World 3-1: Depression

Mario felt the sting of the cold rain flooding his face, the backwash from an old storm drain waterboarding him in muck. He coughed, nearly inhaled a mouthful of water and just as he was reflecting how terrible a way to die this would be, he caught his breath and puked up the remaining contents of his stomach along with the foreign liquid.

His clothes were sticking to his skin, completely drenched. A nasty cold was basically a given at this point, but at the same time Mario could barely tell where he was. Wherever it was it was wet, dark and miserable.

His eyes began to adjust to the darkness, aided by the moonlight. No. It wasn't the moon. It was a massive white neon facsimile of the moon. Well, wherever he was, he was downtown. He looked around him for some clue of what had happened. On the ground, completely soaked but visible nonetheless, was a familiar little baggie. And as luck would have it there was one mushroom chunk left, albeit flooded. Mario dried out the baggie as best as he could and put it in his pocket. You never know.

The next thing he saw was the mallet. It was his mallet – a good rubber hunk at the end of a wooden handle, great for evenly distributing weight of a blow when, say, knocking a stubborn pipe into place. The dried blood, barely preserved for having been under an awning where it lay, indicated that its most recent use had been decidedly more nefarious.

He checked his pockets for his phone: Nothing. He checked for his wallet: Nothing.

He was empty-handed – save for what was at best a weapon used in a recent assault and illegal hallucinogens – in the bad part of a bad city, in the middle of rainy night, and with no recollection of the last twelve hours, at least. Mario's stomach churned and he felt about ready to vomit again. He had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

He'd gone to that place again, and every time he came back things kept getting worse. The green-clad monster. The bomb. The hammers. And he somehow had his baggie back. He had done something horrible to Luigi. Something absolutely horrible.

He laid back down in the wet streets and began to openly weep. He didn't know where he was. His brother might be dead. And even if by some miracle he wasn't, he had been attacked by Mario. He knew about Mario's problem. He'd waited to reveal that he knew because he wanted to... what? Rub Mario's nose in it? Why hold on to that? He didn't know what to do. He didn't know when he would lose his mind next and do something terrible to somebody who cared about him. It was a cycle. His whole life was one miserable cycle and things weren't getting any better.

He saw the fire escape. It was hopeful. He started to climb. His fingers barely worked from the cold, but he was able to somehow get up the first rusty ladder up to the base landing. From there it was just a sad walk up some stairs. The creaking and ruined stairwell that was ironically designed to save lives.

After what felt like an hour he'd reached to top of the five story building. Yeah... this was tall enough. Could be taller, but it would do in a pinch. He looked over the edge to the streets below. Not even a car driving by at this time of night. He considered his options while he reflect on how much he hated heights. The dizzying prospects of what he was considering was quite enough without actually wanting to dwell on the mechanics of it.

"What are you doing up here?" Came a familiar voice.

Mario looked over to the roof hatch. It was Toad. The old bartender looked quite different in jeans and a t-shirt, holding a cigar in one hand and the door handle in the other. The rotund man took a closer look and finally recognized his old friend.

"Mario? Jeez what the heck happened to you?" Toad asked, rushing over to him.

He bent down beside Mario and did his best to discern his state in the downpour. Mario wondered if pitching himself over the edge now would be too cruel, or a sort of kindness.

"I... I did something bad, Toad," Mario said.

"What are you talking about buddy? I'm sure it ain't so bad," Toad said reassuringly.

He chanced at reaching out to Mario and slowly lifted him to his feet. They were both drenched now. Mario felt Toad's warm hands, the first human contact he'd felt in almost a day. The first sign that somebody out there cared about him.

"I did something really, really bad," Mario repeated.

"Look, don't worry about it okay. Let's get you inside and dried off and then you can tell me all about it," Toad offered.

"I don't want to hurt anybody," Mario whimpered.

"I know, it's okay. It's okay," Toad said.

Toad slowly guided Mario to the door. Every step up to roof hatch Mario considered turning, but Toad's steady hands guided him safely away. When the roof hatch shut behind them, Mario's head began to clear a bit. That option was out of the way – for now.

"You saved my life," Mario blurted out.

"I'm sure I didn't," Toad said, ever humble. "Hell you saved a bit of mine. One of these things takes off like four hours or so, right?"

Mario let out a polite chuckle, although there wasn't a trace of humor in it. They walked down the hallway to Toad's apartment. It was a small place, but surprisingly neat, save a little bit of the "lived in" mess you would expect of a bachelor. There were some dishes in the sink, but the shelves were sparkling.

"You just chill right here on the doormat," Toad said. "I'll go grab you some towels and a pair of shorts to borrow. Don't worry I haven't worn them in like weeks."

Toad let out another laugh, but Mario didn't respond this time. He just graciously took the towels when offered and stripped off his wet clothes, tossing them into a plastic bag kindly offered by Toad. He sat on Toad's couch, wearing only a borrowed pair of shorts which kept sliding down and a towel around his shoulders.

"Now I'll put these clothes in the washer and make us some grub. You like grilled cheese?" He asked.

"I don't want to keep you up," Mario said politely.

"I'm taking the day off tomorrow anyways, don't worry about it. I know you'd do the same for me. Get some food in you, and let me get you a beer," Toad said.

"I don't think I should drink... anymore," Mario added this last word to try and offer his friend a reasonable, if untrue, explanation for his current state.

"Fair enough," Toad nodded. "Just the sandwich then."

"Hey Toad," Mario interjected, turning around in the couch to face his friend. "Could you... call Luigi for me?"

He had to know.

"It's a little late pal. Are you sure?" Toad asked.

"Just... we got into a fight and... I don't know what happened," Mario said.

Toad nodded solemnly. He grabbed the phone from off his kitchen counter and handed it to Mario after dialing the number for him. Mario listened in vain for a few minutes before getting the canned voicemail greeting. He dialed it a second time with no answer. And a third. Mario finally hung up, and the desire to leap off the edge returned to him in full force.

Toad took the phone back and set it where it belonged. "Hey now, relax Mario. Eat. Sleep. And in the morning we'll go find Luigi, okay?"

"Right. Sleep is a good idea," Mario said. And he secretly hoped he wouldn't wake up.