Neither man nor beast died to produce it. There's not enough filth around to blame.
I've torn my home apart, scrubbing it raw. Yet that stench persists. It's my nemesis.
All I know is that stench, that of my decay. It's seeped into my flesh and distorted it.
I scratch tainted flesh, trying to cleanse it. Is that stench mine, that of dying organs?
By the time I find an answer, it might be. I grow weary, haunted by that horrid scent.