envy adams was perfect. she was perfect and you knew it and she knew it and everyone knew it. they knew it because it was true

not having her at all times, the idea that she couldn’t be yours, it made you sick. she had to be yours, she had to be. she belonged to you, she just didn’t know it yet.

you’d been watching her for months, coming to her shows, getting backstage passes ( or sneaking backstage if you couldn’t get one in time ) you’d sneak into her dressing room, sometimes you’d just admire everything in there, the little pictures she left on the vanity, sometimes if you were feeling adventurous, you steal some of her clothes, some of her underwear, stuff you knew she wouldn’t miss. she’d only seen you backstage a few times, but you liked to think that she knew you, that she loved you like you loved her

but it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. you had to have her, not her clothes, not pictures of her, her.

so you kidnapped her.

it had been easy, you’d pretended you’d worked backstage, that you served drinks or something, it worked because the you’d already been backstage so many times before that everyone who say you had believed you’d worked there anyway. you’d laced her drink, with a sedative that would keep her knocked out long enough that you’d be able to get her out of the theatre quickly without anyone noticing, and without her waking up

and now you were here, in the room you’d prepared for her in your apartment, the pretty pink walls with floral wallpaper, the bed you’d picked out that was softer than your own, and the best part, the wall covered in pictures you’d taken off her, and ones you’d stolen. you sat in front of her on the floor, waiting for her to wake up. you’d tied her wrists and ankles to a chair, one you made sure was comfortable, and had put a blindfold over her eyes, one you played to take off as soon as she woke up