Missing by Mark Hayton - Short Story

Missing
MARK HAYTON
Missing
“...days later my family and friends will post a rough description and
some old pictures of me on the missing boards at King’s Cross, on the
internet and in local hospitals asking “have you seen this man?”

Mark Hayton
An Ovi Magazine Books Publication
C 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer
Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free.
If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately.
For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com
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in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book.

Missing
a war cry, quickly followed by the
thump of hand on plastic. The alarm clock silences.
“Aaaaarrggghhh!!”
This is the Dawn of Man. I lift up my head open my
bleary eyes and cough deeply. My ears stop ringing and I’m left
with a feeling of my brain collapsing in on itself … another hangover,
I presume.
I grimace and my head returns to the pillow. I close my eyes and
my body fills with relief. I breathe easy.
<> <> <> <> <> <> <> <>
“Aaaaaa – aaaaa – aaaaa – aaaaa – aaarghh!” the neo- and monolithic
man used this energy to spear fish or club cattle in order to
eat heartily. My vengeance is saved for a plastic demon. ‘Snooze’
thou art a false idol.

Mark Hayton
The room spins and the clock, the plastic idolater, lands on the
floor with a crash. Man is now standing upright. Homo-erectus.
I wander to the curtains and draw them open. Light does not
break through. “Sodding July” I grunt to myself. Until my morning
grimace is replaced sneakily by a wry smile. Why should I
bare a wry smile? Because it is summer everywhere but under the
dirty halogen light which, sets my routine for 41.6% of my day,
for 71.4% of the rest of my life. But today, at least today, as I miss
yet another summers’ day so does the rest of this darkened and
drizzly city. There is my wry smile.
The rage which encompassed me as I woke has dissipated. As
I shovel cornflakes and gulp tea I am no longer pleased I am no
longer sad, now I am on my way to work. It is an emotion free
journey as is the rest of my cynical day, the rest of my cynical life.
I was not always this way. I’m punch-drunk from booze, caffeine,
computer games, TV, popular music, a dull job, disposable
relationships and a diet of fast and microwaveable food.
I take my tea with two sugars and I take my coffee black … Do I
need to be more alert for a fast paced and hectic lifestyle? No.
Do I need help in staying awake because of an over active physical
lifestyle? No.
Do I even need to be awake for the job that I do? Honestly, No.
A monkey could do my job, not even a particularly bright monkey
at that. In fact in all probability a high-school drop-out monkey
could probably do my job … bastard.
Styling my hair in the mirror I see a fresh bruise on the side of

Missing
my face. As it throbs, reminding me of its existence, my memory
returns to my like some sort of biological snooze.
“FIX YOUR GOD DAMNED LIFE!” the words echo in my ear
as a vision of me returns, staggering, swaying, mumbling to myself,
on my knees in the street literally throwing my brains all over
the pavement. I fail to remember who was dispensing such tender
advice last night, girlfriend, best friend, family member, bartender,
it scarcely matters. They express concern because it is difficult
to watch, but I fear that any true empathy they possessed has worn
away, I have worn away.
So I’m living in a hangover. I’m hung-over, punch-drunk, tired,
exhausted, sedated … sedated, that’s how I feel. I’m in the prime
of life and I feel tired.
As I walk out of the three bedroom terraced house that I share
with a co-worker and a lodger I neither like nor trust, I am confronted
with a big wide world, and essentially I don’t like it.
The world is a magical place, full of movie stars, singers, rocks
stars, footballers, comedians, famous people, intelligent people,
athletic people, aesthetic people, people who can change the
world.
The thing is I became an adult and quickly realised I wasn’t one
of them.
Let me tell you, after a childhood of being raised by TV and movies
this was a big, big surprise. Am I not intelligent, not aesthetic
enough? Maybe. I’m not unfit, I play football, I’m about average
height medium build, I’ve got a degree and I’m smart enough to

Mark Hayton
read the newspaper from cover to cover and know what’s going
on. I’m not Brad Pitt but I’m not ugly.
The question is though, am I ambitious enough to actually have
a dream? Am I passionate enough to follow it through? Am I determined
enough to never give up, no matter how tough it becomes?
I don’t even have a dream … I’m ambivalent unimpressed,
unimpressive … I’m tired, no, I’m not tired, I’m asleep.
I am actually still asleep when I get to the newsagents. I pick up
two cans of coke, to help recuperate from last night. I hand over
the change, stare down at the headline on the newspaper on the
counter, then I go. I say nothing.
I walk down the street, and finish the first coke within thirty seconds.
I pass the Goths sitting on the wall swinging their legs outside
of McDonalds, endorsing or glorifying a race of people they
couldn’t possibly understand. Rapists and murderers, the Goths
pillaged and burned all they saw and yet these ‘sprogs’ ignorantly
affiliate themselves with the identity willingly, zealously, disturbingly.
I am disturbed, then the sugar finally reaches my brain and fools
it into thinking everything is ok, that my body isn’t in fact the
train wreck I have driven it to be. I smile with relief as I pass a
congregation of teens in baggy pants and baseball caps importing
guns, gangs and gaudy violence through their headphones.
I pass the queue for the bus, elderly women, a pregnant woman,
a number of young twenty-somethings wearing shirts and ties,
and tired eyes. Finally I see an American woman and her son, lost
in the middle of the city centre, talking loudly, about the fact that

Missing
they are lost, either too scared or proud to just ask. I could help,
but it’s not my problem, I walk by.
Finally, I go into the station past a beggar in a thick coat, an old
woollen jumper and a pair of jeans that look more, green than their
intended denim blue. He smells like special brew and urine and
asks for change. I ignore him and head inside the station. Before I
reach the escalators I pass a man selling magazines for the homeless.
Like the beggar his hair is dirty and his stubble unkempt. He
wears Nike trainers, a parker, and stonewash, boot cut, wranglers.
He smells of cigarette smoke and last nights’ aftershave. In a different
way he asks for money, I apologise and he seems offended.
I walk by and head underground.
On the platform I blend in, you could loose me in the crowd.
Tired eyes, hangovers, a weary caution, a quiet hardness, phones
beep, and there are slight mutterings between groups of friends
but predominantly there is only silence, a strange nine a.m. silence.
We wait, side by side.
I stand next to a man in a suit, he’s black. I smile nervously and
nod my head, as if to prove I’m not a racist and that I have rhythm.
I don’t.
To my right there is a girl in a wheelchair, I smile nervously, and
try to maintain eye contact, just long enough to acknowledge her,
but not too long to suggest pity.
Seated to the right of the girl in the wheelchair is an elderly
woman. I smile nervously, avoid eye contact and try not to appear
threatening or overly young. I am.

Mark Hayton
I slowly turn my gaze across the tracks and stare at an advertisement
of a car that can “change the way we think”. Honestly, it
doesn’t.
I try to fool myself that I am no different than any of them, they
are no different from me. It’s as if my mind has to convince my
body that issues such aging and mortality, disabilities, genetic or
accidental and race don’t affect the world we share.
For a moment, I am unintentionally disturbed by a thousand
different meaningless politically incorrect words. My body temperature
rises slightly, my throat dries, tongue swells and my brow
furrows. I am an unwitting bigot, I worry about being seen to be a
bigot, and that deadens my mind and encircles my thoughts.
A phone rings.
Simultaneously, the four of us reach into our respective bags,
and I smile to myself with relief. Behind the four of us is a man in
a tracksuit with a skinhead and a tattoo on the back of his neck.
We all turn as he answers and the same apprehension appears on
all our faces.
“We can’t judge this man on the basis of a haircut and tattoos,
he’s probably just a normal bloke … oh god what if he’s a Nazi …
don’t be so judgemental, oh god, what would these people think
if they thought that you thought that this guy was a Nazi just because
of his tattoo and haircut, what would they think of you?
Would the Nazi be so quick to judge?”
Almost in unison, we frown and then calm ourselves. We resume
reading about the car that will change the way we think.

Missing
I crumple the second coke can to the bin as the tunnelling scent
of urine arrives. As the carriages pull to a slow stop, the four of
us are reflected in the same pane of glass, we exchange nervous
reflected eye contact.
The doors hiss open and we walk in. The four of us trip over each
other to let someone else go first until we all just charge for the
door, and then sit, one seat apart from each other.
The four of us add ourselves to the already dazzling array of public
diversity. It would be silent in the carriage, if it weren’t for two
young children, slapping each other, around the head and running
off. A desperate nicotine deprived mother, curses and howls in an
attempt to stop them. She fails, and sighs. She was embarrassed
the first couple of times, but you can see it in her eyes this isn’t the
first time, and that these ‘little shits’ as she colourfully describes
her over zealous offspring, will continue to cause disturbances until
some form of incarceration.
The train stops and the brats and their cursing mother depart,
leaving the carriage peaceful. A couple of passengers swap relieved
looks, and then go back to their thoughts. Thank god for
small miracles.
Kids, children, offspring. My thoughts betray me and I think of
the beautiful blonde I won’t move in with. I call her blonde, but
in honesty I don’t know. Her hair is actually a light brown confluence
of highlights, lowlights and tinting. Giving her the exact
same haircut as every other woman who reads ‘Cosmopolitan
Magazine’ in the entire world.
I know she wants kids, and I do too, in time. But I’m asleep. I’m

Mark Hayton
subdued. I have been eaten alive by advertising. Now my body
craves saturated fats, alcohol, flashing lights and realistic gameplay,
caffeine, gossip, far-fetched storylines and unbelievable characters,
the same old chord progressions with throw away lyrics …
or worse, the image of handguns, beatings, prostitution, graffiti,
theft and drug abuse, glorified and then attributed to religion or
circumstance. “Thank god for the bee-atches” or “kill people because
you’re poor.”
I sit in the carriage staring out the window, looking outside at
my reflection as it flashes by and I think about … well, me. If I’m
asleep, if I’m subdued, the beautiful blonde who I won’t move in
with, she … well she, she may even be the reason I’m asleep … but
she is wide awake. She’s smart and funny and sexy and I found out
a long time ago, that out of all the other shit that I had to put up
with she was the one most capable of hurting me.
I hated that. I still hate that. I love her. She loves me. It’s a no win
situation.
I spend my entire adult life searching for meaning, and when I
find it I’m too scared to try to keep it. Therein lies the most dangerous
problem of all. I’m scared … of being hurt … I am, in fact
so scared of being hurt, that I am willing to throw it all away, to
avoid the pain, I am willing to hurt her, the one thing that gives
life, my life, meaning, to protect myself.
I am the seething child, the spoilt brat, the leg-swinging Goth,
or the baggy pants gangsta. Assuming a meaningless identity and
pushing away everything else until eventually it is all I have left.
Until it is all we have left, we run, in my case to the pub, in theirs
to a two-for-one CD sale or internet café. We are a generation sac-

Missing
rificing meaning for definition and hiding in the shadows.
Born of work-weary wage-slaves, raised by television, fed on
frozen or re-hydrated chemicals. Given free-will, and awarded a
wealth of security, against famine, disease and persecution, religious
or otherwise. Embracing our access to limitless information,
and shunning a spiritual culture our parents have grown weary of,
we are ungoverned and misguided. Afforded to us by parents of
worth, this wealth, with a confidence born from the absence of
consequence, we are immune, immoral and immature. We have
no right, nor wrong, nor saviour song, and so we are devoid of
conscience.
“FIX YOUR GOD DAMNED LIFE!” The carriage shakes from
side to side and the memory resonates in my head again. A sedated
lifestyle is leading me towards more and more extreme stimulus,
so that I can feel something, anything.
I am damned by God … I wish. There isn’t a faith left that
wouldn’t bend the rules to get me to pray once a week. I mean
look at us, increasingly a world of obese people, watching eight
hours of TV per day. Extending overdrafts and visa bills to buy
crap we don’t need. Investing millions in the cosmetic, fashion
and self help industries. Exposing ourselves to millions of images
of beauty and sexuality, in every paper magazine, movie, radio /
TV show, or even billboards on the streets. Always wishing for
the greener grass that everyone else has, whether it be celebrity or
neighbourly, or a world where hooliganism, street violence and
gun-crime are so common they no longer make the headlines.
Seven deadly sins, shared by the entirety of Christianity and accepted
as part of a ‘modern world’ absolving millions, we are irresponsible
chickens born from unaccountable eggs.

Mark Hayton
We don’t necessarily even have to believe anymore all I have to
do is live this ‘good life’. I mean I’m not going to kill anyone … and
then even if I did, I could still achieve Nirvana if I attributed it to
God. If I said that it was in the name of Allah. It’s strange that we
would find meaning in something so distant and intangible, God
or Nirvana or Karma.
Then I see into my eyes in my reflection and remember how
entirely petrified I am of the tangible meaning I continually push
away.
We argue. Well, to be accurate I argue. She listens, understands
and defends herself. I say awful, derogatory sexist things, I try
to undermine her, dismiss her and convince myself she’s nothing
special. I try to distance myself, but she’s been under my skin for
years and when she’s close I get scared. Then when she’s really
close and I look in her eyes and see that she’s just as scared as I am,
I panic … and that’s when I argue. It was like that for a long time.
Then it got to this point, where there couldn’t be anymore arguments,
so we had to quit or move in together … I bought a
‘Play-Station Two’ and never looked back. Nothing changed, and
if nothing continues to change she’ll leave, and I know it, and it’ll
hurt, and the reason for all of this shit in the first place was to
protect myself so I wouldn’t get hurt. Sometimes, when we sleep
together I lie wide awake, while she sleeps and think about that for
hours. It’s absurd.
I guess she is my big tragedy. You see, everybody in the world,
has a personal tragedy. After which they, start going to church,
or go to the gym every day, or hit the bottle, or start abusing sub-

Missing
stances, or start smoking or indulging in something repetitively
until it becomes an addiction … these are hiding places.
All of those things that send me to sleep and sedate me, all of
those things that I’m addicted to, are just things that take my mind
off the actual problems.
I sigh to myself, and look around the carriage. There are about
twenty people or so.
- The tired looking grandmother who clutches to her rosary
beads.
- The black guy in a suit who got on with me and nods religiously
to the headphones he worships.
- The girl in the wheelchair who buries her head in a book, and
has to watch varying reactions of shock or pity as people board
the tube.
- The 5”6 guy with muscles who used to weigh two hundred kilos,
before joining the gym and swapping fast food for free weights.
- The man with dark eyes and a deep stare, reciting passages
from the Koran, and fuming under his Turban.
- The nerdy looking student cowering beside him, clutching a
haversack of heavy books, probably bullied at school, just trying
to be invisible.
- The forty something lady in a leather jacket scowling at couples
and clutching at a half empty bottle of cheap vodka, at nine thirty

Mark Hayton
in the morning.
- The young girl whose insecurity beams through her overly welcoming
smile
Then I wonder to myself, how are we any different, young, old,
professional, unemployed, Turban, baseball cap, stoner, judge,
black, white, oriental, we’re all the same, really. We’re all subject
to our vices - booze, drugs, women, men, gambling, smoking,
church, gym, video games, daytime TV … whatever …
Really, we’re all looking for something; someplace to hide, someone
to love or something that defines ‘you’ as a person. Searching
for something that gives life meaning but none of them work, not
really. I mean God … look at organised religion. Justifying your
existence by doing somebody else’s bidding it’s the end of free will.
As if enforced donations or celibacy are synonymous with divinity,
personally I couldn’t think of anything further from. Perhaps
requiring a donation when lighting a candle of prayer, pay-topray
or killing people maybe, look at the crusades, slavery, fire
and brimstone and all the rest, divinity?
We need to believe in something, we look for answers anywhere
we can but seldom find them. Then when we don’t we feel
wronged. Everyone’s a Victim. I’m sedated, I’m tired, I’m stuck in
a shit job.
So, I sit and I stare, but now, I’m not looking at my reflection or
maybe I am, in the faces of everyone around me. And they’ll go
on to the gym or the church, or the office, or to Burger King. They
take their vices with them wherever they go.
A young couple board the train. I think of my blonde. The ner-

Missing
vous student looks up shocked by the station we arrived at. In
haste he bolts for the door only just making it, but leaving his bag
on the floor where before he had clutched it so tightly. There is a
gap of about ten seconds from when I see him let go of the bag,
until he vanishes out the door, out of earshot that I have to tell him
he forgot his bag. I sit and stare at the bag I feel slightly guilty but,
again, it’s not my problem.
The doors close and I tell myself ten seconds is too short a timeframe
to catch his attention grab the bag and return it to him,
but I’m lying to myself. I just didn’t want to say anything to him.
I begin counting backward from ten silently and my mind clears.
I stare at the bag. I think about the other passengers, so wrapped
up in themselves they can’t see the world around them … six, five
… I stare at the bag. I am almost filled with a sense of pride at my
first essences of individual thought … three, two … I stare at the
bag. This moment feels like an eternity but only takes a moment.
I stare at the bag.
As the bag bursts, and the flames tear through my skin and seer
my flesh I think about my job and my house and my blonde. I
think about the beggars and the homeless magazines and the bus
stop and the Goths, and the gangsta’s and the black guy, the grandmother,
the girl in the wheelchair and the profound parity we now
find ourselves in.
And yes, as I look across from me I see my dark-eyed Turban
sporting passenger. My head fills with words like Taliban, Jihad,
Bin Laden, Terror, Terror, Terror. Now, I am a small petty man,
and I would turn racist and belittle his kind, attack ‘them’ because
of what he’d done to me. I would burn and beat and defile, because
I am a victim and I have been wronged, and I am angry. I would

Mark Hayton
lash out, I would become wrath and take my vengeance, my divine
Christian vengeance … I would, if I hadn’t see him, scream,
like me, and bleed, like me, and burn, and choke, and die like me.
Then I stop thinking about him.
I think about ‘if I had have bought the newspaper, or something
more or less than I did’, or ‘if I’d have stopped and given directions
to the American woman and her kid’, or ‘if I’d given the beggar a
pound, or something’, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up here.
The truth is there were a million billion different things I could
have done to not be here. And there were a million different ways
I could have ended up in this same ‘God Damned’ seat.
In a split second, I feel a hard flat surface on my forehead, I realise
quickly that it’s the floor. I force my eyelids open, but I see
nothing now and I realise exactly how meaningless it all is my
hangover and my job and my flat and the beggar, beggars … and
my blonde … well, maybe not my blonde.
As my lungs fill there’s a strange black taste. And blood. I wheeze.
I think about my blonde. I think about every little chance that I
missed … Then I think about every little chance that I took. Every
single little moment I spent with her and I weigh up my own little
existence. I close my eyes.
Hours and then days later my family and friends will post a
rough description and some old pictures of me on the missing
boards at King’s Cross, on the internet and in local hospitals asking
“have you seen this man?”

Missing
Missing
1st Edition: April 2008
2nd Edition: June 2021
Mark Hayton
Ovi magazine
Design: Thanos
An Ovi Magazine Books Publication
C 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer
Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free.
If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately.
For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book.

Mark Hayton
MARK HAYTON
Missing
“...days later my family and friends will post a rough description and
some old pictures of me on the missing boards at King’s Cross, on the
internet and in local hospitals asking “have you seen this man?”