Whiplash | jjk.

[37]: Corkscrew

You arrive home about forty minutes later.

You drag your stiff bones through the front door that hadn't been locked, and hug yourself as you turn on the lights.

You didn't realise Korea had gotten so cold.

You didn't anticipate that this morning, and you didn't bring a jacket. So, your walk home had been as uncomfortably cold, as it was brisk.

Your teeth are almost chattering together as you set down your bag on the bench, and sigh out loud at the sheer weight of the last few hours.

Your mind is a cauldron at its boiling point, with all the new information you had acquired. You are bubbling over and all the ingredients are ruined.

You are depleted by the fact that a computer had just taught you more about your father than he ever had.

You're sad, heavy, lazy.

And hungry.

So you make no effort at looking happy as you open your fridge. Your low-set eyes glance over the drawers, looking for anything you could make to eat before bed.

There are some simple condiments, some cheese and some beer. But not much food.

Instant ramen?

You are just about to close the fridge and try the pantry when a firm pressure wraps itself around your face.

Suddenly, you don't feel so tired.

You feel a body press up against you, but it's not someone you know; they have a bad smell. And, within a split second, you are all too aware of what's happening.

You're in danger.

You try to scream but it's muffled by this persons' hand. You try to pull away but you feel their terrifying strength resist your sorry attempt.

You can feel the intent radiating off this person, and it sets your blood on fire.

You are alert, and panicked. Adrenaline has just been shot into your heart and somebody has electrocuted your legs.

You're alive.

Your hands come up to try and rip this hand away from your mouth, your body thrashes around as you try and free yourself from their grasp. The intensity of the moment is waiting for nothing, and it has no care if it gives you a heart attack in the process.

You remember your training.

You grab the forearm of what you now know to be a man, and you throw your hips back against him as hard as possible.

By some miracle, you manage to create a space between you. The man takes a step back and you throw yourself forward, unwilling to waste a second turning around to get a look at him. Your arms fly out in front of you, landing on the fridge, and you run.

Your limbs are shaky and unsteady as you run across the kitchen, just before his hand catches yours.

"No!" you shriek, swinging around with enough momentum to rip your hand free again. The movement knocks almost every item on the bench down to the floor.

It's loud. So loud.

You hope it's loud enough.

There is dangerous banging, smashing and now screaming. And although you know the people living in this neighbourhood are used to those sounds, you hope just one of them has enough sense to come and check.

But you can't rely on a simple hope.

Your life is in your own hands.

You scramble across the room, trying not to slip on the red wine that had just smashed and been spilled everywhere.