Mia



  Mia

  By Scott Andrews

  Copyright 2014 Scott Andrews

 

  Also by Scott Andrews

  Novels

  Existence Is Futile

  Short Stories

  The Story of Albert Ross

  All Hallows’ Eve

  Praise for ‘Existence Is Futile’

  'Existence is Futile' is a brave, honest, sometimes confusing, but ultimately very satisfying novel for those who expect more from literature than just entertainment. It is demanding. It is critical. But, it has a big, pulsing heart. Wonderful.

  Thomas Rose-Masters, author of ‘Birdman Cycle’

  Andrews leaves the reader with an ending that was a surprise to me, but lovely. Excellent read!

  Jennifer Moorman, author of ‘The Baker’s Man’

  This is... a hard book to describe. I've read it, and I'm still not entirely sure what it is about. The process of loss? The questioning of sanity and reality? The futility of humans? Or about actual ninjas?

  All I know is it was fantastic. Although all the above sound quite intense, Andrews has given us a book that is full of warmth and humour; it is easy and a delight to read, without dumbing down on its topics.

  K.S. Marsden, author of ‘The Shadow Rises’

  Mia

  She opened her eyes. The result was soul-destroying; it was almost too much to bear. The crash wasn't a result of what she now saw, but rather what she felt. It was a throbbing which began at her temple and free fell all the way to the pit of her stomach. The nausea rose up like a tidal wave propelling bile upwards through her body. Mia covered her mouth with her hand in a nick of time. It was the taste which reminded her. She had failed once again.

  A great sage once said 'To err is human'. This only goes to show that herbs shouldn’t dabble in philosophy. It wasn't an error which had brought Mia to the brink of collapse. It was something crueller. It was sheer misfortune.

  Mia sat up in her bed and immediately regretted it. Her courage buckled as fast as he stomach and she lay backwards onto the sweat-drenched sheets. She felt sick to her very core. Her nakedness only served to increase her feeling of vulnerability. Mia closed her eyes and decided that if the world was fair, the moment she opened her eyes a glass of water would appear beside her bed. It didn't, proving that either thirst is merciless or that prayer is superfluous.

  It was the nature of existence that ate at Mia's soul. For her life was a bowl of spaghetti in a sauce of contradictions. As desperate as she was to find true meaning, she often found herself swept away by a wave of circumstance. It was for exactly that reason that Mia had tried to kill herself once again. The headache, the nausea, the pools of vomit and piss were a result of taking sixty-three painkillers and washing them down with a litre of Russian vodka. Mia's predicament was all of her own doing. In all honesty, for a human being she wasn't very good at being human.

  Mia opened her eyes again and blinked at the darkness. She heard the tell-tale sounds of a cat fight outside of her bedroom window. Mia stretched her ears as she tried to form the screeches of the cats into something recognizably human.

  "Mean cow"

  "Bitch"

  “Liar”

  “Whore”

  The fantasy which had seized Mia's mind was interrupted by something so indistinct that to hear it she must have also been able to hear a mouse fart whilst at a philharmonic concert. Mia propped herself up on her elbows and scanned the shadows in her bedroom. To her hazy brain nothing looked out of place. Her room was somewhat Spartan, just a decrepit old wardrobe, a bedside table and her dead Grandmother's old rocking chair provided all the evidence of her existence. Mia glanced at her digital alarm clock; her eyes couldn't focus on the display. As she reached for her glasses she heard a squeak and froze in terror.

  "Hello," she called into the darkness. "Is someone there?" Ever so faintly, the squeaking increased its rhythm.

  "Hello Mia." The voice sent ice coursing through her veins. It wasn't because it was a voice she knew either.

  "Who?" Mia's voice faltered as the rocking came to a halt.

  "Nobody." The figure in the rocking chair sat forward, the street light smashing over him casting his silhouette over the wall. Mia snatched up her glasses and sat up, pulling the duvet over her to mitigate her vulnerability.

  "What are you doing here?" Her voice was calm, artificial, but calm. As the adrenaline blasted through her body, her organs awoke and cranked back into life. Her eyes were drawn to Mister Nobody's silhouette. Mia blinked hard trying to clear her sight. It appeared that the apparition had horns.

  "Nothing. I am not here.” The voice carried an unspoken sinister message.

  "Of course you fucking are! You are sitting in my Nan's chair!" A v-shaped vein bulged in Mia's forehead.

  "Just because you say you can see me sitting here, doesn't mean that I am actually here." Nobody sat back in the rocking chair and yet his shadow didn't move, it remained fixed to the wall as if it were merely decorative. "And, Mia. This isn't even your rocking chair, it belongs to the dead. Which you aren't just yet."

  "Are you fucking mental?" Nobody let out a long laugh containing all the warmth of the long dead.

  "Me? Mental? How many times have you tried to kill yourself Mia? How many?" asked Nobody gruffly. Mia stared at the wall angrily, her fists tightly clenched squashing the duvet between her fingers. "You think you can die and be reborn?"

  "Who are you?" screamed Mia.

  "I am Nobody"

  "Who are you?"

  "I am Family"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm your Friend," said Nobody coldly. Mia let go of her duvet and screamed her lungs out. She pulled at her hair frantically and screamed once more. "Nobody is going to come and save you Mia. This is why I am here. To save you. From yourself," said Nobody brazenly.

  A banging on the front door interrupted the moment. Mia looked towards the rocking chair. It was empty and appeared to be rocking on its own. Frozen, she was unable to remove her gaze from the chair.

  "Mia... Mia..." her name echoed through her front door. Mia grabbed the duvet, pulled it over her shoulders and leapt off of her bed. Mia sprinted barefooted to her front door, pulled it open before the chain ran out of tether. Three male faces peer through the crack in her door.

  "Is everything okay, Mia?" asked the first man.

  "Yes, everything is fine,” said Nobody with a smirk. Mia feels Nobody’s breath on her neck and glances behind her . Nobody is standing behind her, pressing himself against her. He is shirtless and pale.

  "Who are you?" demands the man, pointing at Nobody. Mia waves frantically trying to get the men’s attention. She repeatedly mouths the word ‘Help’ to no avail.

  "I am Nobody," insists the apparition, "I am not even here."

  "Help me," screams Mia.

  "So as long as everything is okay, then erm, good" the man turns away from the door and tells the others "Don't worry, it's all sorted. Just a misunderstanding."

  Nobody slams the door shut and shakes his head. Mia panics and sprints to the toilet and locks herself in. She leans back against the door and closes her eyes.

  "Oh Mia," calls Nobody merrily, "we are destined to be together. There is no escaping fate." Mia opens her eyes and stifles a scream. In her panic Mia turns to unlock the door. She feels Nobody grab her wrist and pin her against the bathroom door. The duvet dropped to the floor.

  "Are you going to kill me?" Mia asks weakly. Nobody stands back and admires her.

  "First," says Nobody as he begins to kiss her neck. "I am going to come inside of you."

  "Then?" whispers Mia fearfully. She stands frozen in horror.

  "Then after our union you shall cease to exist," says Nobody as he yanks her hair and pulls
her face towards his. He notices Mia's lip quivering and touches it with his fingers. "Don't fret my sweet, you will live on through me."

  "I don't want to die," Mia whispers, terrified by the moment.

  "I am afraid you don't have a choice. You can't live and die my sweet. You can only do one or the other," Nobody smiles before he kisses her on the mouth. "So what are you going to do, cry Mia?"

  ###

  About the author

  Scott Andrews is getting older every day and doesn’t like it much. He is 33 years old and resides in Holland with his fiancée and his fearless Scottish Terrier. He has travelled far and wide, worked a variety of unimaginably dull jobs and partook in numerous mundane conversations in a fruitless attempt to figure out just exactly what life is all about. Over a year ago he discovered a method to expose himself on a regular basis without risk of getting arrested, by indulging in what is commonly known as a blog. He has turned to writing as he feels he no longer has any possibility of fulfilling his childhood dream of becoming a fire engine. His debut novel ‘Existence Is Futile’ was published by FeedaRead.com in July 2012 and was partly funded by the Arts Council of England.

  Connect with me online

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/Scottpoland

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/scottandrewsofficial

  My Blog: https://scottandrews.co.uk/blog/

  Existence Is Futile Sample

  Prologue from the final edition of ‘The Futility of Sheep’

  Sheep are needy. They require close attention. They like to be around others; however they do not like to lead. They appreciate company but prefer standing on the sidelines, whilst others try to rally and direct them.

  The question is not why do they not lead, but why do they follow? What is it about the sheep which makes it feel safest in a group? Is it the overt risk of leading and getting it wrong? Is it a mental disability which stops those afflicted from forming their own opinions? Or is it merely a question of nature?

  Religious believers are needy. They require guidance. They like to be around others; however they do not like to lead. They appreciate fellow believers but much prefer watching from afar, whilst others instruct them.

  The question is not why they follow? It’s what is it they follow? What is it about religious believers which makes them feel safest in a group? Are they afraid of thinking the wrong thought? Is it a physical disability which disallows them from feeling their own emotions? Is it natural?

  The key difference between God and nature is that there is actual evidence of nature everywhere we look. Whereas there is not a single shred of evidence which supports the existence of a supernatural omnipotent omnipresent being which created all. Despite the evidence which surrounds us we consistently underestimate the value of human nature.

  The foolish and the blinkered amongst you may ask if there is no God, what is the meaning of life? The very question is a result of pre-designed thoughts. It’s a question which arises from a programmed mind. It is not a thought which results from a human who is spiritually and morally free. The dung beetle, an insect a mere inch long has never recorded its thoughts on the afterlife. Nor should we.

  Life can mean whatever we choose. Our lives can be bittersweet, or merely just bitter. It is a choice, from beginning to end. The easy path is to let others choose. That is what religion offers us. The relinquishment of our own decisions. Peculiarly, we are the only species in existence which passively releases control of its life without putting up a fight.

  There is not a supreme creator hiding out in the clouds. In over five million years of human evolution not a single minute molecule of proof has been uncovered to support the idea. The very fact that a staggering number of humans devote their lives to celebrating such a myth is simply astonishing.

  We are the creators of all. The human race. We invented every religion. We invented every tree. We invented every star, every planet, every person, every idea, every object, every animal and every single particle and atom which drifts through our universe. The human race invented each of these things the moment we were awoken to their existence. Whether it be by thought or eye or name alone, it was us, the homo sapiens of this planet who brought these things into existence. I don’t imagine I shall convince you, my readers, so very easily, nor is that my intention. Contentment is what I seek, not infamy.

  Whilst following others blindly is valiant it is also a tremendous waste of life. It is a complete rejection of our very selves and the world we live in. The world by designation we shaped. To spend a lifetime as a sheep is choosing to live as a blind man. Whilst being even more foolish as you are choosing futility rather than ever even trying to reach your potential.

  1

  It wasn’t the television cameras which terrified Henry Tomlinson. Nor was it the fact that around two hundred and twenty strangers were sitting in what resembled a grimy, dilapidated, aging college auditorium, glancing at each other and him with an eager sense of anticipation in the air. It was the fact that Henry Tomlinson is massively conscious of how shiny his balding egg shaped palette becomes when he is nervous. The whole situation was further exasperated by the enormous lighting rigs which were attached to the ceiling. Henry wiped his head with his sleeve. The combination of bright lights, hushed voices and urgent skittish movement filled Henry with a sense of dread which he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  The truth of the matter was that Professor Henry Tomlinson had always hated public speaking. It wasn’t due to the fact that he was a hopeless orator. It wasn’t even the mental process which went into building and transferring sentences from brain to mouth. It was the eyes. If he could have given his lectures whilst wearing a paper bag on his head he would probably have jumped at the chance.

  “60 seconds.” announced a stumpy little man with far too much ginger hair hanging down his back and growing outwards from his face. Henry realised he was gripping the end of the table with such force that his fingertips were now rose red. He sat back and tried to find what he considered to be a relaxed nonchalant position. The only trouble was that Henry wasn’t really sure what relaxed people looked like. He doubted he had encountered one for at least thirty years. “5-4-3-2-1-action.”

  “Good evening and welcome to ‘The Great Debates’. Tonight we have a fantastic panel of clerics and scholars. Tonight the great shall debate the place of religion in the 21st century.” intoned Graham Oxley-Smythe, the well-dressed presenter of ‘The Great Debates’. A man who the word suave was quite probably invented for. On cue a fanfare livened up the studio and the lights rose to a level which some countries would consider a form of torture. Oxley-Smythe turned and smiled to his guests. It was the kind of smile insurance agents give to their clients before they push them off the top of skyscrapers. The theme tune ran quiet, the lights dimmed slightly and Oxley-Smythe began. “Tonight in the red corner we have Reverend James Walton.” A spotlight lit up a priest who for reasons known only to him waved to the camera. “Christian writer, Sunday newspaper columnist and mother of six, Susanne Bainbridge.” The spotlight flickered to an overweight cheerful woman who looked like she had visited an outdoor hairdresser for a perm when it was raining and then walked home backwards through a jungle canopy. “In the blue corner. Professor Henry Tomlinson, award winning microbiologist and author of the best seller ‘The Futility of Sheep’.” When the spotlight lit up Henry he was laughing. The instant it dawned on him that everybody in the room was looking at him his face became a mask of horror. He nodded to the camera, wide eyed and fearful “And last but not least, Jacob Goldstein, comedian and journalist.” The audience began to applaud. Not for anyone specifically, but because it was exactly what ‘The Great Debates’ audience did after all the guests were introduced. There wasn’t a person holding up an applause board, nor was it in anyway related to their collective opinions on the panel, it was simply because it was what happened. No one knew when it started, nor wh
y it started, the only thing they did know was that at some point it had started and that alone was reason enough for it to continue.

  The studio floor was a hive of activity. The camera was pushed closer to the long desk which housed the guests. Oxley-Smith sat in the middle behind the dark green logo, the rest of the desk was painted with the team colours. It wasn’t that ‘The Great Debates’ was some kind of quiz show, it was merely to make it easier for the viewers at home to be certain who they should boo and who they should applaud. The presenter had the air of an untrustworthy uncle. The most disconcerting thing about him was that despite the fact he looked about eighty years old his hair was dyed brown and kept in a side-parting which was quite probably popular when he was a teenager. It was as if his hair refused to be a slave of time or fashion.

  “The starting survey today was….” Oxley-Smith paused for what he believed was dramatic effect; instead it made him look like a wheezing asthmatic. “Did you go to church today?” The presenter’s eyes swept the auditorium. Henry Tomlinson found himself glancing down as if he was looking for a buzzer to answer the question. “Before I give the results, I would like to turn it to the panel. Reverend Walton. Did you go to church today?” Henry Tomlinson couldn’t help but shake his head in disbelief. The Reverend leant forward to speak into the microphone before remembering that he had a microphone clipped to his cassock.