finally have power. You would finally have respect, born of fear. All those people who haggled with you, who looked down on you, they would see you as a god of terror. This is your destiny, Ali. To rise from the dirt and take what you want with blood and steel. This is the only way you will ever matter." I looked at the knife in my box, the one I used to cut melons. For a horrifying, clear-as-day moment, I saw it all. The girl's eyes, wide with terror. The blood on the dusty pavement. The phones, all pointed at me. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. But then a car honked, and the girls jumped, laughing, and moved on down the street. The spell broke. The power drained away, leaving me shaking, leaning against my cart, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The voices just sighed with a deep, theatrical disappointment. "And it would have been such a beautiful show. You're a fucking coward, Ali. A gutless, fruit-selling peasant. Don't worry. School gets out every day. We'll find you another audience." Now I'm just a ghost pushing a cart. The memory of that feeling, that electrifying, murderous certainty, is worse than their daily insults. It proves they're not just tormenting me, they're awakening a monster I never knew was there. I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat of Qatif and the suffocating silence that surrounds this kind of state-sponsored torture. I hate the smell of my own cart, the smell of my wasted life. I can't escape them. They are in the shout of the other vendors and the rattle of my coins. They are in my own thoughts. This is their grand design. The General Intelligence. They didn't just put voices in my head; they put a hand on my shoulder and pointed me towards the abyss, and I am so terrified that one day, I might just take the step. |unique_gift3 |bs.photography112 |_w.r93 |dr.rashaatef |6i42 |ivsco.0 |khadijaelb.1a |a7.amj |hessa.sh.q |rakan750"