Running

He was chasing after her. She heard him crashing through the dry veld and smashing withered branches in his path. She ran faster. Sprinting with the last of her energy, she was rushing head first into the air, cutting it with her speed. But still she could hear him gaining on her. Her legs were slowly but surely beginning to ache, a pain had started in her side. But still he came after her. The normally welcomed air became a necessary evil, burning her lungs painfully but allowing her to keep on running. He sounded closer. She jumped over fallen branches, nearly losing her footing in discreet holes. The grass cruelly left paper thin cuts as it slashed at her intruding legs. But still he came, matching her speed. Her ankles were twisting more often, each time closer to causing injury and stopping her escape. She ran and ran but soon she slowed. She could hear by her own foot falls that she was slowing; they had lost their well timed pace and were becoming erratic in their landings.
She was running and running. She had to run faster. She had to escape or he would win and then it all would have been for nothing. But the pain in her side was growing, it felt to her as if the left part of her torso was being ripped open, she couldn't breathe for the fire in her lungs. Yet still he came, hunting her down. The night hid the path before her but still she ran and ran and kept on running. But so did he, he was tireless. Sharp, stark branches lashed at her arms, stones and pebbles betrayed her feet and rocked her precariously as she ran. Still she ran to escape him. Trees magically appeared out of the dark as the night played tricks with her mind. She kept looking back to see if she could see him. She couldn't see him but he must be able to see her because she can hear him coming.
Running racing rushing through the veld, trying to escape when suddenly her left shoulder is struck by an obtrusive tree. It spins her body hard; she lands on her palms, pain shooting up to her elbows. Precious air is forced from her lungs in a muffled grunt. Her pursuer is upon her. All her effort wasted. The bastard really did win.