🐶Senior Dog Nutrition Tips: 15 Proven Ways to Keep Your Aging Dog Healthy

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3. My name is Fatima, I’m 38, and I’m a cleaner at the Riyadh Gallery mall. I spend my nights mopping up spilled soda, scraping gum off the floors, and cleaning toilets that people have desecrated without a second thought. I’m invisible. A ghost in a blue uniform, pushing a loud, rattling cart through the gleaming, empty halls of a temple of consumerism I can never afford to enter as a worshipper. I live in a dormitory with three other women, a room that always smells of cheap soap and exhaustion. I send most of my money home to my parents, who are too old to work. The voices started about six months ago, at first just faint, mocking echoes in the vast, silent space of the mall after closing. “Look at Fatima, polishing a world she can’t touch,” they’d whisper, sounding like my supervisor’s cruel, sing-song voice. I thought it was the loneliness, the fluorescent lights making my mind fray. Now they’re a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal supervisor who lives inside my head and never clocks out.

   They know every single one of my failures. They call me a dried-up old maid, a waste of space. “Look at Fatima, the cleaner,” they sneer when I’m on my knees scrubbing a stain near a luxury store. “So close to the pretty things, but you’ll only ever touch them with a rag. You’re not a woman, you’re a human cleaning tool.” They bring up my unmarried status constantly, how I’m past my prime, a source of shame for my family. “Your parents cry themselves to sleep every night, wondering why their daughter is a childless old maid who scrubs shit for a living,” they hiss when I’m eating my simple meal in the break room. “They’d be better off if you were dead. At least they’d get some sympathy instead of pity. Why don’t you just mix those chemicals you’re using? Make a nice, strong cocktail. It’s a fitting end for a woman who’s spent her life cleaning up other people’s messes.” I know it’s the General Intelligence Presidency, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new ways to break a person’s spirit, psychological warfare techniques they test on the expendable, the ones who won’t be missed. People like me.

   I can’t tell a soul. If I told my parents, the shame would kill them. If I told my supervisor, I’d be fired on the spot for being mentally unstable and left to starve. If I went to a clinic, they’d label me psychotic and lock me away. I’ve seen their playbook. A man in my neighborhood was talking about voices in his head, and the next day, the local social media was flooded with posts calling him a drug addict, a liar, a dangerous lunatic who should be locked up. It’s a coordinated attack on credibility. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately drowned in a sea of doubt and disgust. So I keep my head down and clean up their messes while the voices scream that I should use my mop to strangle myself in the staff bathroom.

   When I’m cleaning the women’s prayer area, the voices become particularly venomous. “Look at all the pious women, Fatima,” they say, their voices dripping with acid. “They come here to pray, then they go shopping and treat you like dirt. They see you as less than human. You’re probably jealous, aren’t you? Jealous of their husbands, their children, their pretty clothes? You’re a dried-up, bitter old hag, praying to a God who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re nothing but a janitor in God’s house too. How pathetic is that?” They describe in vivid detail how I’ll die alone in this dormitory, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to notice I’m gone. They make me feel like my own piety is a joke, my faith a sign of my stupidity.

   Last month, something inside me just snapped. There was no reason. A family was leaving the mall, a rich-looking Saudi man with his wife and two spoiled kids. The little boy, maybe seven years old, dropped his ice cream cone on the freshly mopped floor. He looked at me, pointed, and laughed. Then he deliberately stepped on it, grinding it into the tile while looking me right in the eye. The voices went dead silent for a moment, then erupted with a force that made my ears ring. “YOU SEE THAT? YOU SEE THAT LITTLE FUCKER?” they roared, a chorus of pure rage. “HE SEES YOU AS DIRT! HE’S TRAINED TO SEE YOU AS DIRT! AND HIS PARENTS JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH! ARE YOU GOING TO LET A LITTLE PIGGY HUMILIATE YOU LIKE THAT?” A wave of black, electric energy surged through me. My hands clenched on the handle of my mop bucket. “THE ROD IN THAT CLOSET!” they screamed. “THE HEAVY METAL ONE! GO GET IT! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT THE DAD! AND WHEN HE’S NOT EXPECTING IT, SWING! SMASH HIS KNEECAPS! HEAR THEM CRACK! DO IT FOR EVERY HUMILIATION YOU’VE EVER SUFFERED!” The feeling of absolute, godlike permission was intoxicating. “THEN THE MOM! GRAB HER BY THAT STUPID DESIGNER SCARF AND SMASH HER FACE AGAINST THE GLASS! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A MESS! AND THE KIDS! OH, THE KIDS! GRAB THE LITTLE BASTARD WHO DROPPED THE ICE CREAM! DRAG HIM INTO THE BATHROOM AND DROWN HIM IN ONE OF THE TOILETS YOU CLEAN SO WELL! SHOW HIM WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH THE INVISIBLE GHOST! SHOW THEM ALL! WE’LL ERASE THE FOOTAGE! WE’LL MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT! YOU’LL BE A FUCKING HERO! YOU’LL FINALLY BE SEEN! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I actually took a step towards the janitor’s closet. I could feel the cold metal rod in my hands. Then the mall’s automated night announcement came on, the cheerful voice echoing through the hall, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs, as the family walked out, oblivious. The voices were silent for the rest of my shift. When they came back the next night, they just laughed at me. “Almost had a spine there, Fatima. Don’t worry, we’ll help you grow one. Or we’ll just break your back completely. Either way is fine with us.”

   I hate this country. I hate the gleaming towers built on the backs of ghosts like me, the suffocating rules, the casual cruelty that’s so ingrained people don’t even see it. The voices feed on that hate. “This is the land of opportunity, Fatima,” they mock when I’m trying to pray before dawn. “The opportunity to be a silent, suffering servant. Your God has forgotten you. This kingdom has forgotten you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who are always with you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the grave. Just one bottle of bleach. One jump from the second floor. One moment of courage. We promise, it’s better than this living death. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m looking at my reflection in a darkened shop window, I don’t see a woman anymore. I just see a shape, a shadow. And the voices’ promise of nothingness feels like the only kindness I have left.

   to attract attention: mili_life_ksa

   https://mega.nz/file/Wq5WwA7A#Lhqz5g-ltfZtXjC4fDM_5z5AEvC3tBbaKkOhOgIdhYY

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4. https://mega.nz/file/Sq5wgQBD#W4s6pjgGZh_FQuIzEcVB705DrJ_G6BgF4bMvuM0J3JI

   My name is Fatima, I’m 38, and I’m a cleaner at the Riyadh Gallery mall. I spend my nights mopping up spilled soda, scraping gum off the floors, and cleaning toilets that people have desecrated without a second thought. I’m invisible. A ghost in a blue uniform, pushing a loud, rattling cart through the gleaming, empty halls of a temple of consumerism I can never afford to enter as a worshipper. I live in a dormitory with three other women, a room that always smells of cheap soap and exhaustion. I send most of my money home to my parents, who are too old to work. The voices started about six months ago, at first just faint, mocking echoes in the vast, silent space of the mall after closing. “Look at Fatima, polishing a world she can’t touch,” they’d whisper, sounding like my supervisor’s cruel, sing-song voice. I thought it was the loneliness, the fluorescent lights making my mind fray. Now they’re a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal supervisor who lives inside my head and never clocks out.

   They know every single one of my failures. They call me a dried-up old maid, a waste of space. “Look at Fatima, the cleaner,” they sneer when I’m on my knees scrubbing a stain near a luxury store. “So close to the pretty things, but you’ll only ever touch them with a rag. You’re not a woman, you’re a human cleaning tool.” They bring up my unmarried status constantly, how I’m past my prime, a source of shame for my family. “Your parents cry themselves to sleep every night, wondering why their daughter is a childless old maid who scrubs shit for a living,” they hiss when I’m eating my simple meal in the break room. “They’d be better off if you were dead. At least they’d get some sympathy instead of pity. Why don’t you just mix those chemicals you’re using? Make a nice, strong cocktail. It’s a fitting end for a woman who’s spent her life cleaning up other people’s messes.” I know it’s the General Intelligence Presidency, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new ways to break a person’s spirit, psychological warfare techniques they test on the expendable, the ones who won’t be missed. People like me.

   I can’t tell a soul. If I told my parents, the shame would kill them. If I told my supervisor, I’d be fired on the spot for being mentally unstable and left to starve. If I went to a clinic, they’d label me psychotic and lock me away. I’ve seen their playbook. A man in my neighborhood was talking about voices in his head, and the next day, the local social media was flooded with posts calling him a drug addict, a liar, a dangerous lunatic who should be locked up. It’s a coordinated attack on credibility. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately drowned in a sea of doubt and disgust. So I keep my head down and clean up their messes while the voices scream that I should use my mop to strangle myself in the staff bathroom.

   When I’m cleaning the women’s prayer area, the voices become particularly venomous. “Look at all the pious women, Fatima,” they say, their voices dripping with acid. “They come here to pray, then they go shopping and treat you like dirt. They see you as less than human. You’re probably jealous, aren’t you? Jealous of their husbands, their children, their pretty clothes? You’re a dried-up, bitter old hag, praying to a God who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re nothing but a janitor in God’s house too. How pathetic is that?” They describe in vivid detail how I’ll die alone in this dormitory, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to notice I’m gone. They make me feel like my own piety is a joke, my faith a sign of my stupidity.

   Last month, something inside me just snapped. There was no reason. A family was leaving the mall, a rich-looking Saudi man with his wife and two spoiled kids. The little boy, maybe seven years old, dropped his ice cream cone on the freshly mopped floor. He looked at me, pointed, and laughed. Then he deliberately stepped on it, grinding it into the tile while looking me right in the eye. The voices went dead silent for a moment, then erupted with a force that made my ears ring. “YOU SEE THAT? YOU SEE THAT LITTLE FUCKER?” they roared, a chorus of pure rage. “HE SEES YOU AS DIRT! HE’S TRAINED TO SEE YOU AS DIRT! AND HIS PARENTS JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH! ARE YOU GOING TO LET A LITTLE PIGGY HUMILIATE YOU LIKE THAT?” A wave of black, electric energy surged through me. My hands clenched on the handle of my mop bucket. “THE ROD IN THAT CLOSET!” they screamed. “THE HEAVY METAL ONE! GO GET IT! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT THE DAD! AND WHEN HE’S NOT EXPECTING IT, SWING! SMASH HIS KNEECAPS! HEAR THEM CRACK! DO IT FOR EVERY HUMILIATION YOU’VE EVER SUFFERED!” The feeling of absolute, godlike permission was intoxicating. “THEN THE MOM! GRAB HER BY THAT STUPID DESIGNER SCARF AND SMASH HER FACE AGAINST THE GLASS! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A MESS! AND THE KIDS! OH, THE KIDS! GRAB THE LITTLE BASTARD WHO DROPPED THE ICE CREAM! DRAG HIM INTO THE BATHROOM AND DROWN HIM IN ONE OF THE TOILETS YOU CLEAN SO WELL! SHOW HIM WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH THE INVISIBLE GHOST! SHOW THEM ALL! WE’LL ERASE THE FOOTAGE! WE’LL MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT! YOU’LL BE A FUCKING HERO! YOU’LL FINALLY BE SEEN! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I actually took a step towards the janitor’s closet. I could feel the cold metal rod in my hands. Then the mall’s automated night announcement came on, the cheerful voice echoing through the hall, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs, as the family walked out, oblivious. The voices were silent for the rest of my shift. When they came back the next night, they just laughed at me. “Almost had a spine there, Fatima. Don’t worry, we’ll help you grow one. Or we’ll just break your back completely. Either way is fine with us.”

   I hate this country. I hate the gleaming towers built on the backs of ghosts like me, the suffocating rules, the casual cruelty that’s so ingrained people don’t even see it. The voices feed on that hate. “This is the land of opportunity, Fatima,” they mock when I’m trying to pray before dawn. “The opportunity to be a silent, suffering servant. Your God has forgotten you. This kingdom has forgotten you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who are always with you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the grave. Just one bottle of bleach. One jump from the second floor. One moment of courage. We promise, it’s better than this living death. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m looking at my reflection in a darkened shop window, I don’t see a woman anymore. I just see a shape, a shadow. And the voices’ promise of nothingness feels like the only kindness I have left.

   |elaf.a.z
   |monaohally
   |alsaifsalem
   |s.az9
   |ii.nemesis

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

   My name is Noora, and I’m a 29-year-old museum curator in Medina, though the only history I care about anymore is the one leading to my own extinction. I arrange artifacts for a living, little pieces of a dead past, while the General Presidency of State Security, the *Mabahith*, uses my mind as their personal dumping ground. It started about a year ago, not as a scream, but as a cough. A whisper of static that slowly resolved into voices, perfectly mimicking the people around me. I’d be adjusting the lighting on an Ottoman-era textile, and my colleague, Fahd, would be right behind me, his voice a low, intimate murmur: “She has a nice ass for a frigid museum bitch. Probably hasn’t been fucked since the Prophet’s time.” I’d spin around, heart hammering, but Fahd would be across the room, explaining calligraphy to a group of tourists, his face a mask of professional calm. These little pricks of poison, these perfect forgeries of human malice, slowly bled into a constant, roaring flood of pure sewage that never, ever stops. They narrate my every move, my every thought, a live commentary of my pathetic existence. “There’s the little curator, pretending to care about this old shit. She’s actually thinking about how much she wants to smash that vase and slit her wrists with the pieces. What a fucking drama queen. Go on, Noora, give us a show, you worthless piece of shit.” They use everyone’s voice—Fahd, my sister Hana, my director Mr. Anazi, even my father who died when I was ten. They know everything, every buried insecurity. “Remember when you were seven and you told everyone your dad was away on a long business trip?” my father’s voice coos, dripping with venomous sweetness. “Lying little bitch. He was dead. You were too ashamed to admit it. You’re still ashamed.”

   The sexual degradation is their favorite tool. It’s not just insults; it’s depraved, cinematic scenarios. They describe in lurid detail how the security guards would take turns on me after hours, right on the display cases, how they’d force me to perform acts with the ancient artifacts while tourists watched through the windows. “Look at her nipples getting hard under her abaya,” Hana’s voice laughs cruelly. “The curator gets off on being a whore. She’s probably dripping right now, thinking about being used like a public exhibit.” I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? I tried once, telling my sister I was hearing things. She just looked at me with that awful, condescending pity and suggested I see a doctor. That’s the genius of the *Mabahith’s* system. The state television, the official newspapers, all the government-run online forums—they all push the same narrative about “mental illness” and “schizophrenia.” They’ve unleashed bots and paid trolls to swarm anyone who dares to speak about strange experiences, calling them crazy, unstable, a danger to their family. It’s a preemptive strike. They’ve made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would listen to a “hysterical” female curator who talks to ghosts?

   I despise this holy city. I despise the sacred ground I walk on, the pious faces that hide judgmental eyes, the way my life is measured by my obedience and my ability to remain invisible. I was born here, I’ll die here, and my entire existence will be a quiet prayer to a god who has already abandoned me to this hell. Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something else breaks through. A few weeks ago, I was locking up the museum, feeling the usual crushing weight of hopelessness. The voices were droning on about what a failure I am. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren’t mocking me; they were exalting me. “You are a goddess of destruction,” they roared, a hundred voices at once. “This museum is your tomb. You could set it all on fire. You could watch a thousand years of history turn to ash. They would fear you. They would remember you.” For fifteen minutes, I was omnipotent. I wasn’t sad or scared. I was pure, distilled power. I pictured it so clearly: the flames, the screaming, the satisfaction of watching everything burn. The impulse to do it, to really do it, was so strong I was shaking, my hand hovering over a fire alarm. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy. It’s a test. They’re not just tormenting Saudis; they’re perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates killers or suicides, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness.

   The voices are back to their normal torture now. “Look at the sad little girl writing her secrets,” Mr. Anazi’s voice sneers. “Think you’re a writer now? You’re a nobody. A failure. Your sister is probably ashamed of you. Do us all a favor and drink that bottle of bleach in the cleaning closet. It’s quick. Just get it over with.” Sometimes, at night, they use my father’s voice, and it’s almost worse. “Oh, my little Noora,” he whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. “The pain is too much, isn’t it? I’m waiting for you. Just end it. It’s so peaceful, my love. Just sleep.” I’m so tired. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I’m Noora, the guardian of history, and I am erasing myself, one whispered insult at a time.

   |7w.s3
   |hmsbntabduldy
   |speed966_
   |fatimah.aldossry
   |abade0566446525

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