When I was Most Alive
content warning for violence against women
When I was most alive and enjoying a day of nothingness, a young woman my age was murdered. “Oh, thank god, you’re alive,” someone would say when I’d answer the phone. “Didn’t you hear about that girl they found murdered along the road? I was so sure it was you. Stop hitchhiking.”
When I was most alive, and miles away from being dead, pedaling my bike here and there, I’d return home and answer the phone: “Didn’t you hear about that girl who got killed riding her bike? I wish you’d get a car. Get a job that pays.”
When I was most alive, I’d be spending the week with the men at the Nut House, our name for the home where the men were sent to live once they were released from the institution. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week,” someone would say when I’d answer the phone. “Didn’t you hear about that schizophrenic who just killed his mother? I wish you’d find a better job.”
When I most alive, I was sleeping in my tent atop a mountain, thunder shaking me awake, lightning setting a tree on fire, and not once would I question my fate, my existence.
Diane Payne’s most recent publications and forthcoming include: Best of Microfiction2022, Quarterly West, Invisible City, Miramachi Flash, Microlit Almanac, Cutleaf, Another Chicago Magazine, Whale Road Review, Fourth River, Tiny Spoon, Bending Genres, Superstition Review, Lunch Ticket, Split Lip Review, and The Offing.
