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and it saved my life The movie "Captive," which opens Sept. 18, is based on the real life story of recovering drug addict Ashley Smith, who was taken hostage in her home in 2005. Shoving the gun into the side of my head as I stood on my doorstep, my assailant placed his hand over my mouth as I cried out in terror. Ten years since I was held captive for seven excruciating hours by the so called Atlanta courthouse killer, Brian Nichols, I still shudder at the memory. I never would have expected that the traumatic experience would force me to finally break my crystal meth habit and change my life forever. It was March 11, 2005, on a Friday at around noon, when my stepfather woke me with a concerned phone call. The city of Atlanta was on lockdown. Nichols, a 33 year old alleged rapist awaiting trial in court, had overpowered a guard and shot three people dead, including the judge. Armed and dangerous, he was on the loose. While I switched on the TV and saw the suspect's mug shot, I had other things on my mind. Not only was I battling addiction as a widowed single mom, but, just a day earlier, I'd moved into a smaller apartment in my residential complex in Duluth, Ga., 30 minutes from downtown Atlanta. I was busy getting the place in shape so my 5 year old daughter Paige could visit. She'd spent the last two years living with my aunt Kim after I reluctantly conceded that my domestic situation was unsafe for her. I'd been abusing every drug under the sun since high school and was now addicted to meth. New York Post coverage of the 2005 courthouse killing. "Have y'all caught that guy yet?" I nonchalantly asked. "We haven't caught him, but he's long gone by now," replied one officer. "We're sure he's in Alabama." After work, I went home to unpack. when I decided to drive to the store to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights, but as I was walking to my car, I saw that someone wearing a baseball cap was sitting in the driver's seat of a truck parked outside my house. I assumed it was a neighbor. But the guy was still in his truck when I returned. I thought, "That's a little weird." Less than a minute later, he was on me with a gun, threatening to kill me. Nichols pushed me into my apartment and closed the door. "Is there anybody else living here?" he demanded. "No, but I have a little girl," I said. "Please don't hurt me, because I'm trying to be her mom." I'd recently started going to church after a long absence I began to silently pray. "He can rape me and beat me, but please don't let him kill me," I told God. "Without me, Paige won't have a mom or a dad." Nichols, 6 foot 2, muscular and dressed in the suit his lawyer had lent him for his court appearance, frog marched me to my windowless bathroom. He ordered me to climb into the tub, still pointing his gun and menacingly showing me that he was also carrying a pistol, tucked into his sock, like a soldier. He asked if I'd been watching the news that day. "A little," I stammered. "The whole courthouse thing?" he said. "You know, Bri an Nichols?" He pronounced his name slowly, pulling off his hat and stepping into the light. "Ye yes," I said, recognizing him. My thoughts turned to the grim TV reports. This man had killed three people (I later discovered the death toll was actually four). And now he was standing in my apartment. He had me sit in the bathtub for several minutes, which felt like hours. I could hear him rummaging around, and he came back with masking tape and an extension cord. "This is it," I thought. "He's going to strangle me, beat me and leave me for dead." is it, I thought. "He's going to strangle me, beat me and leave me for dead." Ashley Smith After he tied me up, he moved me to a chair and placed a towel over my head. He said: "You don't want to see me undress and take a shower." He kept assuring me he was in charge of the situation. That if I did what he said, I'd be OK. I had no choice but to believe him. All the time, I was working on establishing a rapport asking him whether he had kids (he had a newborn son whom he'd never met) and telling him about Paige and our struggles after my husband's death four years earlier. I started calling him Brian. One moment I felt optimistic that I might get through this unscathed. The next, I was terrified because his mood would change, particularly once he switched on the TV. "They're saying all these things about me that I'm a rapist but I'm not," he yelled. Then Brian asked if I had any drugs in the house. I could have lied, but I knew he would easily find the meth stashed under my bedsheets. Better I told the truth. He untied me and asked me to prepare it for him, cutting the lines so he could snort it from a mirror. Three times, he asked if I would do it with him. It was as if God were talking to me, challenging me to either take the meth and give up on life forever or find the courage to resist. "No," I told Brian. "Drugs have screwed up my life. I'm not going to use them now with you, or ever again." I didn't care if I had five minutes or 50 years to live. I decided, in that moment, that I wasn't going to touch them anymore. Because of my recently renewed connection to God, I felt the need to read a religious book I kept in my bedroom: "The Purpose Driven Life" by pastor Rick Warren. It's a day by day guide to leading a Christian life, and I read aloud the beginning of Chapter 33, about using the gifts that God gave you. Before long, Brian and I got into a deep discussion about our purpose on Earth. Like me, he had a church upbringing but had lapsed. I gently suggested that it was time for him to take responsibility for what he did killing those innocent people. And that maybe God had a plan for him to spread the gospel to the other men in jail. All I wanted was God right now. I wanted to make God smile, like it said in my Purpose Driven Life book. That what I wanted. Ashley Smith It just me and this guy and you God. We in here. And I done with those drugs. All of that is over. I living for you. Ashely Smith