Running Man

   I stand there hunched over with my hands resting above my knees. I’m out of breath and almost out of road. I had come to find that in my retreat I had lost my right shoe and was left with only a sock revealing a hole exposing my large toe. Sweat rolled off the top of my newly shaved head like rain, slipping down to my eyebrows and gliding off of them as though they were gutters. Then finally falling off the face of the house and puddling on the ground. The seen in which I had just come from was one that no man should ever see. The feeling that gnawed at me in side was one that no man should ever feel. It was more than fear, more than terror, more than an other gut wrenching feeling combined. It was gruesome and warped. The memory will always be imbedded and gnarled in my mind. Faces blurred into infinity, so important yet to some, so meaning less. I can still hear the screams. The story would be front-page come morning, as I heard the police rushing by as I frantically ran. I was a witness. The warnings seem so obvious to me now as I recall it all, though at the time I saw none. The fate was inevitable, but could it have been postponed? In the light of all that had happened the sun still shone brightly as the day slowly faded away. Its raise beating down upon my swollen face, the humidity in the air weighed heavily on me, breathing was like trying to swim in a pool of tar. My lungs burned and my heart felt as though it were about to give out. A gash resided on the left side of my face, though no blood left from it. “What in the world is left for me to do? Surly there was something, but what?”