Only when he was left for dead by a midnight attacker did his thought catch up with him. Those treacherous recollections were what finished him as he inflicted an inevitable and fatal insanity upon himself.
[this is the beginning of something I wrote quite a while ago. I may or may not complete it, but I would very much appreciate some feedback and constructive criticism regardless]
"In their last moments, people show you who they really are."
The crystal glare of the stars illuminated the body, leaving it glowing white on a bed of black concrete. Small breaths slithered from his lips, in synchronization with the bitter breeze. There were short intervals between his stuttering inhalation and the calm, smooth release of the air. In that silence he was certain he could hear his every heart beat, but he had been laying there in the cold for hours, he didn't know what was real and what he had created to comfort himself as his fate became increasingly inevitable.
He knew it as soon as he was deserted there, that the assailant, as careful as he'd been to remove evidence, had left the one weapon that could finish the job. The mind. He was left alone in the numb of winter with a lifetime of thoughts. Questions to be pondered, regrets to be grieve for. In the second that first blood was spilt he knew that there was nothing his attacker could do to end his life but leave him, leave him to understand the gravity of his mistakes, and crush his own heartbeat with self-inflicted insanity.
How did I even get here, he challenged his foul mind to recall. How did that little boy ever get to now? He paused, but there was no reply, not even from the glittering dots in the sky. Seconds crawled along, bringing the small shadow of an unfamiliar child. A twist of copper entwined above skin that shone like the white of the moon, brown paint permanently splattered across his cheeks. The uncleaned shorts that hung from his lanky legs revealed a pair of knees smeared in a sickening combination of crimson blood and dirt.