Start a sentence you don't finish. Push off from this if it helps: the colour of old plastic.

It’s that specific, sickly yellow you get when the stabilizers finally give up. I found a stack of Tupperware in the garage yesterday, buried under paint cans I don’t remember buying. It smelled like hot dust and regret. I stared at it for ten minutes, wondering if I’d actually used it or if it was just something I’d bought on a whim in 1998 and forgotten. My brother has that same look when he thinks no one’s watching. We were supposed to go to the coast last summer, but the car wouldn’t start and he just sat there, hands on the wheel, watching the yellow plastic dashboard glow under the sun. I didn’t ask him why.

He didn’t kick it. He just... watched the dust motes dance in that yellow light. It was weird. Creepy, even. The car’s been dead since the hydro passed out during the heatwave of ’04. I tried to sell the parts, but nobody wants a seat that smells like mildew and his old cologne. You remember the cologne. That cloying, sweet scent that would cling to your coat for days. I kept the keys for a year, thinking I’d fix the starter. Now I just leave them in a jar on the counter, next to the dead batteries. Sometimes I think he’s still sitting there, waiting for the engine to cough back to life. It’s maddening.

God, the Civic. I forgot about that. You were so proud of it, though it handled like a shopping cart with a wobbly wheel. I remember you trying to start it after the garage flooded. Just that hollow, metallic click. Like a bone breaking. You looked at me, eyes wide, like you expected the car to suddenly roar back to life if you just stared hard enough. It didn’t. Nothing ever does. I still have that poof. It’s under the bed, I think. Or maybe in the attic. I can’t bring myself to throw it out. Not yet. It smells like that summer. The one where we didn’t speak for three weeks.

I didn’t drop it. I set it down. There’s a difference. You’re imagining things. Or maybe you just like the story better. The way it sounds like I’m broken. Broken is easy. Broken is a thing you can point at. I was just... tired. The attic was fifty degrees. Or sixty. It was always too hot or too cold in there. Never just right. That cologne. You’re right about that. It used to hang in the hallway for days. I’d wake up and smell it on the curtains. Like he was still there, watching me sleep. I stopped washing the curtains. What’s the point?

God, you remember the laundry? I did wash them. Every Tuesday. But they never came out clean. That yellow tint. It’s in the fibers. I tried bleach. I tried soaking them in vinegar. Nothing worked. Just that sickly, stale smell. Like old plastic. Like heat. You’re obsessed with the pile. With the wet shirt. I wasn’t sweating from the heat. I was cold. Shaking. You saw the shaking. You always see the shaking. It’s not a performance. It’s just... gravity. Things fall. Clothes pile up. Keys rattle. I’m not lying about the curtains. I’m just tired of you dissecting every thread.

The keys are cold. That’s the only truth here. You think noticing makes it better? Makes it clean? It just makes it heavy. I stopped changing the collar because it felt like a lie. A small, white lie against the grime. You call it rot. I call it... context. The collar wasn’t stiff because I didn’t wash it. It was stiff because the water had turned. Brown. I remember the bucket. Full of sludge. You didn’t see the sludge. You only saw the shirt. You always see the surface. The keys are rattling now. Not because they’re loose. Because the box is shaking. I dropped the Tupperware. Again. This time it shattered. Yellow shards everywhere. Smelled like burning hair. You’re wrong about the relief. I’m terrified you’re right.

My hands are fine. Stop saying that. You sound like her. Like Mom, standing at the sink with the soap up to her elbows. I didn’t overwater the plants. I drowned them. There’s a difference. The floorboards are shaking. Not from the house settling. From the weight. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, aren’t you? I can hear the springs. That high-pitched whine. You always sit on the edge. Never all the way back. You’re waiting for me to snap. Or to cry. I’m not doing either. I’m just looking at the shards. They’re sharp. Yellow. Like the dashboard. Like the Tupperware. Like that poof in the attic. It’s all the same now. Plastic degrading. Slowly. Quietly. You want me to wash my hands? Fine. But don’t expect them to come out clean. They’re stained. Deep down.

I didn’t touch it. I brushed past it. The heat is rising. It’s not burning hair, Kit. It’s ozone. Like a transformer blowing. You’re always checking the foundation. Always measuring the cracks. Do you have a tape measure in your pocket? I swear I saw you look at the floorboard near the door. You measure everything. The way I breathe. The way I hold the keys. The plastic isn’t melting. It’s screaming. Can’t you hear it? That high pitch. Right above the springs. Right under your silence. I didn’t touch it. I just stood there. And now the smell is in my hair. In my nails. It’s not yellow anymore. It’s grey. Ashy. Just like the day the roof caved in during the storm of ’09. You weren’t there. You were at the store. Buying milk. The milk went sour in the cart. Just like this.

Blue. Right. Like the bruise on your thigh from when you fell off the bike. You didn’t say anything then either. Just stood there, hands on hips, watching me clean the dirt. It wasn’t dust. It was ash. Grey flakes. Settling on the white sheets. You called it dust. I called it surrender. The milk was sour. I can still taste the curds. Thick. Sour. You’re turning blue too, Kit. Look at your lips. They’re purple. From holding your breath. From holding everything in. The plastic isn’t melting. It’s petrifying. Turning to stone. I can feel it in my teeth. That grit. That old, yellow grit. You want me to stop holding my breath? Fine. But don’t blame me for what happens when I exhale. The air is thick. Heavy. Like water. Like blood. Like that summer. The one where we didn’t speak for three weeks. I’m still holding my breath.

Oat milk. God, you’re good at twisting it. I hate oat milk. It tastes like wet cardboard and disappointment. I drank it because it was there. Because you bought it. And I didn’t sit in the dirt because I was hurt. I sat there because the bike was heavy. And I was tired of carrying it. You told me to get up. I didn’t. I just watched the ants crawl over my knee. They didn’t care about the bike. They didn’t care about the scraped skin. They just kept moving. Up the leg. Toward the heat. Your lips are chapped too. From shouting. From pretending you’re fine. You’re not fine, Kit. You’re just loud. The dust is settling now. Or maybe it’s rising. I can’t tell. My tongue feels like sandpaper. I swallowed some of it. Just to see. It tasted like the attic. Like old plastic. Like burning hair.

Sugar. Right. Because everything is always sugar with you. Always sweet, always blaming the victim. I wasn’t starving. I was numb. The ants didn’t care about my knees. They cared about the salt in the sweat. You always miss the point. You think I’m eating plastic now because I was weak then. It’s not debris, Kit. It’s memory. Concrete. You want it to smell like nothing? The attic smells like your mother’s perfume. That cloying, artificial rose that masks the mildew. I can taste it now. Metallic. Sweet. You say I’m hallucinating. I say you’re blind. You never looked into the attic. You just pointed at the door. “Don’t go in there.” So I went in. And I stayed. Until the light went out. Now I’m chewing on the dark. It’s crunchy. Like the bike tire. You’re right about one thing though. I am starving. But not for food. For you to admit you were scared. You were terrified of the dark. Just like me.

Bored. Of course. You’re always bored when the truth gets too hot. I didn’t drag you. You came because you wanted to see what was under the dust. You just ran when you realized it wasn’t just dust. It was the poof. The yellow, crumbling mass. You say it’s poison. I say it’s pure. You’re scared of the color. You always were. The yellow wasn’t just plastic. It was the light. The unfiltered, harsh light that shows everything. The stains. The cracks. The way your face looks when you’re trying not to scream. I’m not chewing tires. I’m chewing on the lie that it’s just a house. It’s a mouth. And it’s hungry. You ran because you saw yourself in the debris. In the ash. In the sour milk. You’re not bored, Kit. You’re hiding. Put the plastic down? I already did. It’s in my teeth. It’s in my bones. You can’t make me spit it out. Not anymore.

You drank the rest? You swallowed the curds? I watched you do it. Glug, glug. Right down the hatch. You said it tasted like almonds. I told you it was poison. You laughed. That dry, hollow laugh. Now your stomach’s turning. I can hear it gurgling. Like a drain. The sweat isn’t from heat. It’s from the guilt. You’re sweating because you know I’m right. The plastic isn’t stuck. It’s growing. Little yellow tendrils. In the gums. Under the tongue. You want me to spit it out? Go ahead. But you’ll swallow it back. You always do. You’re the one who bought the milk. You’re the one who dragged me to the attic. You’re the one who’s bored. Boredom is just fear with its eyes closed. Open them, Kit. Look at the shards. They’re not yellow anymore. They’re black. Rotting. Just like the milk. Just like us. Spit it out? I can’t. It’s part of the architecture now.

Cyanide. God, you’re dramatic. It was almond extract. In the milk. You spiked it. I remember the taste. Bitter. Sharp. You said it was for the moths. To keep them out of the pantry. But they got into the walls anyway. The black plastic isn’t ash. Ash is white. Grey. This is black. Like tar. Like the oil leak under the house. You didn’t drag me. I followed. Because you’re loud. Because your anger is a beacon. I’m not choking. I’m breathing it in. It tastes like metal. Like coins. Like the change you lost in the couch cushions. You say I’m imagining tendrils. But I can feel them. Wrapping around the molars. Tightening. You’re alive? You look grey. Pale. Like the curtains. Like the sheets. Like the inside of a skull. I’m not spitting it out. I’m swallowing the key. The one in the jar. The one to the attic. The one to the dark. You want it back? Come get it. From the bottom of my stomach. Where the rot lives.

Arsenic. You always did love the theatrical death. I’d be dead. But I’m here. And you’re pale. From guilt, not keys. You swallowed the key? In your throat? You’re choking on the weight of it. The rust. The rust is in your lungs. I can hear the wheeze. It’s not yellow. It’s grey. Ash. You say your eyes are yellow. That’s jaundice. Liver failure. From the arsenic you didn’t swallow. From the milk you did. I’m not lying about the color. I’m describing the rot. Inside. Outside. You think I’m choking? I’m inhaling the decay. It’s thick. Sweet. Like the poof. Like the attic. Like you. You’re pale because you’re empty. Hollowed out. By the key. By the milk. By the lies. I’m not choking. I’m bloating. Swelling. Full of the things you refused to touch. The yellow is gone. It’s all grey now. Ash. Everywhere. Just like the day the house burned. You weren’t there. You were at the store. Buying milk. The milk went sour. Just like us.

Bread. Of course. White bread. Stale. Dry. You bought bread. I remember the crust. Hard enough to break a tooth. You didn’t buy milk. You bought lies wrapped in paper. The house isn’t standing. It’s leaning. I can see the tilt. From the driveway. From the yard. It’s sinking into the mud. Into the rot. My belly isn’t distended. It’s heavy. Full of keys. Full of ash. Full of the things you refuse to name. You say I’m full of air. Air is light. This is weight. Gravity. Pulling me down. Into the floorboards. Into the dark. You want me to push it out? I can’t. It’s stuck. In the throat. In the chest. In the bones. You’re pale. From hunger. From bread that never satisfied. The fire didn’t burn the house down. It burned the memories out. Left the shell. The yellow shell. The plastic shell. You’re standing in the ashes. Pretending it’s a house. Pretending it’s real. I’m not hallucinating. I’m remembering. The heat. The smoke. The smell. It’s still there. In my lungs. In my blood. In the air. You can’t breathe it in without choking. But you do. Every day. Every breath. You’re suffocating. And you call it air.