A bad fit.

If you peel back his skin, you will see that his veins are threadbare and fraying. Worn has become worn out, and used is overused and used up. He has no more originality in him. The grey trousers and beige shirts have taken that from him. Bled it from him.

One sweet girl, wearing a floral reef braided into her hair, tried to offer her light, to reignite what was once his soul. She saw love in his eyes, oblivious to the fact that he merely mirrored her own. He burned through her; consuming her light until she reached up with blackened fingers and flinched as her flowers withered away. She tore them from her crown, finally seeing the grotesque mimicry of her reflection in his empty void.

When she leaves, the demons and dark things move in, as if pulled into a vacuum. The little pink pills don’t save him, nor do the thick white ones or white/blue capsules. Time fails to heal his wounds, and his veins continue to fray. He becomes nothing, except a shambling man, trying to hold himself together by a thread.