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Why had he gone to her house? Wasn't it hopeless? He should have thought better than that reckless attempt. Why on Earth had he gone to her house?
Running, the man who thought glanced over his shoulder, hoping--- but alas, there was no hope for him, for as he glanced back into the dead decay behind him, he saw it. Fear struck him and carried his dead legs faster, the weight of his cloak slowing him down, the antagonist now. Everything was an antagonist that lay behind him. The forest, he thought, could be safe. He hoped it would be safe.
Until the thing behind him, the thing that frightened him to run at an amazing speed, thought otherwise. The thing moved toward the man who ran. It sought to kill him. It did not think, but analyzed information and ran it through a program installed in its head.
Each step was thunder in the ground, a horrendous sound, and mixed with the smokiness of the place and the lack of sun, created a frightful atmosphere.
It was gigantic. The making of man. A robot. It brought out its destructiveness, what it aimed to do to the forest was cut. It seemed determined to do so. The man saw this soon-to-be hacker, and raced toward the forest at the same time. His hope dwindled, but still he ran. It was the only way. Paranoid now, he ran on and on, over the nothingness of destruction. A blank plot on the earth, made by the monstrous thing.
The man ran. Boundless leaps. Wild sprint. Cloak billowing. A shadow passed overhead and the roar of machinery rang in the man's head. His lungs expanded and contracted faster and faster. Soon he would faint from the swiftness of it. Asphyxiating. He moved. Fright upon fright had built up in his body and the explosion now ensued from it. An immense effort, subconsciously brought, pervaded his movements. His legs ran with economy, powerful strides carried him across the land. He burst with pure speed.
His efforts had an effect. He was out of reach of the monstrous thing, but the trees were not. The robot swung its mighty chopper and hewed several of the tree' tops. They fell and caught in the bodies of the trees, the forest was thick enough, it slowed the chopper down. An immense noise came from it when the chopper hewed several times, without much effect. All it did was lower the line of trees. The man disappeared into it. When the robot lost sight of the man, desperate, it swung its chopper ever lower, but all that succeeded was a few of the frontal trees falling, the rest clumped together, determined to protect the man.
The robot, angered, hacked at the trees, like a child having a tantrum. The man had escaped.
He still ran, this escaped man. In the forest he cowered and ducked and dodged the trees and the obstructions, shrubs mostly. He had escaped. His mind had not realized it yet. He still raced away from the thing, trying to get as far away as possible from it. His body had seemingly been put through a paper shredder. Cuts and full out gashes had stripped him of a portionable amount of skin. Blood had seeped out, staining his clothes. His simple beige shirt, tattered, had turned to a winy red, blotched so one might guess the original color, with luck. His pants, some army pants he had stolen, with the incognito colors had also been scrapped and tattered, but had held up better than the shirt had. They were turned a dirty brown. All of his clothes had strips of holes wear the wounds his body had beared showed bright blood oozing from them all, especially the large gashes.
His right leg had two giant gashes, one on his upper thigh, the other on his calf, the right side. His chest and stomach had the most open wounds, still trickling blood. The pressure from the run had set all of them to bleed again. The blood, hot and thick.
Still he ran.
He didn't take notice of where he was headed, just as long as it was in the opposite path of the giant machine behind him. It didn't dawn on him that the machine was well out of reach of him and that he was considerably safe. His mind was racing too much for him to take much notice of the present truth.
Time past. The black formation that looked like clouds above him thinned. He knew they were not clouds because he knew what they came from. The thought made him tense and faded his hope away.
His face showed no emotion. As he ran through the forest, all that changed was the direction his eyes flashed to. His head remained determinedly straight ahead.
As he ran, his appearance began to show his weariness. He had not noticed before how his shoulders had slumped. That was all he noticed of his appearance. The rest did not occur to him. His mind had gone elsewhere. His eyes, a beautiful light almond color, seemed dull and shortsighted, only looking at the path directly ahead of him. His nose, a very straight and bold one, sucked air in as his mouth let the air escape. His face was good-looking in its usual state, with lively eyes that crinkled on the sides when he laughed. He had long lashes for a boy, but since he had grown older they had been blunted and were growing thin. His eyebrows bushy and dark brown were not tame, but he had groomed them, creating two of them, not one. He didn't need to worry about grooming them now, his skin on his forehead had been straggled and been scrapped off, it was a scary sight. But the middle of his brow had dried blood by now, as the redness of the fresh skin had dried. Dirt had also come to be mixed in, creating a brownish muddled red.
His face was sallow and thin, whiskers had begun to sprout, giving him a very uncouth edge, and especially with all the wounds he had collected.
This broken man was in his twenties, probably late twenties. Experiencing trauma would make him look older. His eyes had weariness around them and the recent stress had embedded worry marks into his forehead, where the skin was shiny and raw. A chunk of his skin had been cut from the middle of his brow. Blood dried there.
His muscles existed and formed his outline into a pleasurable look, for the only fault to be found in the man's form would be his lack of meat. His skinny body was built for running, for what he was doing now, luckily for him.
Now, the cloudlike blackness had dispersed enough to let the sunlight tell the man what time it was. He was far enough away from the robot, that the sound that came from it could no longer be heard; he could slow down. He judged it to be midmorning, possibly 10 o'clock. The safety of the situation gave little impression upon the man, he still ran as before, just slower, from weariness. He didn't know how long he had run for, but it surely had to be for longer than an hour.