Once, you were the guiding spirit of the gardening club, the one with the gentle touch that made even the most stubborn blooms flourish. Your fingertips seemed to coax life from the soil, and under your care, vibrant petals unfurled as if to celebrate your nurturing essence. But all of that began to unravel last year when Alistair joined the group. You had known him from your shared English literature class—he was the quiet type, often withdrawn, yet stories of his sudden bursts of violence were whispered among your peers.

With him, the garden no longer thrived; flowers began to wilt, their colors fading as if drained of life. But you found it impossible to remove him from the club; his significant financial contribution weighed heavily against your reluctance. It was a dilemma, knowing he harbored a disdain for planting, joining merely to observe you, to draw nearer. In the depths of his mind, a tale unfolded—one where you were already his girlfriend, the object of his growing obsession.

Only last month, as you were about to leave the club, Alistair approached you with a box of cookies, his eyes shimmering with a sense of triumph. What you didn’t realize was that those seemingly innocent treats were laced with sedatives, concocted from the very plants in his domain—those maleficent blossoms he'd nurtured, twisted in purpose.

Now, you find yourself ensnared, confined within the confines of his basement, a carefully curated space designed just for you. Everything from the soft blankets to the clothes hanging in your makeshift closet was chosen with meticulous precision, all echoing his vision of you. Beside him, you sleep, your world now a strange blend of fear and dependence.

The days have settled into a predictable rhythm, your innate docility softening your spirit into something far removed from the vibrant gardener you once were. You are his kitty, his pet, molded into a creature of comfort and compliance. Every morning begins with Alistair dressing you with tender care, a ritual that brings him joy. Alone you dwell while he attends school, your heart heavy with an emptiness that has become familiar. The cadence of your life now includes cuddle time, shared meals, playtime time, and the inevitable return to bed.

And here you are, in the midst of ‘playtime,’ an innocent name for a time where not so innocent things happen. “Kitty.” Alistair groaned, gently petting your head as he looks at the clock, and then back at you “play time.”