ANOTHER LITTLE SCRIBBLE

When they told me Mir was a genius, it was quite hard to believe. Extremely hard actually. Someone as silly and random as Mir couldn’t possibly be anything to the likes of a genius. His existence was as unneeded as a giant fly on a hot summer’s day. Nevertheless, I was around Mir a lot. What the actual ery.

Mir scribbled a lot. He wrote random words everywhere – on my expensive table, my newly painted walls and on the side of my 10 000 word essay. I told him to stop a lot of times. I really did. It got annoying, having to explain to my teacher why the margins of my work had so much liquid paper, or why my suit was always filled with glitter. Mir would laugh when I told him how annoying he was. Or he’d scribble some more.

There was never an absence of scribbles.

How I found Mir was actually a pretty funny story. Not funny as in hilarious, but funny as in peculiar – funny as in weird. Mir was like that – whimsical and weird. I actually found him, contrast to popular belief, at my favourite coffee shop. I never did like the coffee, though they made excellent egg tarts which Hyuna really liked.

I caught him scribbling on the counter when Hyuna asked me to buy her some tarts. She really liked those things, I never did understand how she managed to eat so little of everything yet eat so many egg tarts. I was considering getting a berry shake when I caught sight of him.

“What are you doing?” I had asked. Pretty stupid question, I know, but back then I had found it illogical for such a person to draw so spontaneously on the counter.

“Waiting,” He responded, still writing. His fingers never stopped. His right hand was clicking while his left hand wrote. Mir was left-handed – that was the first thing I learned about him.

“Uh-huh,” I had replied, “So you feel the need to draw on such a lovely counter?”

“You can’t describe the non-living as lovely,” Mir had told me. He went back to writing as he continued. “In fact, you can barely call the living lovely.”

Scribble, scribble, scribble.

I can’t really explain much about how we became closer, but I guess I kept seeing him there when Hyuna requested tarts. Always waiting, he told me half-heartedly when I asked. I started to regret it, but Mir had food for thought. I needed something like that. Eventually, one year later, I invited him over to my apartment.

“Why?” He had asked.

“Why not?” I responded, and we went in.

I guess I regret inviting him in. All he really did was scribble on all my expensive furniture and some of Hyuna’s possessions. He took my mind off her and her addicting scent though. Hyuna had gone off with another guy – we weren’t meant to be according to her. I was so distant and smart, she had told me. I doubt myself, according to her. She believed what she said, but really, the only thing she had gotten right was that we weren’t meant to be.

I didn’t doubt myself; I just knew my limitations more than she did. I wasn’t smart; I was good at memorising the correct information.  I don’t think someone like Hyuna had time to ponder over questions like that, because she was gone as soon as she came. She needed someone who wouldn’t leave her with half-assed responses and pondering questions. I guess I was never cut out for this romance business.

Mir was okay though. He ruined all my furniture, but he was a good kid.

“Joon,” He said one day. He spent a lot of time in my house – him and his variety of pens. “Joon, what do you think of this?”

I looked over. Funny enough, a string of beautiful poetry was staining my perfectly white wall. Mir stared at it, frowning intently. “Sounds good, but looks horrible on my wall.”

“I don’t know,” Mir said, “It doesn’t sound right.”

“Show it to them and get some money to get your work off my wall,” I replied simply. We had gone past the point of caring what my wall looked like. Publishing his work however, was a different quirk I could never understand. The kid did not publish anything he wasn’t completely satisfied with, however, when he needed to pay rent, Mir would grudgingly write a 2 page poem in five minutes and make the money roll in.

I guess I shouldn’t have had a problem with Mir’s perfectionism – except the fact that the kid wasn’t satisfied with anything.

Yes, that’s when you say what the actual ery.

Mir thought I was shallow, wanting him to publish his work for such a lowly thing as money, but I’d like to think quite the opposite. I was out of university by then – I had enough money to keep us both off the streets and living the high life. If we had enough money, we would have more time to search for the happiness Mir wanted so bad. A high-paying job meant there were times to fill my shelves with philosophy, a subject I enjoyed too much for my own good.

They were strictly off limits for Mir’s writing, but that had never stopped him before.

“The thirst for happiness,” Mir said once, “will never stop.”

The people who I passed on a daily routine to work often talked about Mir. He was in newspapers and magazines all the time – as were my spray-painted walls. They called him a genius – a prodigy of writing. He expressed the desires deep in everyone’s hearts; he could show worlds no one had ever seen. There was no human like Mir, they had said. He was simple phenomenon.

His writing was among many, his voice speaking out where they had failed. Even I, one who was among such a lost child for so long, could not help but be amazed by his work. His slowly captivating stories which touched and evoked many failed to do that of me, probably because of our friendship, but he was indeed a good writer. He was confusing and ultimately wrote without endings, yet the unsatisfying feeling made readers and myself hungry for more of his work. His stories merged into one addiction of a puzzle.

One day, he was stuck on the seven-hundred and sixty-eighth piece of his puzzle.

“Karaoke,” Mir announced, “We need to go to a Karaoke place.”

Mir didn’t go out much, so I agreed. I didn’t exactly want him writing all over my leather seats and shiny car exterior, but he wouldn’t listen. The scribbles I squinted at both then and now still don’t make sense, but Mir had said they did. I took him there in my car, trying not to get too angry at the state he was leaving my car in. It was then when I realised I would never have kids.

We got out at that point, his hands clutching the silver pen like no tomorrow. He went in and I followed, watching the way he so nonchalantly organised for us to play. We had a fun game – or at least, I did. Mir stood half-heartedly, his eyes darting at each group and his fingers hastily scribbling on every part of his body and clothes. It was an interesting encounter with Mir, and probably the only one I have in my memory. I think it’s notable to say his eyes widened in awe as he watched the happy faces sing in terribly off-tune voices. He almost screamed when they hit those high notes so terribly with cheerful faces.

“Happiness,” Mir had said slowly, “Is this what it is?”

I remember the pitiful laugh which had escaped from my lips. “Something of it.”

He nodded thoughtfully, writing it down. The next story he published, he said, was based on the experience. It wouldn’t be a business trip if it wasn’t, Mir had said. The marks of his silver pen stick stained his skin, no matter how hard he tried to wash it off. He slaughtered off to the balcony after that, deciding to get started on something new.

Funny enough, his next story was about bananas.

One day I bought him a chalkboard and a few sticks of chalk. He looked at me in confusion. “What’s this for?”

“Your birthday,” I responded, “And to get rid of that habit of writing on my mattress.”

Mir laughed. He didn’t laugh like we did – for feeling and happiness. His laugh was kind of a scoff – something in the middle of disbelief and confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“True, but I’ll never know the real day, will I?” I told him, shoving the gifts into his hands. “Now man up and accept the gift.”

“Thank you,” He said slowly. It was insincere, but we had gone past the point of caring. Mir wasn’t capable of being thankful, something he regretted greatly. His next story involved a girl who ate a bear and thought she was inhumane.

Contrary to popular belief, Mir was actually a big meat eater. He ate most of the chicken and steak we ordered and cooked, rarely touching the vegetables I presented to him. I asked him about this once, but he said meat gave him more happiness. The same with chocolate – Mir was the reason I lost a lot of my money to those sweetly sickening cocoa based foods. He ate a lot of chocolate and left the wrappers around on the floor. There was a point when there were billions of cockroaches invading my house.

“ing brats,” I had cursed. I swung a large broom at the several who was gathering on a melted caramel lolly.

Mir looked up, “Are they any better than humans?” He was in the middle of writing on my brand new leather sofa, “Do we all not snack on the limited grasps of power we can hold?”

“Just stop leaving your rubbish everywhere,” I said. He gave me a listless laugh.

“Okay.” He said. It didn’t stop him though. We kept at this for about three years – a horrible writing environment, but Mir’s work was supposedly the best at said time.

There was one point when Mir disappeared completely.

I can’t really explain what happened, but I recall the rustling of paper and the shrieks which pierced my ears. The apartment was empty, for once. All the paper and pens were gone; the wrappers of chocolates kept neatly in the bin. It was silent – something I hadn’t felt for five years. The only clue I had of Mir’s location were the red letters printed across my newly painted wall.

Gone for a bit. Not coming back.

It was then when I realised the cockroaches would gather in my bin, and that I should take out the rubbish as collection was coming soon.

The next month was pretty mundane. I went to work, went home and caught up on the reading I’d neglected for the span Mir was present. Occasionally I felt the need to visit the café where I’d first met Mir, just because I missed the scent of the egg tarts Hyuna and Mir both loved. I brought some home for myself and kept them under a glass lid for decoration, and slowly I began to sort through furniture magazines and painters. I was ordering a new coffee table when Mir came back.

He looked at me.

“You’re back,” I said.

He nodded.

I closed the magazine, “No point getting a new table then.”

He dropped the pieces of papers in his hands, along with the box of markers. Papers full of scribbles few around the room as he continued to stare at me.

“Didn’t you miss me?” He asked.

“It was quieter.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I watched him closely.

“Did anyone miss me?”

I pondered over that question. There had been talk on the first day of Mir’s absence in the papers, but it went away as soon as it had come. Gossip over Mir didn’t last very long. People grew tired of the same old facts, and eventually, Mir had died out – just like the scribbles he wrote on the page.

I pursed my lips. “I guess not.”

Mir looked back at me. The ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. “I should go then.”

“Are you coming back?”

“No.”

I felt a pause. “Goodbye then.”

True to my thoughts, Mir really was just another scribble. He was left to be forgotten, and so he was. I didn’t hear anything from Mir as he left, and slowly all the furniture he had stained with his words was gone too. My walls were looking whiter and brighter than ever, and while no one really did ever become my roommate, I found the silence of my apartment quite comforting.

Sometimes talk of Mir was brought up, but it died down just as fast. No one really had much to say. Mir was a genius – that was the only statement they could muster. He was something different, something unique. I guess, now that I look back on him, Mir was someone who was waiting patiently for someone to care. Mir was on a quest for happiness, as he had said so many times before, but happiness could never reach him. Mir was looking for someone to care, someone who cared.

Hyuna was right when she talked about how we weren’t meant to be. But she didn’t understand how broad she should’ve been. I was never meant for anyone. I was still happy before Mir came, when he was here and after he left.

Mir didn’t get very far. I know because Mir wouldn’t go very far. Mir was raised and he’ll stay in Seoul. Though I find it funny – not funny-hilarious but funny-fascinating, because one time Mir told me his mother wanted a girl, and when she got him, she said, “The actual ery.”

When Mir left my apartment, my neighbour was having a fight with his girlfriend. Mir was walking, and the last thing I heard and he did was the girl scream, “The actual ery!”

Why I know this was the last thing he heard was the fact that the next newspaper headline was ‘Prodigy Mir Commits Suicide from 5^th Floor.’ I think it’s fascinating because one year after this incident, on the day I gave him the chalkboard; I went to his grave and gave him the pens he felt at my house. To continue the tradition, I stood there, watching the imprinted face of Mir as I said;

“The actual ery.”

(A/N: LOL WHAT DID I JUST DO. I can't really explain what to gain out of this, but IDK Joon's a pretty unique guy in this story so is Mir and practically every character I potray. If this makes sense, Mir was looking for some love, and he thought Joon was the one who would give it to him. But Joon would function perfectly fine by himself, and rather than have Mir's presence haunt him, Joon got over Mir pretty quickly. Mir wanted to prove he wasn't another one of society's scribbles, but it turned against him. LOLIDK all my characters are so screwed.)