The old man stood up, a feeling of queasiness surfacing though his body. He began to get his bearings again, he noted the blue car next to him, the flickering street light in front of him, and was just about to put a clammy hand onto the rusty gate of number eight, when he felt another large force act upon him again, every inch of his body ached. His head impacted on the wet pavement once more, and everything went black.
It was some time until he came around again. He knew the night had progressed significantly; a cool zephyr was blowing across his aged features. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn't move. What had he done to deserve it? Why did they do it? He was just a defenceless old man. Then the rain came. Slowly at first, then it picked up momentum. The rain was icy, driving, freezing up his every pore.
He was helpless, laying there, no one to help him; all was quiet, except the sound of the rain pitter-pattering on the roofs of the surrounding houses. He knew he was going to die if he didn't get inside soon. With every shred of effort left in him, he hoisted himself to his feet. His body was screaming in agony, pleading with him not to go on; to lie back down, and accept death's sweet kiss. Inside he knew he had to go on, but would he make it? Or would he die at the hands of these thugs? The tears of anguish, mixed with blood began to run down his face, like the rain that was still falling forcefully around him.
Using the fence of his property, the very fence that had caused the problem in the first place, he edged...