Móvel Ewmi-VI-534508-01416

14 avaliações de Móvel Ewmi-VI-534508-01416

1. Avaliação 3 de 5

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8. Avaliação 2 de 5

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9. Avaliação 1 de 5

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10. Avaliação 1 de 5

    RavensGateBridgekes – 04/07/2026

    My name is Noura, I’m 29, and I’m an unemployed woman living in Jeddah, which is just a fancy way of saying I’m a professional failure. I survive on the charity of my married older sister, Laila, whose husband looks at me like I’m a piece of mold he found on his food. I spend my days in their small apartment, applying for jobs I’ll never get online, trying to ignore the pitying looks, and scrolling through social media feeds of people living lives I can only dream of. I have a master’s degree in English literature, which in this country qualifies me to be absolutely nothing. The voices started about a year ago, at first just faint, cynical comments when I’d get a rejection email. “Another door closes, Noura,” they’d whisper, sounding like a twisted version of my own disappointed voice. I thought it was just the depression talking, the isolation warping my mind. Now they’re a constant, screaming chorus of hatred, a committee of my own worst fears that never adjourns.

    They know every single insecurity, every regret, every secret shame. They call me a parasite, a useless, educated waste of space. “Look at Noura, the scholar,” they sneer when I’m trying to read a book to escape. “Surrounded by her sister’s furniture, living on her sister’s charity. You’re not a woman, you’re a house pet that’s outstayed its welcome.” They bring up my ex-fiance, Khalid, who left me two years ago because I couldn’t find a job and his family disapproved. “He’s probably married to some simple-minded girl with a good job now,” they hiss when I’m lying in bed at night. “A girl who can contribute, who isn’t a burden. He’s fucking her right now, Noura. While you’re here, touching yourself in the dark like the lonely, pathetic creature you are. You should have killed yourself when he left you. Just take a whole bottle of Laila’s sleeping pills. It’s the only contribution you’re capable of making.” It has to be the General Intelligence, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new psychological operations, ways to infiltrate and destroy minds from a distance. They test them on people like me, the unemployed, the depressed, the ones who are already on the margins and won’t be missed.

    I can’t tell anyone. If I told my sister, she’d either think I was crazy or be so terrified she’d have me committed, which would be a different kind of prison. If I told my parents, they’d die of shame. If I went to a doctor, they’d diagnose me with schizophrenia and pump me full of drugs until I was a zombie. I’ve seen how they handle it. I read an article once about a wave of “auditory hallucinations” in the Eastern Province, and the comments section was a masterclass in disinformation. Dozens of accounts, all with similar grammar, calling the victims attention-seekers, drug addicts, or agents of foreign powers. It’s a systematic campaign to make sure no one ever believes us. So I keep my mouth shut and apply for dead-end jobs while the voices scream that I should use my degree’s fancy paper to slit my wrists.

    They are constantly, viciously sexual in their degradation. When my brother-in-law, Ahmed, is home, they immediately start in. “Look at him, Noura. A real man. A provider. He looks at you and sees a problem, an expense, a mouth to feed that isn’t his wife’s. Bet you get wet when he walks by, don’t you, you desperate leech? Imagining what it would be like to have a man take care of you again? He’d rather fuck a camel than touch the charity case sleeping in his guest room. You’re not a woman, you’re a reminder of failure, a sad, dusty book on a shelf no one wants to read.” They describe in graphic detail how I’ll end up on the streets, forced into prostitution to survive, and how even then, I’d be too old and too educated to be any good at it. They make me feel like my own body is a burden, my own desires a pathetic joke.

    Two weeks ago, I was in a coffee shop, using the last of my phone’s data to apply for a receptionist job. A group of three women, maybe my age, sat at the table next to me. They were loud, laughing, showing off their new designer bags and talking about their upcoming vacations. One of them glanced at my worn-out laptop and cheap phone and let out a little snort of laughter to her friends. That was it. There was no real reason, no real insult. But the voices went nuclear. “YOU SEE THAT? YOU HEAR THAT LITTLE PIG SNURT?” they roared, so loud my vision blurred. “SHE LOOKS AT YOU AND SEES TRASH! THEY ALL DO! THEY’RE HAPPY BECAUSE THEY’RE STEPPING ON YOU! ARE YOU GOING TO JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT, YOU WORTHLESS CUNT?” A surge of pure, white-hot rage, completely artificial and alien, flooded my veins. My hands clenched into fists under the table. “THE SUGAR BOWL ON THE TABLE!” they commanded. “THE HEAVY GLASS ONE! PICK IT UP! WALK OVER TO THEIR TABLE! SMILE! AND WHEN THEY LOOK UP, SMASH IT INTO THE LEAD CUNT’S FACE! GRIND THE SUGAR AND GLASS INTO HER EYES! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A BLEEDING MESS!” The feeling of absolute impunity was terrifying and intoxicating. “THEN THE OTHER ONE! PUNCH HER IN THE THROAT! SHOVE HER TABLE OVER! SCALD HER WITH THAT STUPID FRAPPICCINO! AND THE THIRD ONE! GRAB HER STUPID DESIGNER BAG AND USE IT TO CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF HER! SHOW THEM! SHOW THEM WHAT A DESPERATE, EDUCATED WOMAN WITH NOTHING TO LOSE CAN DO! WE’LL MAKE SURE NO ONE IDENTIFIES YOU! WE’LL CREATE A DISTRACTION! YOU’LL BE A FUCKING LEGEND! YOU’LL FINALLY FEEL ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I actually stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor. The women looked at me, annoyed. Then the barista called my name for my order, and the spell shattered. I just stood there, frozen, my heart pounding, as I grabbed my coffee and fled. The voices were silent for the rest of the day. When they came back that night, they just mocked me. “Almost had a spark there, Noura. Don’t worry, we’ll light the fire under you again soon. Or maybe we’ll just let you smolder in your own misery. Either way is fine with us.”

    I hate this country. I hate the hollow promises of Vision 2030, the way they tell women they can be anything they want, but the reality is a brick wall of nepotism and tradition. The voices feast on that hate. “This is your kingdom, Noura,” they mock when I’m trying to pray. “A kingdom where your education is a liability and your worth is zero. Your God has abandoned you. Your country has no use for you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who haven’t abandoned you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the void. Just one leap from a bridge. One handful of pills. One final, decisive act. We promise, it’s better than this. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m staring at the ceiling in my sister’s guest room, the voices are the only thing that feels real. And their promise of an end feels like the only hope I have left.

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11. Avaliação 2 de 5

    ArinaDoroleevaetefs – 10/07/2026

    The tumor had a name,
    a string of syllables the doctor recited like a prayer,
    but to me it was just The Thing,
    the alien growing inside you,
    feeding on you,
    replacing you cell by cell
    until the woman who was my mother
    became a vessel for its hunger.

    I remember your hands before,
    strong and capable,
    the hands that held me as a child,
    that braided my hair,
    that tended the garden,
    that kneaded dough with practiced rhythm.
    Now I can only remember them as they were at the end,
    clawed and brittle,
    blue-veined maps to a country of pain,
    too weak to lift a glass of water,
    too frail to touch my face without trembling.

    The hospital became our second home,
    and the smell of it clung to us like a second skin,
    the antiseptic tang of failed hope,
    the underlying sweetness of decay,
    the metallic scent of blood and fear.
    It followed us home,
    settled in our furniture,
    our clothes,
    our lungs,
    a constant reminder of the battlefield
    where we had lost the war.

    Your jewelry box sits open on your dresser,
    a treasure chest of memories I can no longer bear to look at.
    The pearl necklace Dad gave you for your anniversary,
    the silver locket with my baby picture inside,
    the simple gold band you never took off,
    all of it tarnished with the residue of your suffering,
    each piece a monument to a life cut short,
    to a future stolen.

    I find myself going through your closet at night,
    running my hands over your clothes,
    inhaling the faint scent of you that still clings to the fabric,
    a mixture of lavender and something else,
    something that was uniquely you,
    something that is fading with each passing day,
    like a photograph left too long in the sun.

    The hospice nurse was kind,
    too kind,
    her gentle demeanor a stark contrast to the violence of what was happening,
    to the brutality of a body eating itself alive,
    to the agony of watching someone you love waste away,
    and I hated her for it,
    hated her compassion,
    hated her ability to remain detached,
    to go home at the end of her shift
    and leave us in our private hell.

    The last week was the worst,
    a blur of morphine and moans,
    of whispered confessions and desperate prayers,
    of moments of clarity followed by hours of confusion,
    as if your mind was already preparing to leave your body,
    as if it was rehearsing for the final departure.

    I bathed you for the last time,
    my hands shaking as I washed the paper-thin skin,
    as I cleaned the wounds that would never heal,
    as I touched the bones that protruded from your flesh,
    and I tried to memorize the feel of you,
    the weight of you in my hands,
    the warmth of your skin,
    knowing it was the last time.

    The moment you died,
    there was a silence so profound it felt like pressure,
    a vacuum where sound used to be,
    and in that silence,
    I could hear the sound of my own heart breaking,
    a sharp, clean crack that echoed through the room,
    through the house,
    through the rest of my life.

    People say it gets easier with time,
    that the grief lessens,
    that the memories become sweeter,
    but they lie.
    It doesn’t get easier.
    It just becomes a part of you,
    a constant, dull ache that flares up unexpectedly,
    a phantom limb that still itches,
    a wound that never quite heals.

    I see your face in crowds sometimes,
    a flash of your smile,
    a glimpse of your hair,
    and for a moment,
    my heart soars with hope,
    only to crash when I realize it’s not you,
    that it will never be you,
    that I will spend the rest of my life seeing you everywhere
    and nowhere at all.

    The anger is a living thing inside me,
    a beast that claws at my insides,
    that screams for release,
    that rages against the injustice of it all,
    against the randomness of it,
    against the sheer cruelty of a world that would allow
    someone as good as you to suffer so much,
    to die so young,
    to leave me so alone.

    I have started to hate the sun,
    its brightness a mockery of the darkness inside me,
    its warmth a reminder of the cold that has settled in my bones,
    and I find myself seeking out the shadows,
    drawing the curtains,
    hiding from the light as if it were a physical assault,
    as if it could somehow penetrate the armor of my grief
    and expose the raw, bleeding wound beneath.

    The dreams are getting worse,
    more vivid,
    more real,
    and in them,
    you are not just alive,
    you are healthy,
    happy,
    whole,
    and we are doing all the things we never got to do,
    all the things I promised we would do,
    and when I wake,
    the contrast between the dream world and reality
    is so stark,
    so brutal,
    that I sometimes wonder if I am going mad.

    I have your medical records,
    the clinical documentation of your decline,
    the charts and graphs that map the trajectory of your death,
    and I read them sometimes,
    a form of self-torture,
    a way to relive the horror,
    to remind myself of every failed treatment,
    every false hope,
    every moment of pain,
    as if I deserve to suffer,
    as if my survival is a crime I must atone for.

    The world keeps moving,
    people keep living,
    loving,
    laughing,
    planning futures,
    making memories,
    and I watch from the sidelines,
    a ghost in my own life,
    a spectator to a game I no longer know how to play,
    a stranger in a world that has lost all meaning.

    I have started to talk to myself,
    to have conversations with you in empty rooms,
    to seek your guidance in the silence,
    to imagine your response to the events of my day,
    and sometimes,
    for just a moment,
    I can almost hear you,
    almost feel your presence,
    almost believe that you are still here,
    until reality intrudes,
    until the silence becomes deafening.

    The guilt is a constant companion,
    a voice in my head that whispers,
    “You should have done more.”
    “You should have tried harder.”
    “You should have saved her.”
    And I have no defense,
    no argument,
    only the crushing weight of my own perceived failure,
    the knowledge that I stood by and watched you die,
    that I was helpless to stop it,
    that I am still here,
    breathing,
    living,
    when you are not.

    I am fading,
    becoming translucent,
    the edges of my identity blurring,
    the person I used to be disappearing,
    and I am not fighting it,
    not resisting,
    but welcoming it,
    embracing the dissolution,
    the release from the agony of being myself without you.

    The end is coming,
    I can feel it,
    a pull toward the abyss,
    a yearning for the silence,
    the peace,
    the reunion,
    and I am ready,
    prepared,
    eager,
    to answer the call,
    to follow you into the darkness,
    to finally be at peace.

    Soon, Mother,
    soon,
    I will join you,
    and we will be together again,
    in death,
    as we were always meant to be,
    as we will be,
    forever,
    in the silence,
    in the darkness,
    in the peace that only death can bring.

12. Avaliação 1 de 5

    ArinaDoroloeevaCig – 10/07/2026

    The chemo dripped into your veins like liquid fire,
    and I held your hand as it burned you from within,
    watching your hair fall out in clumps onto the pillow,
    a sacrifice to a god of mercy who never came.

    Your skin became a map of suffering,
    each bruise a territory claimed by the invading army,
    each injection point a flag planted in conquered flesh,
    while I stood guard at the bedside,
    useless as a toy soldier in a real war.

    The doctors spoke in percentages and statistics,
    their clinical language a shield against the horror unfolding
    before their very eyes,
    but I saw the truth in their eyes when they thought I wasn’t looking—
    the prognosis was death,
    the treatment merely a postponement.

    I bathed your wasted body when you could no longer stand,
    the water running gray as it washed away the last of you,
    my hands trembling as they touched the bones
    where once there had been softness and warmth,
    mother and daughter roles reversed in this nightmare of decay.

    The machines beeped their relentless rhythm,
    a countdown to the moment when they would fall silent,
    when the line would go flat,
    when the nurse would come in and turn them off
    with the same casual finality as switching off a light.

    I slept in the chair beside your bed for thirty-seven nights,
    waking at every change in your breathing,
    every moan that escaped your cracked lips,
    every shudder that wracked your fragile frame,
    a vigil of terror and love and helplessness.

    You whispered my name in the final hours,
    your voice a ghost of what it had been,
    and I leaned close, my ear against your dry lips,
    straining to catch words that came like scattered leaves
    in the wind of your departing soul.

    “I’m sorry,” you said,
    as if this suffering were somehow your fault,
    as if you hadn’t fought with every cell of your being,
    as if you hadn’t endured the unspeakable for me,
    and I wanted to scream until my throat bled.

    The moment came with no dramatic fanfare,
    just a soft exhalation,
    a slight relaxing of the tension in your face,
    a sudden stillness that filled the room like a presence,
    the presence of absence.

    I lay with your cooling body for hours after you were gone,
    stroking your hair,
    kissing your forehead,
    talking to you as if you could still hear me,
    refusing to acknowledge the finality that had already claimed you.

    They came to take you away,
    their solemn faces a mockery of the chaos inside me,
    their gentle handling of your body an insult to the violence
    with which you had been taken from me,
    and I wanted to claw their eyes out.

    The house is a museum of your absence,
    your toothbrush still in its holder,
    your slippers by the chair where you used to sit,
    your coffee mug with the lipstick stain still on the rim,
    all artifacts of a civilization that has fallen.

    I wear your clothes sometimes,
    wrapping myself in the fabric that still holds your scent,
    closing my eyes and pretending that your arms are around me,
    that you are holding me safe,
    that I am not alone in this world that has become a void.

    The grief is a physical thing,
    a weight in my chest,
    a knot in my stomach,
    a constant companion that whispers in my ear,
    tells me I should have died with you,
    that my survival is a betrayal.

    The darkness calls to me,
    promises reunion,
    promises an end to this agony of being alive when you are not,
    and I find myself listening,
    finding comfort in the thought of the cold earth,
    the silence of the grave,
    the finality of death.

    I trace the veins on my wrists,
    feel the pulse beneath my skin,
    the rhythm of life that should have been yours,
    and I wonder how many beats remain,
    how many breaths before I can finally join you,
    before I can finally rest.

    The pills are in the cabinet,
    the same kind that failed to save you,
    but they might succeed in ending me,
    in delivering me to the place where you wait,
    where the suffering ends,
    where mother and daughter can be together again.

    I think of you often,
    of your smile,
    of your laugh,
    of the way you said my name,
    and the memories are both comfort and torture,
    a reminder of what I’ve lost,
    of what I can never have again.

    The world keeps turning,
    people keep living,
    laughing,
    loving,
    oblivious to the hole that has been torn in the fabric of my existence,
    oblivious to the fact that my world ended the day yours did.

    Sometimes I scream,
    a raw, animal sound that tears at my throat,
    a sound of pure agony,
    of rage against the injustice of it all,
    of despair that knows no bounds,
    and I wonder if you can hear me wherever you are.

    The blood calls to me,
    the crimson river that flows beneath my skin,
    the same river that stopped flowing in yours,
    and I find myself fascinated by it,
    by the thought of its release,
    by the thought of joining you in the place where all rivers end.

    I stand at the edge,
    the precipice of oblivion,
    the wind whipping my hair around my face,
    the ground far below,
    a final embrace,
    a final reunion,
    a final peace.

    And I know,
    with a certainty that terrifies and comforts me,
    that I will step off,
    that I will fall,
    that I will join you,
    that we will be together again,
    in death,
    as we were always meant to be.

13. Avaliação 4 de 5

    JoannkaT – 13/07/2026

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14. Avaliação 1 de 5

    Doriszesut – 24/07/2026

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