You have the power to punch a physical presence of depression that only you can see. You decide to purge the world of depression. Tell your story
After a decade of traveling the world, visiting places afar, and kicking the absolute shit out of the iridescent depression demons that only you can see, you decide to retire, a different person. You move to the countryside and, although your cottage has no mirror, you have every amenity you had before you began your quest.
One day, a young man with a power similar to yours knocks on your door.
“Why did you disappear?” he asks after you’ve let him in. “They called you a savior. A hero. They needed you and you abandoned them.”
“The world was…a different place back then.” Your mouth quirks. “Or so it seems to me.” You notice the young man has no demons on his back. You, yourself, have several. You stopped clearing them once you retired.
“It was a dark place,” the young man says. It occurs to you that this man is not so young. Maybe five years, at most, younger than you. His hand clenches into a fist. “It’s darker now. The world needs people like us to lift the darkness. I’m not fast enough. I need you to help me.”
You examine him. He looks, you think, like you. “Yes, yes I imagine you do need my help.” Though not in the way you mean it. You sit back in your chair, hands folded over your substantial belly. A positive in the country– you don’t have to skip any meals. “What do you think happens to them? After we’ve punched them or kicked them or set them ablaze. What happens to the demons?”
“They’re destroyed,” the man says. “The people are released from their burdens. Happy. Able to live their lives.”
“Good,” you say and lean forward, resting your forearms on the table. “Good, good– or it would be if it were true.”
The young man blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Polite,” you say, nodding approvingly. Maybe you are old or set in your ways or maybe you read too many Victorian novels. You prefer ‘excuse me’ to ‘what.’ “And I mean to say that destroying the demon does not destroy the depression–not at all.”
“I–” the man’s brow furrows. “But it does. I’ve seen it. The people are–happy. Happier. They thank us.”
You grunt because you know what he means. They adore you, not just thank you. “People want an easy fix. The worst time in their lives and a masked savior appears to just…take the bad feelings away? It’s a dream come true. It’s what they want. The effects can last for weeks. Months.” You sigh and touch your fingers to one of the beads around your wrist. A Rosary. You’ve found more than your appetite out here. “The happiness fades. It always does.”
“I don’t understand,” the man admits.
