1 What am I !!!

Where am I? What happened? Where is the book? I see nothing but whiteness. Am I even seeing anything? Did I die and is this heaven? Its beauty is worse than its horror. Is this hell? I can't even describe what I see and feel. Where are my friends? Where is my palace? Questions in my mind with no answer or even a listener. The last thing I remember is that I was with the professor and his friends, trying to analyze and discover the book we found .

six months ago.

I sit at home, neither happy nor sad, neither myself nor anyone else.

I didn't know I would miss this feeling that I despised.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new school season, and I'm not interested in school, friends, success, or failure. Anyone who hears this would assume that I receive low grades and that I'm not fit for studying. But the truth is, I'm above average with a GPA of 16 out of 20. I see this point from two perspectives: it's good because I can choose any major I want, and it's bad because I'm forced to achieve this grade.

I always try to stay away from the spotlight, away from empty minds and their miserable comparisons.

That's why I often leave some points unanswered in exams because I don't desire the perfect score. I don't engage in lengthy conversations with the teachers, even if it's a sentence outside our academic context.

I don't know how people describe me, or rather, what they currently say about me. Five months ago, a teacher referred to me as an arrogant fool, and I broke his nose, receiving a penalty deduction of three points from my annual grade. Hahaha, humans are obsessed with the annual grade.

I no longer know what people talk about when it comes to me, as only a few whispers occur when they believe their words are within my hearing range, probably fearing my retaliation. But the last time I heard someone talking about me, and I was sure he was describing me as a clever monster, I turned around and smiled at the irony of the name.

He quickly chanted, "It's not you, it's not you," overwhelmed by fear.

When I speak or say something in the classroom, my voice echoes in the silence and stillness of the students.

Mother's voiceover: Nero, wake up Nero, it's nine in the morning.

With semi-closed eyes, I caught a glimpse of the alarm clock, and now it's seven in the morning.

My mother's habits never change. Mornings and the rooster's crow, I got up and grabbed my book, which I wouldn't have taken if it weren't for my mother's insistence.

I went out heading to the palace, the only place where I feel like myself and truly Nero.

I contemplate and draw whatever comes to my mind with this golden view of the river.

Don't be alarmed by the word "palace," it's not like other palaces.

It's a palace for me, but it's more like a cottage made of wooden planks and some worn-out individual items.

It took me two weeks to build it alone, leaving bruises and wounds on my body so I never forget it no matter how long I live.

I start my day in the palace and end it in the palace. I only leave it when it's time to sleep to put my parents' minds at ease.

When I'm in it, I forget about hunger and everything else. I finished drawing the blueprint that precedes the actual drawing.

I left the paper there and headed to school.

As I climbed down from the tree, I caught sight of a person with a strange face and attire, unlike anyone in the town.

He was taking a path that very few others take. He noticed me as I was coming down and headed towards me. He seemed to be a young man in his thirties, with semi-white skin, jet-black hair, and wearing glasses.

"Please , where is the school located... It seems we're heading to the same school," he said. It appears he doesn't know me because if he did, he wouldn't have asked me, considering my bad reputation in the village. I directed him to the school and followed behind him. Curiosity kept haunting me. Is he a father of a new child? Is he one of the new teachers? Is he an inspector? I didn't realize what awaited us in the future together.

I entered the school and the principal greeted me with some advice, as is customary at the beginning of each year. He said, "Son, I hope you won't cause any problems this year and that you'll try to integrate with your classmates." I nodded my head and replied with just two words: "Time will tell."

I made my way to the classroom and opened the door. Everyone stared at me, as usual. I turned slowly to the left and caught sight of that strange man who had guided me to the school. He looked at me with a smile and asked, "Is this your classroom?" I nodded in response. He said, "Well then, my wild man, find a seat and don't be late for the next class."

Whispers filled the classroom as my fellow students were surprised by the conversation between the teacher and me, and my lack of reaction, unlike before. Truth be told, I didn't like what he said, but I restrained myself and told myself he was just joking. The teacher introduced himself as a foreigner from North Africa, from a country called Morocco. However, he wasn't black. It seemed that not all Africans were dark-skinned.

After school, I returned to the palace, but the words of the teacher and his nickname for me, "wild man," in front of everyone, kept haunting me every minute. It was a strange matter for me. As darkness fell, I headed home, but I couldn't sleep because of that teacher.

Morning came, and I woke up early as if I was eagerly anticipating going to school, without even realizing it. As I made my way to the palace, I caught a glimpse of two dangling feet from the edge of the palace floor. For the first time, someone other than me was entering the palace. Thoughts flooded my mind, wondering who this person in the palace could be. Did they know me? Were they waiting for me? Did they want to steal something from the neglected palace? Or were they just a passerby?