Wincing through a quiet offensive

Consulting no one, dropping not even the faintest of hints, and stationed in the air around the fridge door, a heavy mix of poison, death and wet rodent pelt.

Palpitations of the heart lead into a disorientated womble. A stumble toward abnormal proportions of blood coursing through the valves. Heart attacks to wake up, nauseating odours to endure breakfast with. Metres away.