Chapter 2: Chapter 2: A Gray Awakening (narrator)

His figure felt hollow, and his body echoed as if he was a shell of what his youth once was. An empty shell, hidden under the sand, under the water, in the deep dunes of the ocean. A lonely, lonely shell. But Roman was not a shell at all, he was unhappily aware of his existence as well as his fleeting existence. In the little time that Roman had left of his life, he had become almost like a hermit. Although the purpose for his solitude was not religious, it was because he believed the world should not have to see such a hideous monster. There was no particular reason as to why Roman had become this decaying, desolate creature. No reason other than time. The former Roman, a vivacious, young, and tactical man, worked as a doctor. He had seen many hundreds of people dying, whether from diseases, old age, or freak accidents. Death had never scared him, he saw so much of it. As a doctor he had questioned his morality, it was almost as if he had held it in his hands. It held a figure and as age wore his bones he became one with mortality itself. He had allowed his body to succumb to the inevitability of that which would curve, deform, and cause him to sulk, to sink but never seeming to drown. His life, his youth seemed to flash before his eyes in his age as he realized the kind of man he was. The kind of man he would grow to be. He, although smart, had been a handsome man. A man who climbed through society on the promise of his looks, like a power, even into his late fifties he had kept his youthful charm. Until he reached the age of 59. He realized that he had begun to get a crippling pain in his back. It seemed as if to make him convulse and cripple, he realized that keeping his youth was causing his body, the lines in his cheeks, the stretched wrinkles on his forehead, his wearing strength, and he realized he was growing tired. Unfathomably tired, tired of his promise of beauty and youth. He realized that he used to be able to relax the tense muscles in his face, in his legs and arms but now he was holding on to his youth for dear life. His relaxed disposition, his ability to allow the success into his life had now grown weary. He realized he was not happy because he was holding on to something he no longer had. When he began to let go, he realized how much he truly despised the gift that was age. He loathed every wrinkle, the discoloration of his now almost pale blue face. His head, now shedding his pale silver, growing lifelessly white. Brown, rotting warts began to enveloped his lengthily slim spine. He was a 'monster'. He began to feel disgusted with himself, so very disgusted with his bodily figure. He was so embarrassed, so abhorred with his moldering, but once smoldering physique.