The mosquitoes were dying, and the scent of the fall came.
His head collapsed into the cement so that he fractured and the ground was stained red. Then, the cloud of smoke descended onto his body and consumed him, whole. They could not see the ghastly figure of their dead friend, and they cried softly, like the patter of rain in October.
The children disappeared into the fog and left him to rot in the horrible sun of the following morning, and the tree stood lonely in the park and embraced the boy, and he bled into the sidewalk some more. Then the birds came, and fed on his body, and not a soul came to relieve the boy of his disrespect.
The boy watched his body dissolve into the birds and the sun, and he was appalled and sorrowful. He could not tell where he existed or how it had come to be that he existed at all, and there was only a nagging sense of some lost purpose that was beyond his reach in a world where he no longer belonged.
He could not budge. His eyes were fixed beyond his control, and they were glued to the rotting corpse that was a life.