Mario's sad

The Showgrounds was uncharacteristically quiet. Inside SMG4’s castle, the usual chaos had been replaced by a heavy, stagnant boredom. SMG4 was slumped in his swivel chair, staring blankly at a dead monitor. Bob and Boopkins were sitting on the floor, lazily tossing a rock back and forth. Tari was leaning against the wall, her eyes glazed over as she idly fiddled with her robotic arm, while Saiko sat on the edge of a table, sharpening her hammer with a look of pure apathy.

"Is it just me, or is it actually... nice without Mario around today?" SMG4 finally muttered, breaking the silence. "No spaghetti explosions, no screaming, no getting hit with a stray pingas. It’s peaceful."

"It’s weirdly boring," Bob grumbled, his voice echoing through his hood. "I have nobody to scam or use as a human shield. My life has no purpose today."

Luigi, sitting on a small stool in the corner, didn't join in. He was staring at his feet, his hands wringing together nervously. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that room.

Suddenly, the large television in the center of the main hall flickered to life. It didn't show the usual static or a meme-filled YouTube video. Instead, the screen glowed with a soft, grainy light, reminiscent of an old home movie.

"Oh great, did Mario leave a recording of his latest poop session?" Saiko groaned, rolling her eyes. "Turn it off."

"I’m trying, but the remote isn't working!" SMG4 shouted, frantically clicking the buttons.

The screen stabilized. It showed a small, cramped apartment. A toddler-aged Mario, wearing an oversized red shirt, was sitting on the floor playing with a small wooden block. He looked innocent, his eyes wide and full of a light that the gang hadn't seen in him for years.

Then, a door slammed open. The sound was so loud it made Tari jump. Two figures stepped into the frame—Mario’s parents. Their faces were blurred by a dark, oily shadow, but their voices were crystal clear, dripping with a venom that made the air in the castle turn cold.

"You useless little brat!" the father roared. "I told you to stay in the corner! Why are you touching things?"

"I... I was just playing, Papa," the young Mario whimpered, his voice trembling.

What followed silenced the room instantly. The gang watched in paralyzed horror as the man lunged forward. It wasn't a comedic slap or a cartoonish bonk. It was a brutal, visceral beating. The mother didn't stop him; she stood by, shouting insults, her voice a shrill cacophony of hatred.

The screen didn't cut away. It showed the bruises forming on the toddler’s skin. It showed the way he curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible, sobbing for a mercy that never came.

"Stop it," Melony whispered, her eyes wide. Her usual sleepiness was gone, replaced by a raw, mounting terror. "Make it stop."

SMG4 was frozen. He had spent years making fun of Mario’s stupidity, calling him an idiot, and treating him like a nuisance. Seeing this—the foundational trauma of the man he called his best friend—felt like a physical blow to his stomach.

Luigi turned his head away, burying his face in his hands. He began to sob quietly. He knew. He had lived through the echoes of it, though he had always been the 'favorite' who was ignored while Mario took the brunt of the rage.

The video didn't end. It began to fast-forward through the years. It was a montage of misery. They saw Mario as a young boy, coming home with a drawing he was proud of, only for his father to rip it up and shove him into a dark closet for "being a waste of space." They saw him as a teenager, sitting alone on a curb with a black eye, staring at a plate of stolen spaghetti because it was the only thing that made him feel a spark of joy in a world that hated him.

As the years progressed, they saw Mario’s eyes change. The light faded. The intelligence seemed to retreat, replaced by a frantic, desperate need for attention—any attention, even if it was negative. They saw him start to act "stupid" because when he was the "funny idiot," people laughed instead of hitting him.

"He... he’s not just a moron," Bob said, his voice unusually quiet and devoid of its usual bravado. "He was... he was broken. Long before he met us."

Tari was crying openly now, her metallic hand clenching her chest. "We call him names every day. We hit him. We tell him we wish he wasn't there."

The screen shifted again. It showed the day SMG4’s guardian pod crashed into the Mushroom Kingdom. They saw Mario, looking lonely and lost, wandering near the castle. When the energy from the pod hit him, it "stupified" him further, but the screen showed something deeper. It showed Mario’s internal monologue for a split second: *If I’m the funny one, maybe they’ll stay. Maybe they won't hurt me.*

The montage continued, showing Mario meeting each of them. When he met Meggy, his heart glowed with a faint light. When he met Tari, the light grew. But then, the screen showed the "funny" moments from their perspective—the times they had beaten him up for a joke, the times they had left him behind, the times they had screamed at him to go away.

From Mario’s perspective, those moments weren't funny. They were triggers. Each insult from SMG4 felt like his father’s voice. Each hit from Saiko felt like the old apartment.

Melony let out a choked sob as the screen showed a moment she hadn't known about. It was a night years ago, before she was human. Mario was sitting alone in a field, clutching a regular, inanimate melon. He was crying, his face buried in his hat.

"I’m so lonely," the Mario on screen whispered to the fruit. "Everyone’s mad at me again. I didn't mean to break the machine. I just wanted to help. Please don't be mad at me, little melon. You’re my only friend who doesn't yell."

He had drawn a face on her with a marker, his hands shaking. He had created her because he was so starved for a connection that didn't come with a price tag of pain.

"He made me because he was alone," Melony wailed, her deity powers flickering weakly around her as her heart broke. "And I... I slept through so much of it. I wasn't there for him."

The video slowed down to a crawl. The background faded into a dark, nebulous void. In the center of the screen stood Mario as he was today—overweight, wearing his red hat, looking like the "stupid" avatar they all knew.

But then, the perspective shifted. The "camera" zoomed into his chest, passing through the skin and bone until it reached his soul.

It wasn't a bright, shining star like most. Mario’s soul was a flickering ember, and it was covered in deep, jagged cracks. With every memory of a harsh word from SMG4, a new fissure appeared. With every time he was excluded from a group outing, a piece of the soul crumbled into dust.

The soul was held together by thin, fraying threads of hope, but the cracks were winning. It looked like a glass vase that had been dropped a thousand times and glued back together by a child who didn't know how to fix it.

"He’s dying," Boopkins sobbed, hugging his knees. "Not his body, but... he’s breaking apart inside."

"We did that," Saiko said, her voice trembling with a rare, terrifying guilt. She looked at her hammer, the weapon she had used on Mario more times than she could count. "We’re the ones who kept hitting those cracks."

The screen showed one final image: Mario sitting alone in his room today, the reason he wasn't at the castle. He wasn't eating spaghetti. He was just sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a photo of the whole gang. He was touching the glass over their faces, his expression one of profound, silent longing.

"I hope they’re having a good day," the Mario on screen whispered to the empty room. "It’s better when I’m not there to ruin it."

The TV flickered and died, leaving the room in a suffocating darkness.

For a long time, nobody moved. The only sound was the collective, ragged breathing of a group of friends who had just realized they were the villains in someone else’s tragedy.

SMG4 stood up, his legs shaking. He looked at his hands, the hands that had typed out scripts mocking Mario, the hands that had pushed him away. "I... I called him a 'disgusting fatass' yesterday because he ate my lunch. I told him I wished I’d never met him."

"I hit him through a wall because he touched my guitar," Saiko whispered, her eyes red-rimmed.

Tari couldn't even speak; she was curled into a ball on the floor, her soul aching for the man who had always tried to make her laugh, even when he was hurting.

Melony was the first to move toward the door. She didn't use her powers to fly; she stumbled, her vision blurred by tears.

"Where are you going?" Boopkins asked through a hiccup.

"To find him," Melony said, her voice cracking. "I need to... I need to hold him. I need to tell him he’s not a mistake."

"We all do," Luigi said, standing up and wiping his eyes. He looked at the group with a sudden, uncharacteristic sharpness. "We’ve all been terrible. We took his resilience for granted. We thought because he bounced back, it didn't hurt. But he wasn't bouncing back. He was just hiding the pieces."

The gang moved as one, rushing out of the castle. The sunny day outside felt like an insult to the darkness they had just witnessed. They ran toward Mario’s house, their hearts heavy with a guilt that no apology could easily wash away.

As they reached the door, SMG4 hesitated. His hand hovered over the knob. What do you say to someone after you’ve seen the map of their scars? How do you apologize for being part of the reason they think they’re worthless?

He pushed the door open quietly.

The house was silent. They walked toward the bedroom and stopped at the doorway.

Mario was there, just as the screen had shown. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to them. He didn't hear them enter. He was holding a small, tattered plushie of a mushroom, something he’d had since he was a child—one of the few things his parents hadn't destroyed.

"Mario?" SMG4 whispered.

Mario flinched. It wasn't a small movement; he lunged away, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears as if expecting a blow. He turned around, his eyes wide with fear, before he realized who it was.

"Oh... hey guys," Mario said, his voice instantly shifting into that forced, high-pitched cheerfulness that they now recognized as a defense mechanism. "Is it time for a video? Sorry, I was just... I was being lazy. Don't be mad! I’ll go get the spaghetti, I’ll be the bait, I’ll—"

He stopped when he saw their faces. He saw the tears. He saw the way Melony was looking at him with such intense, painful love.

"Why are you guys crying?" Mario asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming real and vulnerable. "Is... is something wrong? Did I do something?"

Melony didn't answer with words. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his red shirt. She sobbed into his chest, her small frame shaking with the force of her grief.

"I’m sorry," she wailed. "I’m so, so sorry, Mario."

Mario sat there, frozen. His arms stayed awkwardly at his sides, hovering as if he didn't know if he was allowed to touch her back. "Melony? What’s wrong? Why are you sorry?"

One by one, the others stepped into the room. Tari joined the hug, clutching Mario’s arm. Boopkins and Bob grabbed his legs. Even Saiko stepped forward, placing a gentle, trembling hand on his shoulder.

SMG4 stood in front of him, tears streaming down his face. He took off his blue hat and held it against his chest.

"We saw, Mario," SMG4 said, his voice breaking. "The TV... it showed us. Everything. Your parents... the closet... the way we’ve treated you."

Mario’s entire body went rigid. The mask he had worn for decades didn't just slip; it shattered. The "stupid" look in his eyes vanished, replaced by a haunting, ancient sorrow. He looked down at the floor, his lip trembling.

"You weren't supposed to see that," Mario whispered. "That’s... that’s the bad stuff. I keep the bad stuff away so you guys can have fun."

"Mario, you shouldn't have to carry that alone," Luigi said, reaching out to take his brother’s hand. "I should have been better. I should have stood up for you more."

"But I’m the stupid one," Mario said, a single tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek. "If I’m not the stupid one that everyone gets to hit, then... then why would you guys want me around? I’m just a mess. I’m broken."

"You are not a mess," Saiko said firmly, though her voice was thick with emotion. "You are the strongest person I know. You took all that hate and you still tried to give us love. We’re the ones who are broken, Mario. We’re the ones who couldn't see what was right in front of us."

Mario looked around at his friends. For the first time in his life, he didn't see annoyance or mockery in their eyes. He saw genuine, unconditional care.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, and the tension finally left his body. He leaned into Melony’s embrace, his head dropping onto her shoulder. He began to cry—not the loud, comedic "WAHH" he used for jokes, but a quiet, deep sobbing that had been bottled up for thirty years.

"It hurts," he choked out. "It always hurts so much."

"I know," SMG4 whispered, sitting on the bed next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. "I know it does. But you don't have to hide it anymore. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere, and we’re never going to treat you like that again."

They sat there for a long time in the small, quiet room. Outside, the world of the Mushroom Kingdom continued its chaotic existence, but inside, a healing process had begun. The cracks in Mario’s soul weren't gone—they might never fully disappear—but for the first time, someone else was helping him hold the pieces together.

Mario squeezed Melony’s hand, feeling the warmth of the friend he had created out of loneliness. He wasn't alone anymore. He didn't have to be the punchline to be loved. And as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the group, the red-hatted hero finally felt like he could breathe.