The City of Gold (Part 1)

Chapter 3

<<<<Chapter 3>>>>>   

     Dale dipped the frayed brush into the bucket full of water, pulling it out by the slender handle. He carefully brushed the days food off of his mouth while looking into the distorted image of the mirror. Boys throughout the room were preparing for sleep and dressing into their undergarments. Landon, who also slept in the room, was reading a leather book. 

     Glancing over to his side, Dale could see Nash stuffing rags in the bottom of the splintered window sill, keeping the creeping fingers of the cold out. 

     “Its sure getting chilly these days.” Nash muttered.

     “I hate fall.” said Kallin lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, “Everything rots and the leaves turn ugly. Me uncle, when ee was alive, used to tell me stories about forests covered with golden leaves and bright red maples. I think ee was lying. All I see out there are beautiful trees wasting away by the cruel frost.”

     “It makes the spring all the more beautiful, doesn't it?” Dale replied.

     “Aye but the winter isn’t worth the wait. If I could ‘ave it my way I would live in the summer all year long, never seeing winter, or spring, or autumn again.” He added with emphasis on the word autumn. 

     Kallin glanced at the floor noticing the tabby cat rubbing itself on his leg. The cat purred in a type of lullaby which calmed the room. It was a time for contemplation.

     Dale slumped his tired body on the bottom bunk of the bed. Burying himself deep in the covers he felt a childlike security which no words could explain. The cold world felt blocked out from view. The warming blankets were like a fortress from which Dale was safe. Nothing could reach him past the walls of fabric and cotton.   

     Nash popped his head from the upper bunk bed looking down at Dale below. 

     “Dale.” He whispered loudly, “Dale wake up!”

     “I haven't been in bed for a minute, how could I be asleep?” Dale said annoyed. 

     “Landons making us go to bed earlier than usual. I think somethings bothering him.”

     Caretaker Landon looked up for a moment after hearing, then continued reading, ignoring the comment. 

     “Nash, don’t speak like that.” Dale mumbled. 

     Landon muttered something inaudible and flipped the page. Both Dale and Nash noticed his perturbed expression and changed the subject at once.

     “What the headmaster was saying about the ghettos, it must have been hard for you to hear.” 

     “Not really.” lied Nash. 

     Nash felt his scar. It was a large gash, at least four inches across his arm. It was a constant reminder of Bledsworths presence. Dale never asked how he obtained it. Nash  seemed to shrivel at the very name of Bledsworth during a conversation.

     “Besides Dale, the past is the past.”

     “Not always.” muttered Dale. 

     “What do you mean?”

     “Sometimes the past comes back to haunt us, or it define us. My past made me who I am. I would be nothing without it.  I’ll never be free of my memories.” Dale said staring at the cat.

     The tabby was now begging in front of Kip, the youngest of the orphans, who tried to ignore her loud meows and eager gestures.   

     “I think you’re wrong, the past only haunts us when we chose to not forgive.” Nash finally spoke after a moment of thinking.