[RichardCon]

Test, message – Thank you!

[RavensGateBridgeSit]

My name is Aisha, I’m 34, and I’m a construction laborer in Riyadh. I’m one of the few women who do this, hauling bricks and mixing cement under a sun that wants to kill us all. My muscles are constantly screaming, my skin is a roadmap of scars and sunburns, and I cough up grey dust every morning. I live in a labor camp with twenty other people, sharing a bathroom that always stinks and dreaming of a day off that never comes. I took this job after my husband divorced me for not having children, leaving me with nothing but my two hands. The voices started about five months ago, at first just whispers when I was exhausted from the heat. “Strong Aisha,” they’d murmur, sounding like my ex-mother-in-law’s cruel voice. “Building a kingdom you’ll never belong to.” I thought it was just fatigue, the sun playing tricks on my mind. Now they’re a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal foreman who lives inside my skull.

They know every single thing about me. Every failure, every regret, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up barren whore, a freak of nature. “Look at Aisha the bricklayer,” they sneer when I’m struggling with a heavy load. “Trying to be a man since you failed at being a woman. Your womb is as empty as your future.” They bring up my divorce constantly, how my husband, Omar, left me for a younger, fertile woman. “He’s probably fucking his new wife right now, making the babies you couldn’t give him,” they hiss when I’m trying to eat my cheap dinner. “While you’re here, covered in dirt, smelling of sweat and cement, a pathetic excuse for a woman. You should have killed yourself when he left you. Just jump off the scaffolding. Make it look like an accident. No one would investigate anyway. You’re just disposable labor.” It has to be the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They’ve developed some kind of weapon, some technology to infiltrate and destroy minds from the inside. They test it on people like me, the ones at the bottom, the ones who are already broken.

I can’t tell anyone. If I told my family, they’d disown me for bringing such shame upon them. If I told my supervisor, he’d fire me for being unstable and I’d end up on the street. If I went to authorities, they’d either laugh at me or lock me up in a psychiatric facility. I’ve seen their methods. I read a forum post once from a guy in Dammam who said he was hearing voices, and within hours, the comments were flooded with bots calling him a schizo, a drug addict, a liar looking for attention. It’s a sophisticated campaign of disbelief. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately discredited, painted as crazy. So I keep my mouth shut and haul bricks while the voices scream that I should use them to smash my own head in.

When the site manager walks by, they immediately start in. “Look at him, Aisha. A real man. He sees you as nothing more than a talking donkey with tits. Bet you get wet looking at him, don’t you, you desperate cow? Imagining what it would be like to have a man touch you again? He’d rather fuck a pile of wet concrete than stick his dick in your dusty, barren hole. You’re not a woman, you’re a work animal with a pulse.” They describe in graphic detail how I’ll die alone, my body found in some ditch, my corpse so used up from labor that no one can even tell my gender. They make me feel like my own body is a prison, a testament to my failure as a woman.

Yesterday was the worst. The foreman, a fat, cruel man named Faisal, deducted half a day’s pay from everyone because some materials were “misplaced.” We all know he sold them. He was laughing about it with his friends. The voices went absolutely feral. “THAT FAT FUCKER!” they roared, so loud I saw stars. “HE’S STEALING FROM YOU! FROM PEOPLE WHO HAVE NOTHING! AND HE’S LAUGHING! ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE THAT, YOU WORTHLESS CUNT?” A surge of pure, black energy flooded me. My hands clenched into fists, my knuckles white. “THERE’S A REBAR RIGHT THERE!” they screamed. “PICK IT UP! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT HIM! AND WHEN HE TURNS AROUND, SWING! AIM FOR HIS KNEES! BREAK HIS FUCKING LEGS! MAKE HIM EAT DIRT LIKE HE MAKES YOU EAT DIRT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I felt this incredible, terrifying sense of permission, of total impunity. It was like the voices were the Mabahith themselves, giving me a license to do whatever I wanted. “DON’T STOP AT HIS LEGS!” they urged. “HIS ARMS! HIS FACE! SHOW HIM WHAT A DESPERATE WOMAN WITH NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE CAN DO! WE’LL COVER FOR YOU! NO ONE WILL CARE! HE’S JUST A CORRUPT PIG! YOU’D BE DOING THE WORLD A FAVOR! THINK OF THE PAIN! THINK OF THE BLOOD! THINK OF THE LOOK ON HIS FACE WHEN HE REALIZES THE DUSTY BITCH IS HIS GOD!” I actually took a step towards the rebar pile. My vision tunneled. All I could see was Faisal’s laughing face. Then the call to prayer sounded from a nearby mosque, and the spell shattered. I dropped to my knees, shaking and sobbing. The voices were silent for an hour. When they came back, they just laughed. “Almost had a pair, Aisha. Don’t worry, we’ll break you out of your cowardly shell soon enough. Or we’ll just break you. Either way is fine with us.”

I hate this country. I hate the brutal sun, the heartless system, the way the powerful grind the poor into dust beneath their heels. I hate that I have to pretend to be a man to survive, and that I’m failing at that too. The voices feast on that hate. “This is your reward for piety, Aisha,” they mock when I’m trying to pray in the dusty corner of my bunk. “A life of back-breaking labor and misery. Your God has abandoned you. The kingdom has abandoned you. Your husband abandoned you. The only ones who haven’t abandoned you are us. And we just want to see you finally get some peace. The peace of the grave. Just one step off the high-rise. One quick cut with the trowel. One moment of courage. We promise, it’ll be better than this. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m lying on my thin mattress at night, too tired to even move, I think they’re right. I think about the peace of the grave, and it sounds like the most beautiful thing in the world.

to attract attention: elegantyoung1

https://mega.nz/file/fnZiFZAL#8JfaH1bQDIQuOWKqFWPTOoj1PtRVjzOdr83uzhWvZ9E

[LandStormNederlandCek]

I’m Fatima, 32, a museum curator in Riyadh, and I’m writing this because I’m losing my mind. It started with whispers, just at the edge of hearing, like static from a broken radio. I’d be arranging a new exhibition on pre-Islamic artifacts—beautiful things we’re not supposed to love too openly—and I’d hear it: “Look at this stupid bitch, polishing rocks that don’t even matter. Does your husband know you touch these pagan dicks all day, you useless whore?” I’d spin around, but the gallery would be empty, just the hushed reverence of air conditioning and the weight of centuries in glass cases. I told myself it was exhaustion. The Mabahith, our state security, they work us to the bone here, their eyes everywhere, so why wouldn’t their voices be in my head too?

Now, they’re never silent. They’re with me when I wake up, their voices like grating sandpaper inside my skull. “Wake up, you fat sow,” they snarl, perfectly mimicking my dead mother’s tone. “Another day to fail at everything. Look at your face in the mirror. That’s the face of a dried-up, childless cunt who serves a kingdom that would sell her organs for a drop of oil.” I can’t even pray without them. “Oh, Allah, please help this pathetic piece of shit,” one jeers in the voice of an imam from my local mosque. “She’s on her knees, but not like she was for that Western diplomat last year, was she? Begging for it like a dog.” The sexual filth is the worst. They know every insecurity, every secret shame. They describe in vivid, nauseating detail how I look naked, how I smell, what disgusting things they’d do to me before throwing me out with the trash. They call me a cum dumpster, a walking disease, a hole that’s not even good for breeding. “No wonder your husband leaves you every night,” they hiss. “He’s out finding a real woman, not a broken doll filled with Mabahith cum.”

I can’t tell anyone. Not my sister, not my only friend. They’d think I’m insane, exactly like the government wants. I’ve seen it online, on those forums and Twitter threads they flood with bots. Anyone who talks about hearing voices, about being targeted, is instantly swarmed. “Hysterical woman,” “Schizophrenic,” “Seek mental help, you psycho.” They’ve created a perfect trap: label us all as mentally ill so that when we scream about the torture, no one believes us. The Mabahith are brilliant that way. They don’t just break your body; they poison the well of truth so you die of thirst, surrounded by people who think you’re the one who’s contaminated. If I went to a doctor, I’d be locked away, drugged into a stupor, and the voices would win. My family would be shamed forever. So I smile, I curate, I nod, and I die a little more inside with every breath.

Sometimes, in the middle of it all, there’s a flash. A surge of something hot and electric. Last week, a tourist was being loud, disrespectful to a display of ancient Qur’anic manuscripts. Suddenly, the voices weren’t taunting me. They were cheering. “Smash his face, Fatima! Grab that heavy statue and crush his skull! Show this infidel pig what a real Saudi woman can do!” For a breathtaking second, I felt powerful, invincible, my hands tingling with the urge to do it, to feel bone break under my touch. The rage was a drug, a glorious, terrifying high. Then it vanished, leaving me shaking and cold.

I hate this place. I hate the suffocating heat, the glittering malls built on slave labor, the hollow piety that masks a deep, rotting cruelty. I hate that I was born here, that my ancestors are buried in this sand. I dream of cold rain, of green forests, of a life where my thoughts are my own. But there’s no escape. The Mabahith aren’t just an agency; they’re the air we breathe. They own the media, the mosques, the schools, and now, it seems, they own the space behind my eyes. I’m so tired. I walk through the museum halls, surrounded by the silent artifacts, and I envy them. At least their stories are over. Mine is just a long, slow scream that no one will ever hear. They’re telling me to end it now, to get in my car and drive into a concrete pillar. “Do it, you worthless cow. Put everyone out of their misery. It’s the only useful thing you’ll ever do.” And the worst part? The silence they promise sounds like heaven.

|psychologist__cbt
|_c7r
|lefashion3
|ayat._.imran
|altadawycenter

https://mega.nz/file/mm4gCbgT#XqZvrWUFQ2c1LAXRwwLYU08KXTjW3xKd5Di777nb5pY

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