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On the Raids

On the Raids

Once a week, Rebecca drinks a different type of alcohol and writes a rough draft. She edits sober. This week Rebecca said she would drink whiskey. What she really meant was she would drink whiskey unless she wanted a Margarita…


 A woman in a suicide vest detonated herself and part of her spine landed on top of a police car.

I wonder if she took showers or did she have time for baths.

I wonder what she thought about when she washed herself that day.

I wonder if she thought about not showing up, if she thought about getting lost in Paris.

I wonder if her mother ever picked her up early from school on her birthday. Maybe they went to the library.

I wonder what books she chose.

I wonder if she had a good sense of direction, or did she use the blue line on her phone.

I wonder if her favorite song made her sit in a car outside, just outside the house… she might have listened to it alone, again and again and again.

I wonder if she was a good speller.

I wonder if the word “moist” bothered her, or she’d ever heard that word at all.

I wonder if she knew she’d kill herself the day Sylvia Beach did last minute preparations for the Shakespeare & Co opening 96 years ago.

I wonder if she had heavy periods or light ones.

I wonder if she had a laugh so sweet every man tried to coax it out of her.

I wonder if she ever looked in the mirror naked, pinched her skin, if she whispered I’m so ugly to herself.

I wonder if she was the best at coloring inside the lines.

I wonder if she put face makeup on her chest, arms, legs, trying to make it all look smoother for no one in particular.

I wonder if wool bothered her skin.

I wonder if someone lit candles during her first power outage or did she just sit in the dark and wait?

I wonder if she crossed her legs or her ankles.

I wonder if she liked to drink straight liquor. If she liked red wine for the way it made her head bob in slow motion when she laughed.

I wonder if her father stood in a doorway and watched his child sleep, counting every rise and fall of her chest.

I wonder if she liked to run, to dance, to do cartwheels.

I wonder if she died hungry.

I wonder if she wondered about Musée du Louvre, Jim Morrison’s grave, Ernest Hemingway’s favorite café, but she never gave herself the chance to see stupid romantic things.

I wonder what she thought about the smell of chlorine.

I wonder how many people she did laundry for or did she always do a single load for herself.

I wonder if she was a very cold person, if she wore socks to bed every night.

I wonder, did she get cat called? Did she like it?

I wonder if her bathroom sink was spotless or caked in soap scum and dried toothpaste.

I wonder if she ever thought her last words would be “He’s not my boyfriend!”

I wonder if he was her boyfriend.

I wonder if I should be scared of her boyfriend, boyfriends, a Schweppes GOLD can bomb on my sidewalk, I wonder.

Need more?

Rebecca Arrowsmith
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About The Author

Rebecca Arrowsmith

Rebecca Arrowsmith is an artist and writer living in Atlanta.

Real Pants

Good hair, crooked gait

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