Chapter 9 – Lambent Yellow

It's the smell of damp that firstly rouses him, his lungs are beginning to tighten from grinding the wet air into his system. Kyle heaves himself awake – lies limp and numb and hazes up at the ceiling; he doesn't pull his arms down as he can feel how tight and heavy the chains are around each wrist. His body struggles to oxygenate his fingertips, he can feel the tingling sensation work its way up onto his purple skin. He can't quite understand yet what he's feeling; there's no initial fear or terror; no thrashing and sobbing; he hasn't even tested the willingness of his bonds. Instead, he drums his closest fingertips to the metal bars of the headboard and shuffles his head to the side slightly to counter the dip in his pillow. His head lulls and he tries to make out the different polaroids littering the walls, tries to make out faces and dates and small written notes but sees nothing more than a patchy blur of black which pulses around the edges of Kyle's still tunnelling vision.

He's still high – or at least, not yet sober. High isn't the right term, it doesn't compute to Kyle's sweltering limbs and pulsating stomach, high doesn't fit with his apathetic reaction, high suggests that he had felt good at one point during this all; only he feels low and broken and mentally unsteady. He tries to commit to curiosity, slides his arms downwards towards his shoulders to see how much give they allow him, tries to figure out how long he's been lying with dried blood on his temple and kip's concoction rotting in his belly. He can just about touch the tip of his head and, can feel the edge of the area where his skull met the concrete flooring. He tries to apply pressure but realises he's still numb enough that if he pushes harder the aching doesn't increase, so he stops, lets his hands fall and rest in the dead space between him and the headboard. His foot twitches when he remembers they're there – curls his toes and lets his knees slowly ride up until they're folded as much as possible.

He coughs once, twice. Then tries to hum a neutral note which crackles and dies quickly in his mouth – it tastes sour and Kyle winces, finally feels the angst and hatred and the thick loops cuffing his wrists. His body's still so dry that he can't sob but heaves a dry cry through his nose at the seriousness of it all. He gurgles back a small ball of spit, tries to lube his throat into working – hums again, finds himself sounding like the beginning of a vinyl, wavering and distinct. On his third attempt his voice sounds as normal as it can be from a night of crying and fighting and loosing.

Movement and light clamber at the entry– exit. Kyle tries not to react, but his body lurks with everything he hasn't been feeling; the fear; the terror; the thrashing; sickness; sobbing. It rushes through him with a flood of pain, his limbs flinch with forewarned fear. His folded knees curl to protect him, his elbows pull upwards around his ears, press into the sides of his face. He doesn't want to remember that Kip's alive and living, tries not to recall that the months of hardships and loneliness were triggered by his homecoming.

"I thought I heard movement; you were so quiet I wasn't even sure if weren't just moving about in your sleep. I'm so happy you're awake – I was beginning to get so impatient I couldn't wait much longer." Kip beams from the stairwell, carrying a tray heavy with food. If this was a film, Kyle might laugh – question the absurd chipper in Kip's tone, the bright, frilled yellow apron and his cushioned tray with metal stands; how the lambent yellow backlight makes him godly. Kyle's not laughing, just cowering and pretending that he's letting himself be pulled through the most realistic nightmare he's had to date.

"Plus," he adds when he's reached the bottom step and peers down at Kyle with a smile that Kyle knows means everything in this world is going right just for me. "I made you food, baby. You must be so hungry after all that commotion last night." It's dripped in this sickly voice that Kyle hates – Kip's sounds like his mother. Is calling him baby like Kenny does. He can't think of anything worse (a lie, he can).

He squeezes his head with his biceps, clenches his eyes and pretends he can't hear Kip at all. He listens to Kip placing the tray down, feels the bed dip and his body jerks, knees pulling upwards ready to defend himself. He cries out with emotions he can't word, spasms with feelings he doesn't understand. It hurts, he wants to go home. Cry into Kenny's arms, Kenny would believe him now – if he knew Kyle was trapped and cornered and being framed. Kip rests a hand on Kyle's knee, keeping contact with it even when Kyle jerks away.

Kip clambers over him, struggles to flatten Kyle's legs. He pushes himself to rest sat on Kyle's stomach and struggles to reach and bring the tray to rest onto Kyle's chest. If he hadn't been feeling so nauseous, he'd try toppling the tray away, letting the thick, greasy plate topple to the side. Instead, he just sucks in a breath, trying to ignore how he can taste the smells in the air and how it only makes his sickness worse.

Kip watches down at Kyle's inner struggle, how his head curves left and right in his only display of resistance, his fists buckle and undo, fingertips trembling. Eventually Kyle attempts to lift his head in order to counter Kip's balance; it does nothing, so Kyle throws his head back into the pillow, and cries.

"Why are you crying? Feeling sorry for yourself, or something?"

"I do feel sorry for myself, but I feel even more sorry for you." Kyle bites, tilting his head back up, hoping it will deter the weakness in his limbs.

"Why would you feel sorry for me, baby?" Kip counters, easy perplexity sparks an ember which rots the medicine in his stomach. "Can't you see everything is going well for me? I've got everything I've ever wanted. You."

Kyle holds back his tears, it's hard to when he feels so objectified and manhandled that the eggshell coat of courage he tries mask himself with crumbles before it's even prepared. "Why?" He can't think of anything else to say, he's already been defeated, playing a rigged game of life; even though his hands still hold at the steering wheel, it's Kip's overlaying palms who turns it.

Kip just shrugs, palming a piece of bacon into his mouth and letting it wet his lips. "Cus', I loved you first. He never deserved you like I did. I got you first, so why shouldn't I be allowed to keep you?" It's scarier because he's serious, talking baritone and indifferently about something mundane and factual to him. Kyle lets himself cry again, it's a small quaking sob gurgled by a pool of bile gathering in the back of his throat; it blisters his vocals.

"That's – that's not how it works, Kip! It's not how any of this works! I love Kenny, I really love him, and I would have never chosen you. Ever."

There's this blank pause, where Kip's eyes lighten with apprehension and a deep sated anger which burns through him like a firecracker. His voice is silent and sharp, "That's why I had to get rid of him. But the fucker won't let go. Well, didn't. I'm pretty sure he's dead now."

Kyle chokes on bile, trying to act like he knows the information is rigged and fake. But he can't take that chance, especially if Kip is feeling as invincible as he appears. Letting the backlight of the trapdoor blossom around his head like a halo. The room becomes all too bright, and the fight and resistance deploy from him along with stale sick. Kip jerks back, taking the tray with his breakfast with him. He doesn't look disgusted as he watches Kyle feebly regain himself after vomiting, instead a wild, animalistic gleam hits his eyes and Kyle's stomach churns all over again.

He says it though, "Disgusting." He lets the tray clammer onto the floor, mingle with the yellowing bile seeping along the cement. Kyle doesn't have the heart to look, but imagines it mingling in with his dried blood.

It's easy for Kip to pick himself up, starring between Kyle and his mess. "Why does everything have to be an uphill struggle with you. Why can't I just have you and keep you? Why are you so difficult? I suppose it'll go soon, your fever – your fight."

Kyle bristles, but can't form the words to argue with them. He's already realised conversation is useless. Kip will never see reality; his own augmented version blinds him. He can't understand how this has happened to him, what he's done in this life and his last to deserve what Kip has done to him – doing to him.

"Please." He begs without really knowing what about, he wants Kenny, wants to go home, wants Kip to die. "I'm sorry." He only feels worse after vomiting, and Kip's toxic words do nothing but add fuel to the fire. "Don't kill him."

"Baby, it's too late. He will only get in our way." Kyle screams an ugly, gurgling cry which devastates him. He struggles and shouts, pulling at his wrists and curling round to try and kick Kip, he falls from the bed, hands still tied above him and cries into the duvet. Body quivering as everything blurs and becomes tight, he can't really breathe; but the only conscious part of his mind allows him to smother himself into the mattress. He hears Kip walk away from him, clambering up the stairs and reducing his cell into blackness. Kyle hyperventilates, hallucinating a hundred versions of Kenny's possible deaths. What did he do? What had he done now? Kenny had survived car crashes and smothering, he'd come back from it all – had Kip stabbed him? Laid a trap on the road for him and Stan to drive over. Oh god, had he got Stan too? What about his brother? Or his parents? Who else was Kip willing to kill to get his way?

"Answer me!" he hears himself screaming, voice crackling and sore. "I'll kill you! God fucking dammit, I'll kill you! What did you do to him?! Kip!" He continues until his voice breaks, and then he tries to crackle insults and threats as his body decays with hunger and exhaustion. He's still kneeling over the mattress, knees pressed into cold bile and uneaten bacon. Soon his fight turns into cries, and dry heaves from dehydration until his body gives way to nothing. Kyle lies still, shallow breaths as he tries to focus on staying within reality. Everything hurts, maybe due to the awkward way he's kneeling, or because he's so hungry and thirsty that he can't move without jarring cramps in his empty stomach.

Hour's pass, and Kyle drools into the bedsheets, trying to comprehend how long Kip has left him alone – it's become its own reality. He's found just enough energy to crawl back onto the bed, but having no free hands means he can't pull the sheet over himself and he's getting bouts of shivering in between dozing.

He tried quietly begging, eyes unfocused and gazing at the baby monitor that flashes red. It's not connected to the one upstairs, and it scares Kyle even more. He keeps having exhausted anxiety attacks, where he lays on the sheets and whimpers hoarsely to himself until he passes out. Kenny's face sits concreted behind his eyes, vivid and bright and driving Kyle insane. He heterochromic eyes squinting a smile, face crumpled up with happiness. It distorts and pales into the sleeping form of Kenny that Kyle had stared at for a month; sickly and thin with burnt knuckles and scarred skin. He thinks of the cups of coffee he'd bring and waste each day – how much he craves one right now.

Kenny's comatose form rots Kyle's retinas, he knows it's what Kenny looks like dead. He can't help the fresh burst of dry sobs that cause him to quake. He's so mentally exhausted – lying here deteriorating whilst Kenny does the same someplace else. It has to have been at least a day now, Kyle thinks of the bacon on the floor, how it might lessen the cramps and give him a boost of energy if he is to survive all of this.

He's still crying as he twists himself round, looking down to see if there's any food which hasn't been contaminated with his sick. His eyes sting, sore and dry, he smacks his lips together to try and wet them.

The light on the baby monitor flashes green.