He ran

He ran. His crooked fingers pointed skywards, as if accusing God - in whom he had never believed - for this predicament. The branches of trees, which happily oblige even a gentle breeze hindered his path with absolute stubbornness: scratching his body, tearing his clothes. His right hand motioned vehemently sweeping aside the branches and twigs, but it seemed to rebound on his face with redoubled vigor, as if with vengeance. The leaves cracked beneath his heels. Jostling of foliage subdued the groan, not pain. He had nowhere to run. But, he had nowhere to stay. So, he ran.

... he stopped. He was dead.