He Sat at The Gate

He sat at the gate.

On an old wooden crate, staring up at it's rusting bars, he sat pondering as to what now lay beyond it.

He'd been behind the gate before. He'd played in it's meadows and rising hills, basked in the sun on the warm beach sand, and he'd even seen over the whole land from utop it's tallest tower.

But now the gate was closed. And so the boy sat, on his weary wooden box, as a daft cold breeze rushed through him and down the street. He shivered. A newspaper was aflutter in the distance, crinkling against the cold damp grey pavement.

The boy did not turn around. He hadn't yet. From the newspapers, to the sirens, to the rioting citizens, he had not turned around. His eyes were fixed on the gate like bark to a tree.

How he wanted to enter the gate once more. How badly he urged to relax in his old bed, while the warm summer winds danced around his house.

Suddenly, a deep lump fell in his throat. His home, his belongings, were no probably all gone. All his past friends and relatives had either gone insane or been left behind to die.

The gate remained closed as a harsh blow ran through it, rattling the aging metal against the hinges that lay on each side. The large dirty silver lock barely even budged, as a tear rolled down the boy's face.

All was quiet in the city, and only the various leaves and newspapers ruffled about in the streets. All had gone inside for warmth. All but the boy.

An elderly man watched him from his apartment window. He'd seen the boy sitting there every day now, and then dissapear into the night. He too urged to know what lay beyond the gate, and if he'd ever be able to return inside. His unstable mind could scarce remember all the gorgeous shops and all the beautiful friendly people whom walked the streets. His memory, along with the gated world, was all slowly fading away.

The old man grabbed a blanket off his rocking chair and scurried down the ricketty stairs, and out into the eery evening. He cautiously strode up to the boy.

"Here." he said, laying the blanket down across his lap.

The boy looked up for the first time that day. His deep eyes looking at the man as if he'd never seen a human before. His mind could barely comprehend what sort of motive the old man had for such a gift. He pulled the blanket off his lap, and handed it back up.

"Take it." Replied the man. "It will keep you warm."

The boy shook his head and pleaded the man to take it back. But the man did not.

"Why do you sit out here and watch the gate?" He asked.

The boy said not a word, but returned to watching the gate shiver in the wind.

"Are you waiting for something?"

The boy remained silent.

"Why will you not answer me?"

Intent on the gate, he remained staring.

"...Well goodnight then." Said the man, as he began to turn back inside. Step by step, across the cold cement, waiting for a response.

"It will open," Said the boy in a graspy tongue, "One day."

The man turned around. "Will it now?"

"Yes." he replied. "And when it does, I want to be first inside."

"And why is that?"

"I want to see the world like it used to be. Before all this, hatred and chaos corrupts it, as it has out here."

The man stood, confused, and the more he thought about it, the more he agreed.

The boy turned, and gazed upon the man once more. "I will take that blanket, though."

Without a word, the man handed the blanket down to him.

"You should probably get inside." Said the boy to the man. "It's not good for someone of your age to be out in the cold."

"...Yes." replied the man, as he turned and left.

The boy sighed as the sun set behind the grim clouds, and the outer world thrust into darkness.

He sat at the gate.