The Roman Swing (Introduction of CH.1)

He sat and awaited in a place of life and death, but his mind had been concerned with neither subject nor matter. The man could only gaze, unenthusiastically, at the mourning paper that clutched in his shaky hands, while he made nervous beats with his boots, and longed for the time to simply pass by. Then, in the peripheral of his callous eyes, a nurse had approached him with a long, green gown, and a white, doctor's mask. He exhaled with almost a years worth of resent, and quickly croaked, with invisible grieve, "It's that time, already, isn't it?" She handed him the gown and mask, turned around, and let out with a pitied sigh, "Yes, yes it is, Mr. Port. As sorry as I am to say... yes, it is." The nurse then hunched her shoulders up and proceeded to strut away. Beautiful, intelligent, Nurse Rebbecca, strutted away, with an air of promiscuous grace.
The seemingly ship-wrecked man got up and walked towards the bathroom at the corner of the hall, so he could change for the beginning of what he never thought would come to him. Inside the room, the light flickered like a broken strobe and there was that faint smell of loss, which hospitals so often had. Once he had changed into the dull, green gown, he took a long, deep look, into the clean mirror, searching for some sort of epiphany that didn't occur. So, instead, he let out this malice laugh of confusion and self neglect, and took a few, little swigs, of dry whiskey, that he had had in his left pocket. But before he had left, he took one last look into the reflection that laid upon the fine glass, piercing back at him with restless eyes, and he struck the gloomy figure with all of his might, watching himself shatter, and fall to the ground in millions of pieces, smeared with blood and all that was left of him.
On that day that he had felt such misery, his beautiful son, Jason Port, was born at 7:25 P.M., in the Albany, Georgia hospital. Little Jason had entered the startling world without a whimper to be heard, from his small, tender lips. Nor was there a detection of water formed or to be, in his bright, green eyes. Everybody in the room seemed to think that, in secret, the boy's not crying was a bad sign, all except for one soul, who had strutted, shoulders hunched, through the door. It was the infamous Nurse Rebbecca, who had been un-willingly forced to bring in the bed for our newly born, Jason Port. when she strutted in, she had immediately caught a glimpse of something magical in the boys eyes, and it made her faintly whisper to herself, "My god, he's a born romantic." She would have said it out loud, but she felt breathless in the empowering contact. Her eyes began to water and she thought, with despair, that it couldn't be possible, such a tragedy of such utter irony, like this, just couldn't be. So, she pinched herself, hoping to awake on the feathery texture of her blanket. But, it was real.
Years had went by, as Jason was brought up in poverty and the perplexed struggle of drunken parents, who could only see him as a pestilent burden. Jason however, endured and endeavored through the self-controlled anguish, and he had developed himself into a strong, vigorous, and bright young boy. He would often in secret, visit the library, which he was so passionately relaxed by. There his imagination could soar through the endless words of great adventures and beautiful triumphs, without the pragmatic hate his parents opposed upon their subjective son. By now he was nine years of age and the best in his class, as far as reading and writing went, and of course, without neglect, the majest of imagination. All of his teachers had found him a touch too lost within himself, and too prone to cause mistakes that seemed of common sense to those more objective. Yet, they knew, that there was a separate, profound world, lingering in the depths of this peculiar mind, which held the capacity to achieve many goals and overcome the rockiest of feats. Jason had only wished, that for once, his parents could acknowledge him, in such a way.