I was 19 and attending a Spanish study abroad program in Madrid through the University of Houston, when a stranger approached. I’d been at a restaurant with a large group of friends and acquaintances whining about not being able to call my boyfriend back in Texas, when this young man I hadn’t noticed before leaned toward me.
“I know where you can make a phone call,” he said in Spanish-accented English. His voice was smooth and warm. I didn’t hesitate before gratefully accepting his offer and following him outside. Moments later, as he was driving us too fast and too far out of the city, I knew I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.
When he finally stopped the car, he put a knife to my throat. He spat hideous words in my ear, detailing how he planned to kill and rape me—in that order. What happened next was a blur fueled by my determination not to die. I kicked, slapped, hit, screamed.
