It all happened so nonchalantly. Blake was in the kitchen, cutting up potatoes, when something in his brain clicked. The last slice wasn’t in a potato. He held up his hand, now dripping with blood. Only then did his brain catch up with his body.
His finger throbbed. His head went woozy. His lungs, however, functioned normally.
“Ingrid! I need some help! Hurry!” he shouted.
“The pot is in the drawer beneath the stove,” said Ingrid, as she sauntered into the kitchen. When she saw the blood, the colour drained from her face. She launched herself toward the sink and threw up.
The sight of his own blood and the acrid smell of vomit were too much for Blake. He passed out, dropping like a stone on the tile floor.
Once Ingrid finished regurgitating breakfast, she turned her attention to Blake. She managed to wrap his finger before her head started spinning. Everything went black.
Blake opened his bleary eyes an hour or so later. Laying beside his was Ingrid, her hair matted with half digested Cheerios. Off in the hallway, two Emergency Medical Technicians were talking.
“The way I figure it, the guy cut himself and passed and the girl puked, the joined him on the floor,” said the first EMT.
“Seriously?” asked the second EMT.
“It’s the only explanation I can come up with,” said the first EMT.
The second EMT shook his head. “You know, the longer I do this job, the less I believe in evolution.”