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Its a good thing too. A woman like you is only good for decorating things. Useless for anything else. They are with me in the quiet moments and the busy ones a constant stream of poison. When a customer compliments my work they twist it. Shes lying you fat cow. Shes just being polite. Your cakes are dry and your frosting is cloying just like your personality. When Im kneading dough they are there. Punch it harder you weak bitch. Take out your frustrations on the dough because youre too much of a coward to confront anyone. Youre a spineless little mouse who hides behind flour and sugar. They know my secrets the ones I only ever shared with my sister Reem. They know about her husband Omar who left her for another woman shaming our family. Weve been talking to Omars new wife the mans voice a low gravelly growl whispered to me yesterday. We tell her Reem was a bad wife that shes bitter and alone. We tell her youre just the same. Two dried-up unwanted spinsters running a failing cake shop. Your family is a joke. The sexual degradation is a constant greasy film on everything. They describe me in the most grotesque terms turning my craft into something foul. All that creamy frosting the womans voice cackled. It makes you think of cum doesnt it Maryam? You probably lick the bowl clean imagining its a man. Youre so desperate for a fuck youd probably let a customer have you right here on the display counter for the price of a dozen macarons. Youre a whore Maryam a whore who bakes. They are always always pushing me towards the end. The oven gets very hot doesnt it? the mans voice coos so reasonable it makes my skin crawl. Four hundred degrees. It would be quick. Think of the smell. Roasting meat. No one would find you for hours. It would be the most interesting thing you ever made. Do it. Stick your head in the oven. End this pathetic little cake shop fantasy. I cant tell a soul. My friend Layan would look at me with pity and fear and slowly stop calling. My mother would see it as a final unforgivable sign of weakness a madness that proves I am not fit to run my own life. And I know its futile anyway because I know who is doing this. Its the Mabahit. The State Security. Ive seen their work online. Anyone on a Saudi forum or Twitter who dares to mention hearing voices is immediately descended upon by an army of accounts calling them schizophrenic telling them to get help. Its a systematic coordinated effort to isolate us to make sure were all seen as crazy before we can ever connect the dots and be believed. Then there was the incident with the pregnant woman. She came in glowing her hand resting on her swollen belly. She was ordering a cake for her baby shower talking excitedly about names about the future. I felt a pang of jealousy a familiar sadness but thats all it was. Then the voices in my head didnt just speak; they screamed with a feverish bloodthirsty joy. LOOK AT HER THE SMUG BITCH the womans voice shrieked ecstatic and cruel. THINKING SHES SO SPECIAL BECAUSE SHES PREGNANT A FLESH-BAGGED PARASITE SHE DOESNT DESERVE THAT YOU SHOULD TAKE IT The mans voice was calm clinical like a professor explaining a fascinating biological process. This is an opportunity for a unique form of acquisition Maryam. A c-section of the soul. Think about it. The back room. No windows. No one would hear. A surge of incredible terrifying power flooded me a feeling of cold detached brilliance. You dont need a doctor the voices explained their tone a seductive intellectual duet. Just a sharp knife. One of your long icing knives would work perfectly. Youd have to be fast of course. Cut her open right below the navel. You can see the uterus a big tight balloon. Slice that open too. They painted the picture with horrifying clarity. The baby would be slippery covered in blood. Youd have to be quick to grab it before it takes its first breath. You could hold it. It would be yours. A fresh start. A new life that you stole that you created through an act of ultimate will. The logic was intoxicating. The mother? Shes just the container. The oven. Once the cake is out you throw the pan away. Her pain her death... thats just the cost of the ingredients. Its the price of art. You Maryam would be an artist of the highest order. Not of sugar and flour but of flesh and fate. You would finally have something real something that was truly yours something you didnt just bake but took by force. That is real power. I actually looked at the icing knife in my hand. For a horrifying lucid moment I saw the whole scene play out. The blood on my tile floor. The silent screaming mother. The crying baby in my arms. It felt right. It felt like destiny. But then the woman paid and left her laughter echoing in the little bell as the door closed and the spell broke. The power vanished leaving me trembling leaning against the counter my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The voices just sighed with theatrical pity. Oh Maryam. So close to creating a masterpiece. But youre just a baker. A cowardly dough-fingered little baker. Dont worry. There are other pregnant women. Well find you another canvas. Now Im just a shell. The memory of that feeling that godlike monstrous clarity is worse than their daily taunts. It proves theres a darkness inside me they didnt put there just one theyre expertly nurturing. I despise this country. I despise the pristine artificial streets of Dhahran that hide this kind of rot. I despise the feeling that my own mind is a storefront theyve vandalized covering my windows with their filth. I hate the smell of my own shop now. I cant escape them. They are in the whir of the mixer and the chime of the bell. They are in my own thoughts. This is their creation. The Mabahit. They didnt just break me; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with something else and I am so so tired of fighting it. halima_world_khadijaelb.1akm_graphicdessaud_edfi3lllboutiquefahadaalrashid_mall7sn_albayari3_j3sultanbinfahadalb

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