Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

A thick hand grabbed my ankle and dragged me off the mattress. I was instantly awake—hyperawake—in a state of panic, shrieking, struggling. My mind instantly went to the obvious. I’m about to be raped. I’m about to be murdered. Here the memory shatters—a broken mirror in my mind. Two men. Hands on me. Coffee breath. Body odor. One of them clamped a sweaty palm over my mouth, wrenching my head back, shutting off the air I needed to scream. The other held up a pair of handcuffs that reflected the light from the hallway. The way he dangled them in his stained fingers—he seemed to be enjoying it. He said, “Do you want to go the easy way or the hard way?” I chose the hard way. Clawing, kicking, screaming, I tried to break free. One man had my upper body, the other had my legs. My thrashing only made them grip harder as they carried me out into the hallway. This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare. I kept trying to wake myself up, the way I do now. The way I did for decades when the scene replayed in my head night after night. I see this girl in a flimsy Hello Kitty nightshirt. She twists in writhing terror, screaming, “Mom! Dad! Help me!” And then I see my mom and dad. Their bedroom door is cracked open just enough for them to peek around the edge, faces streaked with tears. They press against each other and watch as two strangers drag me out the door into the darkness.