But the smell.
It is a thick smell; you can feel it entering your lungs, taste it's tackiness on your tongue.
I drink quickly, trying to wash away the smell. It doesn't work. The blood smell gets mixed up with the bite of the whiskey. Everything gets thick, sodden, swollen. A tick gorged on blood, ready to be smashed into a red-smeared revery. The tick is always feasting.
The curtains are blood-red, and they will descend any minute. You will blink your way back into sunshine, and I will slither under the rug, biding my time, choking on the smell in the air.