“Congratulations, Aico! You aced the exam again!” The teacher would gleefully say but I know she is sick and tired of saying the same name repeatedly. The teacher's annoyance was palpable, radiating from her like a thundercloud emanating from her. Her eyes tightened in annoyance as she watched me ace every exam with ease, my perfect grades serving as a continual reminder of their academic prowess. Boredom etched deep lines over her face as if the repetition of this predictable prevail had sapped all of her energy. My accomplishments, rather than eliciting admiration, seemed to aggravate her frustration. 

I hear it in the faculty, the way she rants about my exams as if I cheated my way up. ‘There are more deserving children,' they say. They feel like I am using my parent’s power to gain respect and to ace every box on that piece of paper they often call a report card. Some students call it the spell of the devil. I can’t blame them if their grades are worthy of being burned in hell. 

“It’s too effortless to be true.”

“Her parents must’ve given her the answers before the exams.”

“Maybe they're paying the principal so she can easily get the diploma.”

“With her social status? I don’t think anything she does is genuine.”

“Why is she even here anyway? To brag? If she’s so amazing, get the hell out of this school then.”

“What is an elementary student doing here? To mock the other students?”

“It’s so much better if they just let her be homeschooled. Everyone’s performance is deteriorating because of her.”

“She doesn’t have friends? Wow, deserve.”

“She isn’t worthy of anything. She’s just a bossy child who hasn’t had puberty yet.”

I am used to the same repetitive murmurs, backlashes, and rumors. I hear the same thing every year. I feel like I’m just playing a broken cassette tape. I earned this position, and I expected it to be this way. Historically, those in positions of power at the very top are often unpopular. It's rare for someone to be well-liked when they hold a position of power, particularly if they are not the only one in that position. My parents never gave me ropes nor lend me stairs so I can get here easily. I sacrificed sweat and blood. They’re just jealous that I am more determined than they are in terms of academics. They don’t worry about it every minute of their lives anyway. They have a lot to think about, like the dress they’d be wearing on dates or the game night they’d have with their friends. They have it easy. I don’t.

Unlike most “rich kids”, I don’t have a chauffeur. Even if my parents are one of the richest people on this planet. They don’t like wasting money on things that are not important. It goes well in my favor anyways. I don’t attract too much unnecessary attention. 

I always yearn for the sweet solace of obscurity, when others' gazes pass me by like a gentle breeze. There is a certain joy in remaining unnoticed, like a hidden gemstone nestled in the sands of obscurity. It enables me to move freely, unfettered by expectations or judgment. I find comfort in the peaceful moments, knowing that I can navigate the world on my own terms, free from the prying eyes of others. I find a sense of release in this obscurity, a zone where I can genuinely be myself without the need for understanding or approval.

I ride a bike. I like the breeze and the exercise. When I'm riding my bike, the wind whispers all through my skin, a soothing caress that gives me a sense of peace. The cool breeze brushes my cheeks, sending pleasant goosebumps down my spine. My hair swirls in the breeze as I pedal, each strand alive with the excitement of mobility. I am unfettered during those times, soaring across the world with a lightness in my heart. The rhythm of the wheels beneath me becomes an unrestrained symphony, propelling me forward on a journey of perfect ecstasy. It doesn’t need gas either. 

At first glance, you wouldn’t think the owner of the bike is a daughter of a trillionaire, it’s all worn out from being overused. It’s a faithful companion through the years. Its once-vibrant paint has now chipped and faded, conveying the story of countless travels. Despite their wear, the wheels, their rubber weakening from innumerable miles, continue to propel me ahead. Rusted sections protrude through the frame, a tribute to the wars waged against time and nature. And the handles, molded by my grasp over the years, store memories of every ride. My bike, albeit worn and battered, has a history of fortitude and a spirit that refuses to be extinguished. Ah, my poor little baby.

“We’ll visit a mechanic and get you all fashioned up in a jiffy, okay?” I gave it a soft tap before riding it.

“Look, the rich kid has gone mad.” A guy from across the street chuckled. I’ve covered myself up, I don’t understand how I am still recognized. 

I checked my get-up from head to toe and noticed my name tag. It’s shining and gleaming in gold. I'm dressed in a black and gray checkered uniform that's surprisingly comfy and gives me a sense of pleasure. But that 24-karat pin on the right is simply plain annoying. It's like a flashing reminder of conformity that I don't need. The folded and buttoned sleeves provide a sense of neatness, yet I can't get rid of the aggravation produced by that flashy pin.

I pulled it off out of irritation and threw it in the trash. It serves as a reminder of a time when it held value, but now it is nothing more than a forgotten relic, lost in the sea of discarded waste. I don’t care if it's 24-karat gold. I don’t need my name embedded on one like I’m so special. I want to live ordinarily.

The ride to the mechanic is a bit too smooth, with a nice breeze stroking my face as I pedal forward. But the lack of passing cars makes me uneasy, a tint of panic creeping into my mind. Is this the proper road to take? Is my life in danger? 

The silence is deafening, amplifying my uneasiness as I debate the reliability of my journey. It's as if the universe is holding its breath, waiting for me to make a decision, whether to seek refuge in the unknown or return to the familiar. I feel like something bad is going to happen. It’s one of those days when the road feels so empty, and cars pass by after every ten minutes. I am on the highway, but it feels too deserted. I swear I went on the right path.

I stopped for a bit to check my location. It’s better safe than sorry. Well… yeah, I am on the highway, but it still feels odd.

It took a while, but eventually, I spotted the mechanic's shop across the street. On the side of the deserted highway, the mechanics shop, a haven of worn-out metals and discarded vehicles, stands proudly. Its tin walls have seen better days, with rust apparent from afar. I look at this property with nostalgia from across the highway, knowing that beyond those walls is a world of skill and passion. It's a sanctuary where engines are returned to life where the symphony of tools and the smell of grease fill the air. This humble abode holds the story of uncountable repairs, the sweat and toil of skillful hands, and the indomitable spirit of machines that refuse to die. In the presence of this mechanic shop, I have a profound appreciation for the artistry and hard labor that keeps the world's wheels rolling. Since there are no vehicles, and I’m not even exaggerating, I crossed the highway with caution.

But then a motorcycle materializes out of thin air. The headlights were so bright bearing down on me as I stood motionless on the deserted highway. Confusion floods over me, as if time had stopped and reality had blurred. Fear clutches my heart as I realize the crash is unavoidable. The insignificance of my existence becomes painfully clear at this point, as the motorcycle's enormous might is about to consume me. I flinched on the bright light till I felt a stinging pain in my abdomen. I feel like I’m flying. Oh, I didn’t know that flying is such a sweet event. And to figure it out this way is quite ridiculous.

My head and my abdomen feel hot, and my ears are ringing. I can’t move.

“Hey… Ambulance!... The plate number is 0049C2AK… Not just an emergency, this is a crime!”

It’s funny to hear such worried voices right now. My parents wouldn’t have cared. Maybe it's the mechanic. He’s gentle to me all the time. Maybe I’m safe…

I can hear voices. I tried to open my eyes, but it was glued shut.

“It’s alive and breathin’!” A kid yelled…?

A kid huh… who might that be?

I tried moving but my body feels suspended. It's as if my body has hit the pause button, leaving me in this strange condition of inactivity. No matter how hard I try, every muscle in my body feels frozen and refuses to respond to my directions. It's frustrating, like being stuck in a straightjacket with no means of getting out. As I strain against this unseen force, I can feel desperation mounting within me, but it's as if my limbs have gotten severed from my will. It's a strange sensation, a twisted tango of frustration and weakness. Maybe I shouldn’t move yet. I’d just get back to sleep.

I woke up again and this time, I can open my eyes and move my body just fine. I sat up and felt a sharp headache as soon as I did. I was expecting white walls and beeping sounds, as well as doctors everywhere but I was greeted by a door. A wooden door. 

This is not the hospital. Where am I?