Who?

Hell, a cruel place to be at. It is akin to a volcano brimming with molten lava, relentless and inescapable. In my humble existence, such a hell is none other than school. Yes, a place where every corner brims with trials and tribulations, where even the air conspires to suffocate one's joy.

The classroom, you see, is no sanctuary of enlightenment but rather a battlefield of wits, where the instructor's sharp tongue wields more pain than any sword. My errors, though innocent, are paraded as though I were a criminal of the gravest sort. How cruel it is to be judged so harshly for the folly of misplaced letters or numbers that refuse to align!

There's Miss Hillary, the school principal-a woman whose mere presence commands a silence so profound it feels as though the very walls hold their breath in her wake. She strides through the halls with an air of unshakable authority, her spectacles perched precariously upon the bridge of her nose, as though daring gravity itself to defy her. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, pierces through the bravest of souls, reducing even the most mischievous child to a trembling, stammering heap