I stood there breathing heavily in the arms of a muscle-head with a knife. Hundreds of thoughts were running through my mind, most of them along the lines of Oh my god... and I'm going to die.
I didn't want to die. Not there, not then. It wasn't fair. Just because I was physically weaker than somebody doesn't mean they should end my life whenever they please.
But try as I might, I couldn't wrench myself free of his grasp. Suddenly, a bowl of mash hit him in the face. Using the moment as an advantage, I kicked him between the legs, got free, and dove under a table.
Food flew all around me, and my heart was skipping like a rabbit on cocaine. I looked towards the floor and saw Ritchie crawling towards me, knife in hand. His face looked like he was ready to kill.
At that moment, Paul appeared from behind me, pushed me out of the way, and delivered a swift kick to the kid's face. Ritchie was out for the count.
I lay on the cold tile floor, not wanting to move. Suddenly, two cold, firm hands pulled me upwards. I was scared beyond belief, but forced myself to open my eyes.
It was Paul, who looked like he had just seen the devil. "Oh my god, Kerry..." He gasped. "Are you okay?"
Realizing I was still laying as limp as a rag doll, I nodded forcefully and sat up on my own. "I-i'm fine." I said, stumbling around for words. His hands still cradled my head. Paul's face hovered inches from mine. His tan, muscular complexion was so enchanting.
Holy Sh*t... I thought.