Floyd street

The darkness covered the street, leaving the tall street lights to throw down their bright amber lights, illuminating the mist. They fall on the asphalt, telling everyone "We are here with you."
It's 01:49am on Floyd street. I see a six ft tall dark guy walk down the street, his name is Seymour. His house is about 7 blocks away. He walks with his hands folded cause the weather is freezing. Suddenly, cracks of laughter broke out from somewhere in front that frightens him. The night is too still for his ears to be deceiving him.
A gang of 12 appeared a distance in front of him and a female spoke "Lets get that scumbag" pointing in his direction. One of the men in the gang immediately broke the bottle in his hand which spilled some liquid on the floor, as the others ran towards Seymour. He stood still, watching them approach him. Seymour wanted to turn his back and run, but thought that would take him far from his home. The man with the bottle who had a hair cut like that of a peacock quickly stabbed him in the belly, and shouted "shit! His got a lotta blood."
The owner of the feminine voice from the beginning stood in front of Seymour and held his head in her palms "You shouldn't be out at this unholy hour, honey... Now look what you've done to your self." They all broke in another session of laughter and ran off, like to stab a human was just a mere joke.
The green bottle fell on the ground, but he didn't. He staggered and struggled to hold one of the street lamps as if feeling betrayed at the sense of security they gave him. Blood flowed from his white sneakers to the ground as he kept walking, stamping the asphalt with the sole of his shoes colored crimson. The street lamps began to grow tall and multiply and also added waving to their attributes. His body felt too heavy for his legs to carry and eyelids struggled to stay open. The pleasures between sweet and bitter, hard and soft, life and death, he drifted.
One miserable step before the other, every second now became in relation to the last to come. He was almost home, both on floyd street and on the parallel universe.
Seymour finally reached the black gate and just stood there holding the handle and bowed his head. My paws shook and could no longer feel the effect of the severe cold as I watched him stand there for about 5 hours till someone from inside the compound pushed the gate and he fell back on the ground like a rag doll, eyes closed, dried bloody lines on the corners of his mouth flowed, his left hand on his belly and the right hand stayed like he wanted to open the gate. From his chest to his shoes took on the color, red.
He had been dead a long time ago.