hooligan Marcel

In our town, there was a school that everyone called "segregated." Inequality was palpable from the very first step. Students were divided into two camps: those who had paid a lot of money to get in, and those who had earned their place with straight-A grades. Everything depended on status—from class to food in the cafeteria.
Students from wealthy families studied in bright, modernly designed classrooms with new desks, large TVs, and tablets. Meanwhile, classrooms for low-income students resembled abandoned rooms: peeling walls, old tables, and equipment that had long since stopped working. Even the cafeteria was divided: those with grants were given simple porridge and compote, while the wealthier students could choose from a variety of delicacies.
When I entered this school, I was mistakenly considered "poor." But once they realized I wasn't social, liked to hide in a corner, and didn't talk to anyone, they immediately labeled me as low-income. And that's where it all started.
This guy started humiliating me—he did this to everyone he considered "below." I don't remember his name anymore, and it's not important. I didn't react, and that's what angered him the most. Every day became a new round of bullying for me—hour after hour, minute after minute.