I stooped to Perkeo's hunchbacked form which lay twisted and rasping 'pon (upon) the concrete floor. I greatly pitied that brutish cove, repellent though his bloodied face appeared, and thanked him for his courage in coming to my aid when all hope seem'd (seemed) lost. He tried to speak, resulting only in a sad bubble of blood gurgling from his fat split lips and staining his crooked teeth red. Kneeling down, I cradled Perkeo's grossly enlarged head in my lap to offer him some semblance of the parental love and comfort cruelly denied him all his days: 'twas (it was) the least I could do for the stunted abberation.
"Sir, I owe you my life," I whispered, stroking his bulbous forehead in what I hoped was a gentle nurse-like manner. "I am pleased you found your mettle in the end. Though your lumpen body is frightful and your skin pendulous and coarse, your spirit, if it could be seen in the form of the living, would assume the figure of an upstanding and heroic man, smooth-browed and clean of limb, and with eyes that flashed undaunted courage. A little like David Boreanaz."
Hearing this tender obituary, he wept freely and unashamedly, exhuming decades' worth of deeply buried raw emotion. He looked pretty ridiculous. Perkeo tilted his misshapen face towards me, his cracked voice sputtering what I knew were to be his last words:
"...We cry life isn't fair
Beneath our cries the truth is there:
A power that will break the spell
We should know very well
Is locked within ourselves..."
Then, glowing with the angelic dignity of the truely selfless, he expired, after first voiding his bowels.
Readers, as I sit and write this entry, I am moved almost to tears. I must leave the narrative again in order to sit in a darkened room and weep until I am spent.
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