Mudanças na linha 6258/10 Jd. São Francisco – Term. Sto. Amaro

6 comentários sobre “Mudanças na linha 6258/10 Jd. São Francisco – Term. Sto. Amaro”

1. The room is a perfect circle of black marble. A single spotlight illuminates two chairs. One is ornate, gilded, empty. The other is simple, steel, occupied by MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN, 40, still wearing the pristine white thawb he died in. He looks impatient.
   Across from him, CROWLEY WOLF, 50s, dressed in a threadbare velvet smoking jacket, paces slowly, holding a small, leather-bound director’s script. He stops, turns, and his voice booms, filling the vast, empty space.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Not shouting, but with immense, theatrical volume)
   You’re late. The curtain rose an eternity ago. You think power makes you immune to time? Here, time is the only critic that matters. And it has found your performance… lacking. You’re playing the role of “Crown Prince.” Act like it. Sit up.
   Mohammed shifts, his arrogance a physical shield.
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   I do not answer to stagehands. I am the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. This… interrogation is a mistake. A grotesque misunderstanding.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Waving a dismissive hand)
   Mistake? There are no mistakes, only bad choices followed by worse acting! “I am the Crown Prince.” The line is delivered with the conviction of a man reading a shopping list. Again! From the entrance! You sweep in! You own the room! You are the vessel of a nation’s destiny! FEEL IT, YOU BLITHERING INCOMPETENT!
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   (Icy)
   I am the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. My destiny is not a matter for your… amusement.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (A cruel smile)
   Better. A flicker of something. Not belief, but the memory of it. Good. We can work with that. Let’s talk about your props. Your toys. This… “Directed Weapon.” Don’t look at me like that. We have the schematics. We have the usage logs. We have the encephalograms. I want the monologue. The scene where you, the great visionary, describe your creation. The soliloquy of the god-maker. Go!
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   It was a tool for national advancement. A shield. A way to…
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Slamming his script down)
   NO! NO, NO, NO! “A tool”? “A shield”? That’s the dialogue of a bureaucrat, not a king! You didn’t build a shield, you built a throne for the mind! You stole God’s lightning and used it to rewire souls! Now, DESCRIBE IT! What did it feel like? The first time you used it on yourself? The euphoria? Tell me about that feeling!
   Mohammed’s composure cracks. A memory surfaces, unwanted.
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   (Quieter, almost a whisper)
   It was… clean. Like the moment after anesthesia, but with perfect clarity. No grogginess. Just… light. A motivation that didn’t end. I could run for hours. I didn’t need to sleep. One press… and the deepest sleep. Movies weren’t on a screen, they were… real. Music wasn’t sound, it was… a color. A feeling of being loved by the universe itself.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   YES! SEE? THAT’S ACTING! The truth! And what else? What did it do to your perception of the little people? The ones outside your skull?
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   (A flicker of the old arrogance)
   It clarified things. It showed me what was… necessary. The distance between me and… others. They became… smaller. Insignificant. Like insects scurrying on the pavement kilometers below. Their concerns… microscopic.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   Magnificent! The god-monologue! Now, the next scene. The difficult one. The casting call. You have this divine tool. You need a court. A government. But the best minds, the strong-willed, the ones who might actually help you… they see you for what you are. A tyrant. They wouldn’t come. They wouldn’t love you. So what did you do, my brilliant casting director? What kind of actors did you settle for?
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   My advisors were chosen for their loyalty. Their commitment to Vision 2030.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Leaning in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial boom)
   LOYALTY? Don’t lie to me, I can smell the mediocrity from here! You couldn’t attract the lions, so you trained the puppies! You took the weak-willed, the ambitionless, the men who saw power as a paycheck instead of a burden… and you used your weapon on them, didn’t you? You spent years with your secret service, not building a government, but breaking minds! Forging affection from fear! Tell me about that process! How did it feel to know the men sitting at your table only loved the electrical impulses you forced into their skulls?
   Mohammed stands up, shaking.
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   That’s enough! You know nothing! Security required it! The smart ones, the critical ones… they would betray me! They would question! It was safer! It was the only way to protect the nation from…
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Laughing, a loud, echoing sound)
   FROM WHAT? FROM COMPETENCE? You were afraid, little prince! Afraid a man with a spine might look at you and see a fraud! So you surrounded yourself with echoes! With puppets whose strings you pulled, and now you have the weakest government in Saudi history, a house of cards built from broken minds! You sit in meetings, don’t you? You look into their eyes, and you know! You know you had to dial down their charisma, their confidence, just so they wouldn’t outshine you! You have to listen to their thoughts because you don’t trust their words! You’re not a king, you’re a paranoid zookeeper!
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   (Slumping back into the chair, broken)
   I… I did what was necessary.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   You did what was easy. Now. The final scene. The one that earned you this stage. The private performance. The young student. What was her name? The one you practiced on.
   Mohammed flinches as if struck. The room suddenly feels colder.
   MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN
   I… there is no one.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   PLAY THE SCENE! You are not Mohammed bin Salman. You are her. LAYLA. A 21-year-old architecture student. You feel a presence. A pressure in your mind. It feels like… love. But it’s wrong. It’s invasive. It tells you that you want this. That you want him. Describe it, Layla. What did he do to you?
   Mohammed’s eyes widen. He’s no longer on the chair. He’s curled on the floor. His voice changes, higher, trembling.
   MOHAMMED/LAYLA
   It started with… dreams. Happy dreams. About him. I didn’t even know who he was. But I loved him. I wanted him to notice me. I started dressing… differently. I felt this… need.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   And then? The night he came to you. Not in person. Through the machine. What did that feel like, Layla?
   MOHAMMED/LAYLA
   (Writhing, sobbing)
   It was like… fire. But good. So good. My body… it wasn’t mine. It was his instrument. He played me. The pleasure was… agony. It went on for hours. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it. He made me love it. He made me love being… violated. He broke my will and replaced it with his own desire.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   AGAIN! FROM THE MOMENT YOU REALIZED IT WASN’T LOVE! IT WAS A PRISON!
   MOHAMMED/LAYLA
   (Screaming)
   The fire! It was real fire! It’s burning! IT’S BURNING!
   The black marble of the room begins to glow red. Veins of orange light crack across the walls. The air shimmers with heat. Mohammed scrambles away from the growing heat, but there is nowhere to go.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   (Standing over him, his voice now impossibly calm and clear)
   There is no exit. This is the stage. This is the audience. You wanted them to feel your power. Now you will feel their pain. Every Layla. Every broken advisor. Every citizen you saw as an insect. You will feel their terror, their violation, their hopelessness, their despair. You will feel it all. Forever. Your performance is finally… honest.
   The flames engulf Mohammed’s form. He screams, but the sound is not his own. It’s a chorus of a thousand voices, all screaming in unison.
   Crowley Wolf watches, unblinking. He nods slowly, a single, definitive gesture.
   CROWLEY WOLF
   Circle Seven. Violence. The role is yours. Play it well.
   He turns and walks away into the darkness as the screaming continues, the single spotlight finally winking out, leaving only the burning, inescapable light of the performance.

   Responder

2. The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
   a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
   even months after you’ve turned to ash.

   Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
   the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
   like a ghost trying to hold on.

   I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
   the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
   and my fingers come away cold,
   so cold,
   as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

   The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
   a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
   each capsule a tombstone marking another day
   you slipped further away from me.

   I watched you waste,
   watched cancer eat you from the inside out
   like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
   Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
   veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

   And I stood by,
   useless,
   helpless,
   praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
   while you became less and less,
   until you were nothing but bone and suffering
   and eyes that begged for release.

   Why you and not me?
   Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
   Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
   Survival feels like a betrayal,
   like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

   The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
   hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
   a future I’m already living without you.
   I smash the glass,
   watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
   each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
   who couldn’t save you.

   The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
   whispering that I should have done more,
   said more,
   been more,
   but it’s too late for anything but this
   this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

   Darkness has become my only companion,
   the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
   I walk through our house at night,
   touching your things,
   inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
   pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

   But morning always comes,
   bringing with it the brutal reality
   that I am alone,
   that you are gone,
   that the cancer didn’t just take your body
   but hollowed out my soul as well.

   I hear you calling sometimes,
   not with words but with the memory of your voice,
   and I follow the sound toward the edge,
   toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
   where I might finally join you,
   finally escape this prison of survival.

   The razor glints in the bathroom light,
   promising reunion,
   promising peace,
   promising an end to this agony of being alive
   when the one who gave me life is gone.

   Soon, Mother,
   soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
   where cancer can’t follow,
   where we can be together again
   in the silence of the grave,
   the only place that feels like home anymore.

   Responder

3. The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
   a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
   even months after you’ve turned to ash.

   Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
   the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
   like a ghost trying to hold on.

   I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
   the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
   and my fingers come away cold,
   so cold,
   as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

   The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
   a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
   each capsule a tombstone marking another day
   you slipped further away from me.

   I watched you waste,
   watched cancer eat you from the inside out
   like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
   Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
   veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

   And I stood by,
   useless,
   helpless,
   praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
   while you became less and less,
   until you were nothing but bone and suffering
   and eyes that begged for release.

   Why you and not me?
   Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
   Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
   Survival feels like a betrayal,
   like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

   The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
   hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
   a future I’m already living without you.
   I smash the glass,
   watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
   each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
   who couldn’t save you.

   The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
   whispering that I should have done more,
   said more,
   been more,
   but it’s too late for anything but this
   this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

   Darkness has become my only companion,
   the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
   I walk through our house at night,
   touching your things,
   inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
   pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

   But morning always comes,
   bringing with it the brutal reality
   that I am alone,
   that you are gone,
   that the cancer didn’t just take your body
   but hollowed out my soul as well.

   I hear you calling sometimes,
   not with words but with the memory of your voice,
   and I follow the sound toward the edge,
   toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
   where I might finally join you,
   finally escape this prison of survival.

   The razor glints in the bathroom light,
   promising reunion,
   promising peace,
   promising an end to this agony of being alive
   when the one who gave me life is gone.

   Soon, Mother,
   soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
   where cancer can’t follow,
   where we can be together again
   in the silence of the grave,
   the only place that feels like home anymore.

   Responder

4. I study at International Indian Public School Riyadh. I didn’t think I’d ever write something like this. I still hope, deep down, that I’m wrong — that this is all in my head, that nothing’s being done to me. But I’ve gone through every explanation I could think of, and none of them fit. So now I have to consider the only one that does.

   They’re using something on me. Satellite-based psychophysical interference — not a guess, not paranoia. Real manipulation. Done by human operators tied to the Saudi Ministry of Interior and military-run telecom or cyber units. They’re inside the system, and I’m part of whatever they’re testing.

   At first I thought I was just tired. I’ve moved schools before, I’ve lived in other countries. But this was different. My emotions began flipping like switches — deep sadness without cause, bursts of anger in harmless conversations, or total numbness when I knew I should care. One day I cried in the bathroom and didn’t know why. No memory triggered it. It just came, then stopped.

   And the thoughts. That’s what finally convinced me. I’ll begin a sentence in my head, and suddenly it’s finished — but not the way I meant. Different words. Different tone. Almost like someone’s practicing inside my brain. A few times, I’ve even caught myself saying things I didn’t intend to say at all. Phrases I don’t use. Terms that aren’t mine.

   I can’t talk to anyone here. Not because they’re bad people. But because it’s pointless. No one wants to hear this kind of thing. If I say it out loud, I’ll get sent to the school counselor, and they’ll call my parents, and then I’ll be “monitored.” And whatever’s happening will only get worse.

   There’s a hallway near the auditorium where my heart starts pounding for no reason. I avoid it now. My handwriting has changed — I hold the pen differently, like someone shifted my grip. I forget short-term tasks, even simple ones like “bring your book to class.” I look at friends and feel like I don’t know them. And every day, I feel more distant from who I was before I got here.

   If I had known this could happen in Saudi Arabia, I never would have come. I miss home. Not just my family, but the version of me that existed before this place. I thought international school would expand my world. But all it did was make me realize how easy it is to be broken from the inside out.

   Now I stay quiet. I do my work. I smile when needed. But inside, I’m documenting. Every time I lose a thought. Every time I twitch before moving. Every time I hear, “We’re not done with you yet.”

   Responder

5. They said Riyadh would be safe.
   They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
   No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

   —

   I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
   Because it’s not.

   The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
   There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
   They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

   —

   It starts before thoughts finish.
   Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
   “Don’t speak.”
   “We’re watching.”

   And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
   Teachers look. I smile.
   I pretend it’s nothing.

   But I’m tired of pretending.

   —

   I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
   My heart raced for no reason.
   I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
   And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

   Specialists.
   That’s how they bury you.

   Once they mark you unstable, they win.

   —

   I know it’s not natural.
   There are too many patterns.
   The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
   The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
   The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

   I know what’s being done.
   I know who’s doing it.
   And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

   —

   If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
   I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

   —

   I can’t run.
   I can’t tell anyone.
   But I can still write.
   [email protected]

   Responder

6. Emergency plumbing rescue at your home – 8338561951/8338561952
   USA/Canada

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