[Content warning: under the read more, the following piece contains explicit gore including intestines, accidental self-injury, mention of vomit, and detailed description of a PTSD flashback.
If you followed a direct link to get here, the content mentioned above starts at the start of the italicised paragraph]

It’s the things you don’t expect that gall the most.

Like the steak. You didn’t like steak, before – cultural thing, probably, and the taste of it never appealed even if that hadn’t been at the back of your mind – but it wasn’t more than a general issue of preference. Nothing that actually impacted your life in any way.

Then, one afternoon, you’re making supper – you and your daughter, while your wife’s out at work. Since both the girls eat steak, you decide you’ll cook some for them (just because you don’t eat the damn stuff, doesn’t mean you can’t cook it). You get the packet out of the fridge, and that goes fine. Get a knife, slit the plastic, peel it open. All fine, all usual. Reach in to pick up the steak- and that’s when it goes wrong.

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