A droubble by rabble

The old man was still as a statue behind the gatehouse. Inside, there was light, warmth and laughter. Outside it was cold, and dark. He waited for a long time, only moving when the noise from inside had died and he guessed the guards were asleep. Then he crept, on all fours, toward the gate. It was closed with a chain, but the metal was bent and the gap was big enough at the bottom for a person as small as he to crawl through. He was almost through when he stopped; a hidden hand held his coat. His heart stopped and he clenched every muscle, waiting for the inevitable shouts, blows. He stayed like that for a long time, then dared to look behind him. His coat was caught on a piece of twisted metal. Quietly, carefully, he pried the cloth free, then continued his shuffle to freedom. After an eternity of sore knees and wrists, he stood up, shakily. He was at a bus stop. Staying in the shadows, he waited for a full half hour, then stepped out at the last minute to stop the number 38 bus.

He would never return to the care home, ever.