
I take no credit for the above image. It is titled "Posthuman WIP 3" and is the work of Balance-Sheet. Follow the link provided to view the artist's DeviantArt site.
Cardboard.
Seventeen-hundred assorted hats.
As a baby he crash landed in a small town on Earth inside a space pod that appeared to be a meteorite. When he was older, his wealthy parents were shot by a gunman right in front of him when the attempted robbery went wrong. He fled in panic and ended up in a cave full of bats, imagery which forever marked him. When he was older he came to live with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben, who loved and sheltered him to the best of their ability. The emptiness of all the previous years was replaced with the overflowing tenderness of a happy, well-adjusted family that never argued despite constant severe financial difficulties. It was unfortunate that his Uncle Ben was shot in an act that he unknowingly facilitated due to a a short-lived streak of vindictiveness. But out of all of the hundreds of thousands of people moving about the city, all the cars, the taxis, the motorcycles, the wash of pedestrians in the streets, it was his poor Uncle Ben who became the target of this gunman's ire. The same one whose progress he had failed to hamper when the gunman had fled the scene of his successful robbery. Oh, it was a cruel joke to be played on him by fate. Doubly-so, since this is unnervingly similar to the circumstances in which his parents had died. And maybe it was just the trauma at the time but pretty sure they shared a familiar likeness, especially the set of the eyes and that little bump on the bridge of their nose? Different hair, come to think of it. Hm.
So now he does the only thing he feels he can do, the only thing that allows him to rise from bed every morning. That prevents the nightmares from overtaking him when he tries to sleep. That gives him purpose.
He draws unemployment and smokes copious amounts of grass.