You must have noticed that this isn’t the best part of town. It has been like this for as long as I can recall. That’s what makes it interesting and, let’s face it, why else would we be here? Terrible things never change, we just see them in different lights.

I remember walking down the alley, occasionally looking over my shoulders. It was bad then as well. The dimly-lit passageway leading to that bar had become somewhat synonymous with my nights.

Terrible things never change, we just see them in different lights

Have you ever thought about age? Or rather, our perception of it. It’s like grey hairs are worth more than pain, lost people and missed opportunities. Rules — shackles that we happily bind ourselves with. That philosophy got me to that shady bar every other night. I felt oppressed, like I really was old enough to get in. Just not through the front door, it seems. Most nights, the back door did the job just fine — anything as long as I was in.

In fact, I could do it with my eyes closed; twenty steps up, turn to the right, a dozens of steps further, and there it was — the beaten-down door, only marked by a faint lantern. The lock never did a proper job of keeping me out. With one hiccup. On that particular night I wasn’t the only using the door. Mix alcohol with three buff bouncers who had just latched onto my game, and you’ve got me, cornered at the end of the backstreet.

The first punch hurt. So did the second. When the third was about to land, I was hoping for darkness to overcome me. It wasn’t lack of courage, I just wanted it to be over with. And that’s when I saw Wade first.

He was probably out to smoke a drag, or take a piss. He’s not the classiest of this gang. Neither is he the first person that springs to mind when someone mentions a savior. But I wasn’t complaining. He’s proud of his code — a man of honor, however twisted, if you will — and he would not have a bunch of drunkards gang up on one person without having a say.

He didn’t just look strong. His first hit took the first of the three hoodlums by surprise. Before the third fist could make contact with my already-battered face, all eyes were on Wade. As I’ve learned over the years, he is not one to shy away from conflict, and life had just presented him with the perfect excuse.

At first I was thrilled, relieved that I was going home with my life, if anything. There’s something that resides just below our layer of pride that adores the sentiment of being able to let go and leave our fate in the hands of others. Sometimes, I think it gives us the perfect excuse for when we really mess up. And yet, before I could fully let go, the strangest of things happened.