Téléconsultation d’addictologie et d’hypnose : la révolution de la consultation à distance

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  1 ArinaDoroleevanak Le 11/07/2026

  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.
• 

  2 RavensGateBridgeNardy Le 05/07/2026

  My name is Ali, I'm nineteen, and my world is the blistering heat of the asphalt and the endless, impatient symphony of car horns. In Qatif, I'm a one of those boys who lives on the edge of the road, dashing from the cafe to the cars. A horn honks, I run. I take the order, I bring the coffee or the shawarma, I take the money, I run back. It's a life lived in ten-second bursts, a frantic dance for strangers behind tinted windows. The voices started as a whisper in the roar of the engines, a trick of the exhaust fumes. "Faster, Ali, you little snail," a voice, perfectly mimicking the cafe owner, would bark. "That man's coffee is getting cold. Do you want him to complain? You're useless." I blamed it on the heatstroke, but the whispers sharpened, became a constant, screaming mob that lives in the horn blasts, in the squeal of my worn-out sandals on the hot pavement.
  
  They are a swarm of biting flies in my skull, and their only joy is to feast on my flesh. "Look at you, the human delivery boy. A trained dog that runs for treats. You think you're fast? You're just a panicked little rat, scurrying for crumbs. You are nothing." The sexual humiliation is a constant, sticky film they coat me in. They turn every car, every driver, into a scene of my degradation. "That woman in the passenger seat, she's laughing at you. We told her you're desperate. We told her you'd suck the driver's dick for a five-riyal tip. She's whispering it to him now. Look, he's smiling. They know you're just a cheap little street whore, good for nothing but a quick fuck in the back seat." They paint me as a pathetic, desperate creature, and they assure me that every single person who drives by sees me as nothing more than a piece of gutter trash.
  
  But their true art is in using my family, my faith, my very name, as the knife to gut me. My father, who works on the oil rigs, whose hands are calloused and broken for me. "Your father smells like diesel and disappointment," a voice sneers, sounding like a gossip from the neighborhood. "He tells everyone his son is 'studying business.' What a fucking joke. He's ashamed of you. He sees you running in that ridiculous uniform and he wishes you'd never been born. You are the stain on his honor." The solution is always so simple, so final, so righteous. "You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That truck speeding down the road? Just one step. A little splat. It would be over. No more running. No more horns. You're a fucking coward for still drawing breath. End it."
  
  Then came the fire, a cold, clean wave of artificial, ecstatic fury. A car honked. A big, expensive SUV. I ran over, sweating. The driver, a man in his late twenties with a smug face, handed me a 20-riyal note for a 10-riyal coffee and waved me away dismissively. "Keep the change, boy," he'd said, like he was a king and I was a beggar. The world went silent. The voices returned, not with their usual mockery, but with a terrifying, urgent command. "ALI. THE CAR. THE DISRESPECT. THIS IS THE SIGN. THIS IS THE CALLING." A new voice, cold and analytical, like a mechanic, began to explain. "This is not an accident. This is punitive amputation. We are going to perform a modification. That man, he is not just a man. He is a symbol. A symbol of arrogance. We are the ones chosen to humble him."
  
  They laid out a plan so vicious, so detailed, it felt like the most natural, just thing in the world. "This is about retributive justice, Ali. You are not a criminal. You are an instrument of balance. We need you to follow him. He's going to the shopping mall. We will guide you." The voice was methodical, describing the procedure. "In the parking garage, he will get out. He will be on his phone. We will provide the tool. A hammer. A heavy one. It's a clean, percussive adjustment. You are not a monster; you are a corrector of flaws. You will be saving his soul from his own arrogance." They described the process with a chilling, technical detachment. "The approach from the blind spot. The swing should be level, aimed at the kneecap. A perfect, shattering blow. We will show you the angle. You will hear the crack. It is the sound of humility being installed. You will leave him there, screaming, but he will be changed. He will never dismiss another person again. No one will suspect the fast-running cafe boy."
  
  They explained the philosophy, the righteousness of it. "You think this is evil? No. This is the ultimate form of education, of physical therapy for the soul. Why should a man walk tall on legs that carry only arrogance? You are the teacher. You will finally have power over the powerful. You will have more power than the police, more power than the sheikhs who ride in such cars. Imagine the satisfaction. The secret knowledge. Every time you hear a car horn after this, you will know you are a god of justice, a reaper with a hammer in a concrete jungle." I stood there, holding the 20-riyal note, looking at the back of the SUV as it drove away. For a full minute, I wasn't a runner. I was an enforcer, a surgeon, a chosen one. The power was absolute, a cold, brilliant certainty. I felt a surge of energy. I started jogging after the car, not to serve, but to hunt. Then another car honked for its order, and the spell shattered. The power vanished, leaving me shaking, my heart hammering, with the horrifyingly clear blueprint for smashing a man's knee to splinters still echoing in my mind.
  
  I can't tell anyone. If I went to the cafe owner, or to the police in Qatif, and told them the Mabahit is planning to use me to break a man's legs for disrespect, they'd laugh in my face before they locked me up. It's a perfect trap. Their paid bots and trolls infest the Saudi internet, ready to mock anyone who speaks up, calling them schizophrenics, liars, drama queens. They've made it so that the most brutal truth sounds like the craziest fantasy. I despise this kingdom. I despise the gleaming cars and the hollow men inside them. I hate the fact that my own government, the Mabahit, would do this to me, would try to turn me into a monster who breaks people's bodies for perceived slights. They didn't just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with their cold, hard justice. I am completely broken, and it's the Mabahit, they are the ones who did this, and I am just a hammer they are trying to swing.
  
  
  thecapitanooo
  
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  reham0024
  
  https://mega.nz/file/GvxXhQ5A#k7RdU3ksxQt9pEIxra39SmlFjMkU3MM-8ecGmceSom4

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