Virgin Ninja (19)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (19)"
   
   Covertly skulking, though for sublime purpose, Joanna Blanc secretly, though also in Socratic fashion had been observing an elderly woman being neglected and abused by her husband and caretaker, the son on his deathbed so many times--it was impossible to count anymore, always, slowly bleeding to death, transfusions, medicine listed as chemo, waking to find his mother on the floor, bloody and with contusions on her head, his father not alarming anybody, but going back to sleep after 3 or 4 drinks of Jack Daniels.  The boy weeping, wanting to tell, but phobic, though his physician did want to call Social Services, for the entire situation drove him to put his father's angry gun inside his mouth, his father instructing:  "Get me this, do this, do that, or I'll knock your 110 pound body out, especially your teeth, you retard--you're nobody, always wanted to be somebody else, you don't like yourself."
   The boy watched as his mother wasn't spoken to, put in the dark, like where a baby calf goes to die, a dark room, void of sound, light, vibration--there is no frequency of life in such a macabre and desolate place.  And always the pseudo-caretaker's lazy physicality yet spirited arrogance, her either dropping his mother in the shower, throwing wet rags at his face and calling him a scrawny fool, yet the boy endured, unable to say a word about God or hope to his mother, as his father further fabricated false mantras:  "Don't talk to your mother; you can't get through to her."
   The slick sale's pitch of slow poison, undetected on the radar, unless someone has eyes to see and ears to hear, or digs deep enough, taking a journey into mystery.
   Joanna Blanc would correct the situation, calming the boy's tics by bringing him into her circle, which consisted of Sister Nelson, Bobby McQuade, and herself.  He needed to stand up for himself, for nobody deserves to be a scapegoat save the cunning serpent that has no innocence.
   She rescued the boy.  He wailed for his mother.  Joanna said:  "They want her old and sick soul dead, and because you have excellent empathy--you're in their way; as a result, your death or exile would have been next.  My name is Joanna Blanc.  And I will be your pedagogue against a wicked hand's sinister shuffle before death is totally dealt."  
   The boy, like always, even as he had faced death, hoped against hopelessness, yet would perpetually continue his fervent prayers for Mom.  Joanna's uncanny empathy recognized his internal life's passion, and she knew that she had picked another benevolent student.