Human [Harry Styles]

Chapter Eight.

Massive apologies for the late update guys! It's because I've finally started Visionary and added yet another story so... yeah. I'm really sorry, but it's here now! 

There's not much to say beyond that, so I hope that you enjoy! Please don't forget to vote and/or drop a comment! I love to hear what you guys think! :) 

Marley

            I groan and roll over as something fuzzy and rough comes in contact with my face repeatedly, small whimpers sounding every so often. 

            Trying to ignore it, knowing it’s probably Travis up to his usual morning antics, I stick out an arm and try to shove my furry friend away. 

            “Leave me alone,” I grumble, only to be answered with more whimpers, getting higher and more distressed by the second. 

            Something is definitely wrong. Travis doesn’t usually get this upset and needy with me, especially this early, and not even when he’s hungry. This seems different somehow, like there’s just something that he’s trying to tell me that I can’t place. 

            He suddenly barks once, and the harsh sound makes my head throb. “Okay, hell, I’m getting up, what do you want?” I snap, forcing myself to sit up and shove off the covers, as well as my dog. 

            Travis only continues to grow and whine, recovering from the harmless fall and trotting off to the rest of the house.

            I rub my eyes before sighing and setting my feet down on the cool floor, trying not to shiver at the icy temperature. Knowing I’m going to go mad before Travis actually shuts up, I shrug on an oversized sweatshirt and follow along. 

            I stop on my way to the kitchen as Travis trots to the door and begins scratching, still whining and growling anxiously. 

            Now that I stop and listen, I think I can hear something like quiet chatter underneath all the quiet and the city sounds of the morning. 

            “What is this?” I murmur, feeling the sudden need to tiptoe to the front door, so as to not alert anyone outside that I’m here. Something just gives me the feeling that there are people watching, waiting. 

            Peering through the peephole, I find myself suddenly overcome with the strong urge to scream and rip my hair out. 

            For outside, the exact same nightmare I’ve endured for almost a month now is back. Reporters are lined up across the edge of my property with heavy microphones, along with photographers with heavy cameras strapped around their necks. They lounge against new cars, chattering to each other, keeping an eye on my house, on my door. 

            Only after I really take a closer look do I realize that these aren’t just any reporters or photographers. Before, since the incident, that’s all there were. Trying to get interviews and photographs for later news stories. 

            No, this is different. 

            The vans that I thought were new vans don’t have clear logos or labels painted on the sides. The reporters don’t have that same professional air about them, but more anxious, jittery almost. The photographers are the same, and just by their plain clothing I can tell that they’re not just news reporters.

            They’re paparazzi.

            My heart pounds in my chest as I leap back from the door, as if shocked by an electric field around it.