adversity is creativity
Bryan wasn't giving up the knives.
After pounding, demanding, and swearing, three hours swearing, he slid half a plastic butter knife under the door. But that couldn't cut anything, and someone had brought home a sack of stale bagels and everybody wanted them. When the toaster burned the ragged edges of a hand-torn bagel for the fifth time and the fire alarm went off for the tenth, things turned ugly.
Things turned righteously indignant.
It seemed distinctly unfair that Bryan get to keep all the knives. Steak, bread, and otherwise. He hadn't bought them. He only kept them sharp. Kept them beside his bed. Kept them lovingly within sight at all times lest they go anywhere, leaving him undefended and incapable of drawing blood except with his teeth.
Then they quieted and remembered about the teeth. How once they'd taken back all the knives, every single knife while he slept, eaten their bagels, and Bryan had woken up and become a slavering hell-hound and almost ripped a chunk out Spencer's restraining arm with his teeth.
…They disabled the fire alarm and sat around the toaster and made a game of who could tear their bagels most neatly in two.
a/n: I'm still bitter about writing scholarship essays, knowing they wanted a human interest story, knowing I didn't have one to give. Hence the title. I'll stick with other people's adversity, I think.