The concrete is not too hard. I keep looking in the eyes of the young girl who is holding my head on her lap. She is crying, talking to me, she is telling me to focus on her, to not go away. My mind is slipping, wandering away. I think of everything, of how it started and how it has been.

I'm very proud of how I lived

I wouldn't really change anything in what has been a beautiful journey. I met the love of my life during my sophomore year in college, we stuck together through problems, challenges, and the harsh reality of America in the 20th century.

I used to box at the time, it was my life, my meaning, my passion. The feeling of overwhelming an opponent, of demonstrating to the world that you are superior to another human being based purely on a physical and technical standpoint was intoxicating.

Everything changed when I met Bella. She was a ray of sunlight, so dazzling that I couldn't meet her sight during classes. I pursued her while acing my literature courses, while climbing the ranks as an amateur boxer and we finally got together after a semester of what by the standard of today could only be considered stalking.

I brought her roses, sweets, and poetry whenever I had time, whenever she wasn't with her friends or when she got out of her part-time job at the mall. After a particularly inspired poem, she decided she had enough, and basically told me to either start treating her as a normal human being or fuck off.

To see such a sweet girl take this hard of a stance made me fall in love even more, and so instead of cheeky one-liners, I started talking to her like I would with a friend and that's what really got us together. I discovered her interest in anthropology, in the stars, in music and the arts, how her cheeks dimpled when she smiled and how she averted my eyes when she was embarrassed.

She liked how thoughtful I was, my stories and my take on the world, how I would always try to help people, and how diligent I was in the pursuit of my passions. She liked me so much as to pass on the fact that I was a boxer, while she abhorred violence in all forms, she kept being there for me after all my fights, cheering on me from the top of her lungs at the side of the ring.

I can't put into words how much we meant for each other, so I'll just say that when she got pregnant after a short year together, I didn't hesitate for a moment. I quit boxing, started to work at a couple of odd jobs and we moved in together while still in college. The bliss never ended, and our first child, Raphael, was the sweetest kid you can imagine.

Times were tough for us, with her following classes while attending to the needs of a small kid and me not being at home for more than a couple of hours every day, but we managed to make everything work and after little Raph fifth birthday, I got a stable job as a professor in high school, while Bella finished her studies and decided to focus more on raising our child.

She never stopped improving, teaching him everything she knew about the medical field, continuing to study even without a career in her immediate sight. This translated really well into his education, and we soon had a little prodigy walking around the house, collecting dinosaurs figurines and reading sci-fi books instead of eating mud and beating other kids during P.E as all children should.

The political climate at the time was quite tense, with the cold war going strong and poverty at an all-time high in the States, but we never let the circumstances dictate our happiness, and after a successful career change, I was writing full time to sustain our little slice of heaven on earth.

The good news never seemed to stop, and soon after my third book was published we were gifted with a pair of twin girls, Sofia and Joelle. As bright as they were mischievous, they brought with them what we always lacked while raising Raph. Chaos, a surprising amount of complaints from our neighbors, and more than a few bruises after recess.

Faced with this new challenge, we adapted fast but ultimately decided to stop with the child-making, being content with our perfect trio of shining stars.

The years passed, and everyone kept spreading their wings to soar more and more.

My wife got back into the academic field, getting her PhD in neurology at a breakneck speed, aided by years of diligent self-study and more than a neural crisis averted by simply cleaning the messes of our two little devils, Raphael followed along in his mother footsteps by becoming a doctor, and the twins found solace in the Arts.

Our house is still full of Sofia paintings and Joelle sculptures, even after they all left home to find their own success.

As for me, I realized that with Bella working at the hospital, Raphael making a name for himself as a promising surgeon, and our ladies traveling the country to display their work, loneliness would be my first true enemy in a long time.

So I applied for a position as a professor at the local university, finding joy once again in shaping the future of young men and women. I felt like a dad for hundreds of people, giving advice to the new generation, teaching them how to live their lives with their heads high, and of course, trying my best as an actual literature teacher.

And now, at the venerable age of 65 years, It seems like I have to rediscover an old passion of mine, in the worst way you could imagine.

You see, with the main building of our university closed for reparation after a bad pipe-leak, the temporary laboratory of creative writing I teach was taking place in one of the worst blocks of our city. Living in NY, you can imagine how bad the situation actually could be. At first, I thought no one would attend classes, but I was soon proved wrong as our little room grew jam-packed.

My worry of people not being there has been replaced by the worry for my surrogate children, young boys and girls not jaded by the world and, quite frankly, incapable of defending themselves. I seemed more like a worried grandfather, telling everyone to stay safe, to not talk with strangers, and to go home as soon as possible.

While they tried to assure me that there is no danger, that they would be safe and sound, I can't seem to shake off this bad feeling.

No more than a week passed and my worries were proven right, as after a longer than usual afternoon class, the last of my students left to take the bus home. Miss Jenevieve, an airhead french girl that has never left the countryside of Europe before getting her scholarship to study here in the big city.

I left the building, the bad feeling I've had all week stronger than ever before, and started to walk briskly towards the bus station when I heard a muffled scream coming from a poorly lit alley.

I recognized the voice of my student.

Rushing as fast as my legs could take me, I got into the alley. The scene in front of me was something that you could see in a poorly written script. Three people were cornering miss Jenevieve, one in the front with a knife pulled out, with his back turned towards me, one trying to open her kicking legs, and one grappling her from behind with a hand on the mouth and an arm around her neck.

Something inside me snapped.

I thought of burglary, of theft.

But reality is often worse than what people expect.

The thugs are focused on the figure of Mrs. Jenevieve, but she saw me, a pleading look in her eyes, mixed with panic and relief. The relief was soon replaced by worry, as the man behind her noticed me.

I didn't think, I acted.

The years have taken a toll on me for sure, but nothing mattered at the moment, nothing but the safety of my protegee. Running towards the first thug, the one with a knife, the one with his back still turned, I grabbed my 24 hours bag with both hands and smashed it on his head. He fell down, and I savagely swang the suitcase 2 more times, both hits reaching his neck.

Two things snapped at the same time, his head turned at a weird angle, and the handle of my trusted companion. The second thug turns around and before he could react to his downed friend I threw myself on him. A hook to his liver was followed by a straight punch to his windpipe and the second man collapsed down holding his throat.

I turned towards the last man standing, only to be greeted with a knife to my stomach. Adrenaline rushing to my brain, the pain of the strike is ignored, and my eyes cross with the thug. What he saw was something unsettling, as he took two steps back, still holding onto his weapon.

There was no time for hesitation, as adrenaline could carry my body only so far. I rushed towards him, instincts taking over once more, another swing of the blade reaching true and opening a long cut on my forearm. I tackled the guy to the floor, blood dripping from my arm, a numb pain spreading from my midsection.

The eyes of the thug met my own once more, but not for long. I started hitting. One, two, one, two, one, two. I didn't stop, I couldn't stop, for the only thing between my student and a lifetime of trauma was this old man. After a while, I realized consciousness had left the man pinned under my legs.

I looked up, to see my protege screaming on her cellphone, her accents slipping up, giving her words a musical sound. She saw me and rushed to my side, thanking me profusely, holding me up, trying to press her hands on my wound. Everything was a mess, three bodies strained over the dirty, hard concrete of the alley.

She was still talking on her phone, holding me up. Strength started leaving my body, my legs finally giving up on me. Now four bodies are lying on the floor.

I woke up once more, the sound of sirens in the distance, she was cradling my head in her arms, her mouth moving, her face tear-stricken, but I couldn't seem to hear anything anymore.

I smiled a happy smile, a comforting one. My hand reached out to her face, staining it with blood.

I think of my son, of my daughters, of my wife of my time on this earth. They will be fine. They are really strong. The fight goes through my head, the last big victory for this old professor, and a little tinge of regret tells me that I should have found my way back in the world of boxing.

But nonetheless, I'm very proud of how I Lived.

I close my eyes.

Okay, guys and gals, this was chapter zero. Before the start, the monologue of our hero. I think I botched things with the second half of the chapter, but hey, I'm also here to improve, if you have any suggestion feel free to leave a comment, I think I will leave this draft for a while in any case, but once I have an improved version I will let you know before any editing. Going forward, I will adopt the third person in most cases, as you can't really sustain a story on this kind of flow for a long time. Thank you for your time, I hope you get something out of this mess!