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1Lyra
High Alone - Sevdaliza
There’s only one place I go when I’m trying to clear my head. It’s my favorite spot in the city. Maybe the quietest too.
It’s a hike up a grassy incline as good as any leg day in the gym. A huge elm tree greets you once you reach the top, from where you can look out and see thousands of people.
I plop down in the shade and unpack my things. I set up my laptop, peer out at the calming view, and then get to work.
Some find it depressing that Ichooseto spend time here. Some even call it morbid.
What they don’t realize is that they’re proving just why I like it here. Just why I don’t like it downthere.
In the city. With the rest of civilization.
Dead people don’t judge. Dead people don’t call you weird. Theydefinitelydon’t give a damn that I sit atop the hill at the cemetery and telework.
You’d think the living wouldn’t care either—it’s not like they sign my paychecks.
I cross my legs, my laptop perched on my thighs, and I peer out at my loyal audience.
Gravestones stretch on for miles. Thousands upon thousands of once-alive people, now six-feet-under.
And it’smyjob to write about them.
My loyal audience.
Without them, I’d be stuck writing classifieds, or worse, horoscopes. Nowthatwould be depressing.
As a warm, late-summer breeze feathers across my skin, I catch the eye of a mother at the bottom of the grassy knoll. She stands peering up at me, the hand of her small boy wrapped in hers.
If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the spot.
Yep, people definitely find it strange I hang out here. It’s a good thing I don’t give a fuck what they think.
I stopped caring what others thought a long time ago—includingmy family that barely remembers my name.
But it doesn’t matter what they think anymore. I’ve survived long enough on my own to stop wondering about what my family would think. Any jobs I take up have managed to get me by, from my gig teaching piano lessons to writing obituaries for the local newspaper. Even my other source of income, the one some might consider less than appropriate, helps me make ends meet.
I smile to myself and bring up my banking app on my phone when I realize it’s payday. Twelve-hundred bucks to spend as I please. Never mind that eighty percent of it’s already spent. Six for the rent, two for my meds, one for my weed guy, the rest split between frivolous bills and the hope I’ll one day build up the pennies that are my savings.
Except, I’m not happy as I open my banking app and see no deposit. Just the sad, pitiful double-digit numbers available in my checking account.
Where the fuck is my money, Winston?!
As if he’s magically attuned to my thoughts, my phone vibrates in my hand. An incoming call takes over my screen, his name popping up.
Naturally, since I want him to run me my money, I press accept.
“Lyra,” he says in greeting. He sounds breathless. “I’m glad I could get a hold of you.”
“Winston, I sent the latest obituaries through. I met my deadline.”
“I saw.”
Pause. Cue awkward silence.
He says nothing and I say nothing, and for a moment, we listen to each other breathe. Him, heavily. Me, seething and almost soundless.
