The Shield (Prince Harry fanfic #2)

Chapter Eleven

Lucy walked. She was trying to get away as fast as she could. Watching upon Kensington Palace, it had been nice enough, but people walked through there easily. Her home had always been secured, like a lockdown almost at night. Maybe Kensington Palace was like that at night, she tried not to pre-judge. And though she had walked there, just to see what his home was like, she didn't stay and she certainly hadn't gone inside. She wouldn't have seen him again, like she was completely sure that he hadn't seen her.

There was a gasp. Her body jerked toward the grasp, and she saw the news. People crowded around a small area upon a female's phone, and there was Lucy's face. It had been prom in early May over a year ago, and one of her alive friends brought her. She hadn't wanted to go, but she had. She wore a dress, and her hair and makeup were done professionally. She never needed to do it again. Everyone else's faces were blurred out, making her stand out. But since the picture was from prom, she was dressed up, and she didn't look that normally. It didn't mean a better picture was coming for her, but she didn't need to see.

Cursing herself for slowing down, she walked again, keeping her face up. She hit again the main streets, going toward the inner city. She realized after walking for ten minutes, when large buildings arose in front of her, Lucy walked in the wrong way, especially from her hostile. She paused on the streets, as people rushed around her, and she thought about turning around. However, London welcomed her fully. Perhaps she had the fear of being recognized, but it didn't stop her now.

As her eyes watched her surroundings, she became aware of what she was now. The cameras would try to find her; people would try to find her. She wasn't a fugitive, but it was as if it was true. It was as if she was hunted again by the media, who all desperately hoped for the next new picture of her, something that might example why she did what she did. There wasn't anything juicy about her life, but the media wove their truth, perhaps lies, well. What Lucy was now, was extremely different than before, as she continued to evolve. She needed to write down a new story.

Lucy had given it a month for her journal to return, which it hadn't. She missed desperately the pages, but it was almost finished. It never truly occurred to her what she might do with a finished journal. No one else would read it, and even if they did, with the coverage she was given, she wouldn't want them to read it. It were her thoughts about everything, everything that happened, from her happiness after the pain, to the actual pain. She wrote everything down when she couldn't speak. Her anger filled pages after pages. If those people ever read it, it was the end of her days. Her anger was death. She learned from her journal pages, upon what to never be again.

She learned again now.

Pulling out her cell phone out of pocket, Lucy found the nearest bookstore. She doubted she would find the quality that her journal once had nor the love she had for it, she needed something. She needed to talk to someone, even if it was only herself. It was hard for people to understand, because they hadn't been there. She wouldn't want them to feel it, to know what it was like. But she couldn't speak about it, and no one wanted to hear it. No one could sympathize, and no one wanted the pain. However, a journal couldn't fight back.

Sighing, Lucy surveyed her surroundings and then walked. At first, she wasn't exactly sure, taking the streets laid out in front of her, and then she moved more swiftly. The shift came when she caught the sound and sight of another reporter and the picture that followed of Lucy. Her makeup had dissipated, but she was younger, before the shooting. It was too young, she realized, when she didn't have the frown lines she had at eighteen or the dark rings under her eyes. There would be a desperate need for a new picture of her. The reporter spoke, finding a new story to tell about Lucy, a few more adjectives about her personality. The story was true enough, with a few far-fetched details, probably coming secondhand. She hoped it came secondhand or she was down a friend.

She quickened her pace more as a picture was finally taken, closer to the higher buildings. Perhaps it was by accident, but the person didn't try to hide his phone. This person was rather receptive, when most people didn't care or they didn't notice. It was hard to imagine someone as older, but perhaps this person was used to looking at dead bodies. She didn't try to hide herself, and he lowered his phone after taking it. He swallowed, and perhaps it was her eyes. She was well-aware of what her eyes were like when she was angry. He had his photo and he practically ran away.

Pausing, she took in her surroundings. She reached enough area where taxis passed her, and she could've easily gotten in one and gone back to her hostile. She could've escape, gone somewhere else, maybe to Scotland or to Ireland. She could've gotten out. She could've gone back to the U.S.

Lucy stopped herself, realizing she wouldn't be scared again. She flipped her hair back and put her chin a little higher in the air. She was close to the bookstore, and she wouldn't go back now. She continued to walk, and sometimes eyes found her. They didn't bother her, or that she wouldn't let others notice. There were apparently seven people who looked like you in the world, and they thought it was one of those girls.

It didn't truly matter, because then the first car of flashing lights showed up. Lucy was used to one form of flashing lights: emergency vehicles (police cars and such). This was different. The lights didn't come until she was ten feet out, in one massive car, where five men with cameras popped out. They didn't have their phones positioned at her but rather large cameras with lenses that hung off. The bright flashing started, and she walked forward. They fought her, walking in front of her, getting up in her face. Questions were thrown at her like stones, and she only smirked at them.

Managing to push herself through the crowd, she made it to the round door, colored in red paint and yellow print. She pushed inside, and the aroma of books take over her. The crowded windows of merchandise made Lucy very happy when the cameramen were having a hard time maneuvering around to get a good picture of her. The owner, an old and weathered man, looked at the cameramen and then Lucy.

"Did you do something bad?" he asked.

She glanced over. "No."

He shrugged. "Sleeping with someone famous?"

That wasn't why she was in this situation. "Not yet." She smirked.

He laughed. "Classics are in the front. Younger generation toward the back."

"Do you have any journals?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Something beautiful." Lucy sighed. "A way to tell a story."