Woman Kidnapped, Raped By Her Neighbor

Early on the morning of September 16, 1995, a friend of my dad’s—a 38- year-old writing teacher named Steve Oliver—picked me up for a trip from Eau Claire to Madison, Wisconsin. We were going to oversee the layout of a book of my writings. Although I was only 13 years old and in the seventh grade, Oliver had told my dad that he’d submitted my work to Random House, and they actually wanted to publish it. I packed CDs, a tee shirt, a pair of pants, and a swimsuit. We left at 7 a.m., while my brothers, sisters, and stepmom were still sleeping. I dozed off during the drive, and when I awoke, I was tied up.

 “Here’s how it’s going to be,” Oliver said in a low, terrifying voice. “You are no longer Jessyca. Your name is Cindy Johnson. My name is David Johnson. I’m your father. If anyone asks why you look so sad, it’s because your mother and twin brother recently died in a car accident.”

That was the beginning of the most horrifying three months of my life. Oliver drove to the Kansas City airport, where he held a concealed knife to my back as we boarded a plane for Houston. There, we stayed in two different seedy hotels before settling into a Days Inn near the airport. That’s where I remained—most of the time locked inside a room— for the next 101 days. And almost every day, my captor forced me to have sex with him.

Credit: Cosmopolitan

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