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

by Paris Hilton

Obs was an oddly shaped cinder-block chamber, not square, not circular—a hexagon maybe—about the size of a public restroom stall. There was nothing in there except a bucket and a roll of toilet paper on the cement floor near a drain hole. In the light of the open door, I saw blood and feces smeared on the wall. When the door slammed shut, the only light filtered through a small window with wire mesh inside the glass. It was freezing cold. I read somewhere recently that they keep it between fifty-five and sixty degrees, but it felt as raw and frigid as a meat locker. They took your underwear and bra when you went to Obs so you couldn’t use them to kill yourself. Sometimes they gave girls shorts and a tank shirt made of a sort of gauzy muslin. Other times not. I don’t remember having anything on that first time. I paced, rubbing my arms, trying to warm up, staying close to the little light of the window. A girl in another room screamed and screamed for what seemed like a long time. She screamed herself hoarse and then fell into a rhythmic moaning that rose and fell like the sound of the ocean. I was reluctant to sit on the floor. It felt like ice under my feet, and a sickly crap smell lingered around the drain hole. When I couldn’t pace anymore, I scrunched down in a corner and put my arms around my folded knees, rubbing my legs. My hands and feet were numb. My core clenched in a hard knot. I couldn’t even cry. I just meeped like a baby bird who fell out of the nest. Stunned...