One More Drop in the Ocean

The Girl from Albany

It’s too warm for his like in here, the veritable cocoon he’s built from blankets not being his most well thought out plan, what with it being midway through May in New York City. It’s also too quiet. He spends no longer than a moment wrapped uncomfortably in a lack thereof before fumbling for the remote control that should be no further than his nightstand. Thankfully, this assumption is correct. The silence is shattered by white noise, a newscaster that frankly looks half asleep droning on about another arrest, another rebellion, another soon to be execution. Hell, it isn’t even something within his direct vicinity, something in Albany about a girl a few years his senior painting a mural in a train station. He sees it as entirely her own fault, of course, the young woman having quite obviously known the laws and punishments for such crimes. She chose to do something stupid herself, and the rest of the world’s simply going to move on from it. It’s only one more execution, one more failure to abide by basic rules, and one more drop in the ocean. Only a choice few people will be affected by it, so he really sees no reason why such a thing's worth putting in the news at all. What happened to the girl - Luna LaRue, he reads in the scrolling red bar beneath - is only visual distraction for bored unaffected parties such as himself, and is also likely some spark for some damned fool to do the same thing and receive the same consequence. Unfortunate? Absolutely. His problem? Absolutely not.
    He hears a wail from the next room over. He’s only jarred from that questioning sort of reverie by that sound in particular, because there’s only one other person in this apartment. What is his mother crying about? He shakes the blanket pile off of himself, not bothering to turn the television off when he exits the room. His steps are light on wood flooring, pausing tentatively by the entrance to the living room so he can assure he’d heard the sound correctly. He had, and doesn’t understand why. It unnerves him. Another step into the living room reveals the main television, and the exact same channel he’d been watching only moments prior. It couldn’t be that, then. He’d very well know if the LaRue woman was relevant to himself or his mother in the slightest. There’s no harm in asking what it is she was so upset about, so he does precisely that.
    “Are you okay?” She jolts visibly, as though she hadn’t expected him to investigate the sound. By any account, she clearly isn’t “okay” in any sense of the word. Perhaps it was a stupid question, then. She turns to face him, looking a veritable disaster for reasons still unbeknownst to him. She sends him a forced, watery sort of smile that only concerns him more.
    “Mom.” His tone is something near demanding, though concern is perfectly evident in it. Whatever switched his mother’s tone from the calm, collectiveness he’d been met with no more than half an hour ago to this had to have been a phonecall from the police station, or something equally hopeless. He can feel his chest tighten slightly. It takes her a moment to reply, but it frankly helps no part in his bewilderment.
    “Have you been watching the news, Will?” He nods. Is this about the girl from Albany?
    “So you saw the girl who-” She can’t finish the sentence without choking up. This doesn’t make any sense, not in the slightest. He doesn’t know that girl.
“I did.” He’s on edge right now, he can feel it. The girl who’d just been on the news, the one who’d passed away, knew his mother somehow? She pulls in a deep, rattling breath before speaking more.
    “Alright, well, that girl was someone I know well. You should’ve known her, too.” Why? This time she doesn’t simply choke up. Another sob is pulled from her, as loud as the first. He doesn’t understand. Unsure as to what he should be doing in this sort of utterly befuddling situation, he doesn’t move from wall he’s been standing against. He’s wordless to this, and the next words are hers. They’re sniffly and raw, but it’s her that speaks first.
    “That girl is my daughter with your dad. She’s- She was your sister. You- You only saw her when you were a tiny baby, huh? Really little.” What? What sort of person fails to mention this? He doesn’t know how to react to any of this. He has a sister and he’s met her. Except he doesn’t have a sister, does he? Not anymore. The girl on the television, who’s story’s even blipped off now, as a cursory glance toward what’s now a weather forecast makes evident; that girl was his sister in life and death. That girl he’d mentally chided hardly fifteen minutes ago for foolish rebellion is… his sister. He has a sister. He had a sister. LaRue. Something LaRue. That girl was his sister. He was related flesh and blood to that girl. That dead girl who painted a mural in a train station in Albany was his mother’s other child. That girl was his father’s child. His sister he doesn’t know. His father he doesn’t know. His family in Albany, New York. The dad who doesn’t want to see him. The sister he won’t get to see. In Albany. On the news. Out of his life. In the public eye for only a moment.
“I should’ve told you before, sweetie. This is on me.” He remains stunned into silence. She doesn’t say anything after that, instead gesturing vaguely for him to sit beside her on the sofa. It takes him another moment leaning on the wall to properly do anything at all, and his steps on the carpet are the only muffled sounds he registers as he crosses the room. He’s still mulling over the newfound mess in his head, so no words leave him as he sits down. Later, he’d come to realize he isn’t exactly sure how long they’d sat there in abnormally comfortable silence.