The Sword (Prince Harry fanfic #3)

Chapter Eleven

As the memorial had earlier been described, it still stood. A hope had been from Lucy that it would've been washed away by a flood as she waited inside. Her fear took a hold of her, like dread. Feelings had been brought back today, ever since she showed up back in her old city, and there wasn't a way for her to escape them. The memorial was the next stop.

It was true that Lucy hadn't a problem with people watching her. She welcomed it. Watching Harry deal with the media helped Lucy. She knew how to act and what to say; you said nothing. At least today, she wasn't expected to say anything. Lucy didn't know if she had anything nice to say.

The cameras turned to her and she knew everyone watched. The twenty-four/seven news networks watched her and it would be repeated on the national news. Lucy managed to notice BBC and other international networks; their reporting would've been different than U.S.'s. Harry probably would see her, and what would he say? Suddenly, she just wanted to speak to him. However, she still stood and she walked.

Lucy flipped her hair back, showing off her face. She put her nose higher in the air and walked. The only concern of hers was falling on the slick ground. She didn't let her eyes wander over to the media. Her eyes stayed focused on the memorial that seemed to get taller as she walked over. Like it grew in the air, the names of her family members grew, larger as she got closer. It was no wonder how she could read the names from far away.

Sydney had left Lucy back at the school and she waited in the wings in cause her friend needed her. Sydney knew better, though, because she knew Lucy would be fine. Lucy was always fine, strong and tall, dignified and proud. She wouldn't fail. With the cameras on Lucy, there was no doubt in Sydney's mind that she would succeed. Lucy would make them listen, if she said anything at all. If Lucy didn't say anything, perhaps silence would mean power.

Stepping forward, Lucy's bare fingers reached toward the indented lettering on the black stone of the tall memorial. In front of her landed her older brother's name, Andrew, carved into the stone. It was his full name, spelt out beautifully and harshly, as if it was meant to be seared into a mind. Her fingers ran over the top of the name; her fingernails went into the dark curves were dirt started to built up. Though cleaned, it was hard to clean into the cracks of the white lined names.

Underneath was her father's, his full name, first-middle-last, and it rested there. His name was shorter and quick, cut off the tongue. Then it went to her mother's, first-middle-maiden name-last. Lucy's fingers ran over the name.

Lucy pulled out three white roses and laid them softly on the ground. The three names of her family hovered above and other flowers laid around. Some people had left notes and other little things. Everything was drenched. The black stone was sleek when wet, and heavy droplets of supposed-to-be snow rolled down. The water collected underneath the stone and flowed to the street and drains.

Her eyes stayed on the stone, carefully, watching as her fingers move. Lucy desperately wanted to do this alone, when she could feel something. Everything was down inside of her as the cameras stayed on her back. Her mourning echoed inside of her, along with the holes in her soul. Her scars tingled, almost a burning feeling. She couldn't get enough air.

Five, Lucy commanded to herself, four... three... two... one.

Everything dropped down in her again, and none of it existed. Lucy had one job today, and it wasn't to mourn. The cameras watched her, and today she was to stand and show people what humanity looked like. Sydney was right: this was a just a story to people. This was a just a tragedy to people. This was Lucy's life; she was a human being but no one cared. She was a story; this was a story.

Her hand dropped from the memorial, but she continued to watch the stone as if it might disappear. Starting at the beginning, Lucy read the names. First, she came to her best friend, dead in the shooting. Lucy couldn't remember how she died, but she knew. It had been told to her. Lucy couldn't even recall seeing her best friend's parents here today. She knew some people hadn't come.

Second, she came to Jake's name, her old boyfriend. Lucy had already seen his parents and his sister, but she couldn't say anything to them. There hadn't been a falling out or anything bad, but rather  what were they supposed to say to each other. Lucy couldn't remember much about Jake nowadays. There was pain for him but his features slowly disappeared and she couldn't remember how he talked.

Humans did a lovely job to forget.

Between Lucy's best friend's name and then her boyfriend's name, there were many names, and Lucy had known at least half of them. One more a quarter of them and she could have picked them out of a lineup. The last quarter, she didn't know them, yet her heart ached for them. There were even more names by the time she reaches her family's again, and then there were more names after that.

Fifty-six in total names were on the black stone in white lettering, but it could've been a million names and nothing would've changed, like it hadn't changed in the past. Lucy was tired and sad, and she had fought but nothing changed.

Lucy turned to the media, who had grown close enough, as if her privacy lasted no longer. They waited for Lucy, to say something or maybe act out. They wanted a story. Camera lights flashed on her, bright and sickening; she didn't blink. Microphones were stuck in her face, not the first and not the last time. Journalists were ready. The cameras were rolling.

"Why haven't you fixed this?" she asked.

Pausing for a second and then walking away, Lucy left the media to make it whatever they wanted. An argument would've ensued, some rude things would've been said. She could argue all she wanted, but with honesty, she couldn't anymore. She lived in London, and she chose to get out; she didn't want this life. She was going to let them figure this shit out.