Saad
Time: December 13, 2025; Location: Tangier, Morocco
Saad is a teenager / a boy / (whatever you want to call him): fifteen years old, with hair as black as the abyss and deep blue eyes. His eyebrows are so delicate they might make you think he's a girl (I'm not sure if the fashion has changed by the time you're reading this novel...). He has an average build, his height is exactly like all his peers, and I suspect his mind is much the same. So, as you can see, he is not a distinguished character at all. He studies at a private school, his father is an ordinary employee, and he practices swimming (him, not his father) at a club near their home—which could be described as anything but luxurious.
The latter is an apartment in a building within a residential complex overlooking Rabat Road. Our friend is in his first year of high school, specifically in the Mathematical Sciences department, Section 2 (this numbering system reminds me of something...).
Saad wasn't one of those whose lives were graced with luxury and ease. Instead, he was among those cursed with the miserable life of the middle class—a truly boring existence. I think you understand what I mean: waking up, brushing your teeth so that we don't have to bear the costs of your dentist, and having breakfast—if your father isn't in a hurry. If he is, you end up eating your breakfast right before the session starts while everyone stares at you with amused looks. This is, of course, not to mention the legendary "Tiguan" car, which has somehow passed through every single household in Northern Morocco in one way or another... and so, our boy enters the school.
Our lad would force a smile, feigning a look of joy as if he were basking in the pleasures of life. In reality, he had simply passed through the "filter" of the school gate. This is just a metaphor, of course; if any of us looked closely at ourselves, we would find that in every gathering or social circle, we adopt the character of that specific circle and pass through its filter. For instance, if you found him in a company surrounded by female colleagues' desks, you'd think he was the most cheerful person alive. But if he were in a shop in a traditional neighborhood, surrounded by "waterfalls of sweat" pouring down on him, you'd think the fires of hell were raining upon him, judging by the intensity of his facial muscle spasms. Our friend was exactly like that. Being a social person, he was constantly shocked by the quality of children he studied with and their sheer talent in the arts of filth and delinquency. It got to the point where he insisted on sitting in the front row, directly facing the teacher's desk, preferring the "hell of the lesson" over those "honorable brothers."
The first two sessions that day were Mathematics, and they passed gloomily, unlike their usual nature. This was worsened by the biting Tangier winter and the humidity of its air. Then came the breakfast break, followed by two sessions of Physics, then lunch break, and finally—the "perfect" ending—two sessions of Life and Earth Sciences. By the time Saad reached home, he was Damning whoever invented school..
His only consolation was that today was Tuesday. And what does that mean other than watching the masterpiece of Gosho Aoyama: case closed? However, nothing lasts forever. Within minutes, his mother snatched his laptop and ordered him to go hang the laundry on the roof.
"But I just sat down! This was the wor.."
She cut him off sharply: "Are you raising your voice at your mother? Oh my God, have I lived to see the day when the son of my own womb is insolent to me? Move it now, or I'll smash this laptop over your head, you son of a (BEEEEEP)!"
Of course, our helpless friend rose, carried the laundry, and headed to the roof. Barely finishing, he let out a long sigh and carried the empty basket back down the stairs. As soon as he entered the house, he was startled by his mother's voice again, shouting at him to go run an errand at the grocery store. Naturally, he had no choice but to go down.
When he reached the shop, he saw scenes of Sudanese people on the TV, starving and being killed. But new news seemed to be on the horizon; a man asked the shopkeeper to switch from Al Jazeera to a local channel. Saad was struck by a scene that literally froze the blood in his veins; he almost fainted.
He rubbed his eyes to make sure: was he truly seeing this? Was he dreaming?
He pinched himself hard: his vital organs were still functioning efficiently.
That meant only one thing: what he saw was real!
In the broadcast, his father was shown murdered, with a knife plunged into his heart. Attached to it was a piece of paper with this written on it:
∀X ∃C
He grabbed his head. He didn't cry. A deathly silence enveloped his "space-time." Something... something black, or perhaps white... was being born in the depths of his young heart.