Just The Way I'm Not (Prince Harry Fanfiction)

Chapter Three

I don’t have much time to appreciate my last day in London, as I spend so much time reflecting on what happened in Buckingham Palace. I lay in my hotel bed the next day, freaking out about how I made a fool of myself, and I can’t even get away from him, he’s going to be at my Dad’s charity next month for the Royal Visit. It’s customary that out for respect, a member of the Royal Family visits every new charity. My Dad’s charity isn’t new, but it hasn’t had its visit yet. There’s no guarantee it’s going to be Prince Harry, but my Dad has always been certain it’s going to be him. I’m not sure why, but there must be some logic behind it. I make a mental note to ask him when I get home. Part of me wonders why I care so much, after next month I’m never going to have to see the Prince again, I can move on with my life. Besides, I doubt he even remembers me. He’s met so many members of the public in his short lifetime that they must all just blur into one. Why would I be so important? Exactly, I wouldn’t. But then there’s the other part of me, the part that reminds me the Harry is a Prince. That’s the part that reminds me why I care, why it’s important. He’s Royalty. It’s as if I can’t accept this somehow, perhaps it’s because I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone like that, or maybe it’s because the occasion passed by me in some kind of blur.

I spend the rest of the day sleeping, watching TV and lying in my bed, staring at the same spot on the wall. My mind screams to be let lose, to go outside and go shopping in the streets of the capital city but I can’t. My muscles won’t let me, they stay put, too traumatised from what happened the day before. I really wish I didn’t care about what happened, but for some strange reason I do. I tell myself I care because he’s Royalty. But by the nagging feeling I get in the back of my mind, I get the impression I don’t know why I care yet. Monday comes round in a flash and I find myself travelling home, I know that when I get back I’ll never hear the end of it, endless questions on what happened, everyone in the small village will want to hear. The idea scares me; I don’t want to tell them the truth, so I spend the rest of the journey thinking up a story.

And the lie works. When I get home, I act all enthusiastic and happy, using elaborate arm gestures to I describe my story. I act modest though, and make a point of saying Harry was only in the room for a few moments, to avoid future questions. One thing I can say about myself, I’m a good actress. Everyone believes me and sucks in the atmosphere, rambling on as if they were there. Something tells me this is a story that will be told for a long time in Craster. I suddenly feel ten times better about everything that happened; I even start to believe my own story. But when I go upstairs that night, I lay in bed staring at the stars out my window, and all I can see is the smiling face of a red headed man.