One More Drop in the Ocean

Fleeting Thoughts

He’s still entirely uncomfortable with the idea as a whole for a time after, through that week and the announcement of a funeral they’d head north a few hours to get to. June 9th was the scheduled date. Two weeks doesn’t seem to take long to come to pass when one’s dealing with the sort of revelations he’s been confronted with lately, and the time between when he’d seen the name on TV - Luna LaRue; they’d shared a surname until he was five. Will LaRue sounds foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue - and sitting in the passenger’s seat for what had to be about three hours. His eyes have been flitting between anything and everything in and outside the car. It’s a stupid habit, as though some sort of visual avoidance can deny the fact that he frankly doesn’t know how he should react to this sort of confrontation. He’s been to a funeral, of course, but he’d known the person, at minimum. He was within his rights to be upset. Now he’s frankly confused, more than anything else. Confused feels unnatural, but too natural at once. He shouldn’t go to this. He’s going to be surrounded by people in mourning over a lost daughter, lost cousin, lost friend, lost past schoolmate, even. He can’t say he lost a sister, he never knew he had one! His thoughts are loud and pounding against his skull like a migraine, though his expression remains serene. His eyes haven’t focused on anything, staring blankly out the window without a trace of the turmoil that’s coming to a frustrated boil somewhere just under his skin. His eyes flit briefly to his mother, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes frozen on the freeway. He sees no reason to speak. He has no reason to speak. He doesn’t speak. He’s far more fascinated with the uniform green of almost summer trees on the roadside than broaching the subject. He’s already debated talking about something else entirely, but a sinking, falling, drowning, feeling in the pit of him disallows that option entirely. It’d be wrong. The only sound in the vehicle is the light, typically unnoticed whirring of the air conditioner that drones tirelessly. He can’t necessarily ignore it in this particular instance. Any sort of silence has all but deafened him since childhood, and unable to stand it he whined and babbled to fill it. That at least, is what his mother told him when he was ten and needed to know what little Will LaRue Moreau was like for a school project. He doesn’t care to remember the details. That project couldn’t have been all that accurate in retrospect, what with the missing information he’d only so recently begun recovering parts of. It’s an awful feeling, not knowing something. That could also be hindsight speaking just as easily so, if not even more likely the case. The inner workings of his psyche are far louder than any sound in the vehicle, and one thought is blurring into the next faster than the green mass whipping past on the side of the freeway. He loses track of their location for at least the final hour before the car pulls into some Courtyard Marriot, and he sees no reason to acknowledge the odd feeling in his legs when he finally does stand up.