"It's too loud."
    
     There are people, many of them close at hand, who are unaffected by death but choose to live amongst it.
    
     These are the grief groupies-- the leeches of sadness.
    

     The kettle was left to scream and that was what woke me. I was surprised that it was the kettle that disturbed me and not the boisterous conversations trailing down the hall at six in the morning or the nauseating scent of full breakfasts being cooked-- or even the girl that lay soft at my side.
     Had I been expecting to find a girl in my bed; it would not have been this one. I couldn't say that I was opposed to her being there. Part of me could sympathize with why it was that her body was curled round mine.                                                            
    "That racket--," I quietly cleared my throat and paused to listen to the nasal voice that carried from the kitchen, "is Helena dead set on making every person in the house wish that they were lucky enough to be the deceased... you'd be interested to know how many women I've woken up beside as of late and have not had sex with."
     "I'd be more interested to know how many women that you have had sex with and bothered to stick round to wake up next to-- or not insist they leave," Sylvie countered.
     I thought on this. The numbers were few.
     "There's always a reason. It doesn't have to be a good one," I shrugged and wrapped an arm around Sylvie's petite shoulders.
     We both exhaled heavily and stared up at the ceiling. The ceiling gave me the creeps. I remembered it from my dreams and how vivid that seemed in comparison to the haze of reality. I wanted to be able to stare at anything else but there was nothing else above me. I would have closed my eyes but feared that in doing so I would only prove to myself that this, also, was a moment conjured up while sleeping (even though I was fairly certain that this was not the case).
     "You're the only one who hasn't asked what happened," Sylvie said.
     "Yeah?"
     "I wanna tell you..."
     "I already know."
     "... the details."
     "Aren't fucking important."
     "People will talk-- Helena-- it'll get back to you; skewed. It should come from me."
     I sighed and slid from bed. I rummaged through my bag and found an old camel-coloured jumper that had probably belonged to someone's dead grandad-- I couldn't even remember having packed it. I pulled it over my head then tugged on my white plimsoles. I sat in the chair to tie them up, attempting to be as far away from Sylvie as was comfortable without making her feel as though I were avoiding her.
     "He always spoke of you this way," Sylvie lifted herself up, "Runnin' away from what you won't listen to."
     "Ah come off it already," I exasperated. I found the pack of cigarettes and lit one.
     "Your mum let you smoke in here?"
     "Never asked."
     "I'm sorry," she whimpered at the onset of tears, "You don't look like him, Lee, you don't-- but you feel like him."
     I crawled over onto the bed and handed her the cigarette.
     "Here, you finish this."
     She took it with shaking fingers and placed it between shaking lips. I tied my arms around her.
     "Your friend, Nin, lay beside me all night-- she let me stay close so I wasn't alone but-- God, I'm never gonna hold him again."
      I hurt for Sylvie. That was the only emotion or thought that belonged to me; no feeling for myself. I was only emptiness that was being swallowed up by Sylvie's pain.

     I hugged her and in a way I envied that she had me to hold her-- if only because she felt absolutely nothing like Ian to me at all.