PART I: The Case
Phoenix City—
far from pity.
Born where summers bite.
She saw the sun
just once—
age four.
It blinked.
Gone.
Back to night.
Piss-wet floor.
Cinder block walls.
Flies fat with rot
on her thighs.
The outhouse reeked—
bleach and shit,
stench thick enough
to make God cry.
The heat?
Hundred-twenty.
No breeze.
No break.
No name.
Just stench.
Just sweat.
Just ache.
They called her thing,
or rat,
or bitch.
"Get in the corner—don't you twitch."
Boot by the door.
Belt in his hand.
"Look at me once, I'll break your damn jaw."
Snap.
Smack.
Blood pooling where prayers should land.
Learned silence
was survival's only law.
Food?
Steel-cut oats gone sour.
Eggs green with rot.
Meat crawling with tomorrow's flies.
Thrown in a bowl
on concrete bed.
"Eat, mutt," he said.
"Or starve instead."
Father stank
of ash and gin.
Fists like hammers
wrapped in skin.
Voice—
thunder without rain,
a door slammed
on hope's thin frame.
"Lucky I let you live in this bin."
Mama?
Painted lips.
Tits out.
Wine glass.
Nails filed sharp.
"Don't tell me," she'd spit.
"That thing? She's trash."
Cranked the stereo.
Smoked on the deck,
while her daughter screamed
through chains
around her neck.
No school.
No friends.
No words.
Just rules carved in flesh:
Shut up.
Don't cry.
Don't speak.
Obey.
Once—
throat bone-dry—
she whispered her name
into rotting wood grain:
"Ada."
Just to prove
she was still
alive.
When CPS knocked?
Mama smiled wide.
Fresh lip gloss.
Laugh track.
"Haven't seen her in a while."
But the shed—
padlocked tight.
Inside—
a child.
One bucket.
No light.
Just bleach burning denial.
She died in July.
Four days dry.
No water.
No shade.
No chance.
No why.
Dog bowl empty.
Lips split like drought-cracked earth.
Tongue swollen twice its width.
When they found her—
Eyes still open.
Still watching.
Waiting
for a door
that never opened,
for love
that never came.
Body curled toward daylight.
Skin bubbled raw.
Mouth rimmed with fire's kiss.
Fingers still reaching
for what should have been
but never was.
PART II: The Rebuttal
So now—
Tell me again
about your God.
Your grace.
Your plan.
Tell me how her corpse
fits neat inside
your holy hands.
You say He gave us choice—
Then where was hers?
Could she choose
the hands that hit?
Trade her cage
for someone's care?
Could she scream
through concrete walls?
Run on legs
the size of sticks?
Could she pick
a mother's love,
a father's name,
a single fucking chance
at this rigged game?
No.
So tell me she sinned.
Tell me it's fate.
Tell me heaven wept
as her body baked.
Tell me He watched.
Tell me He willed it.
Tell me her agony
birthed some greater truth—
Go ahead.
I'll wait.
You say:
"She's in heaven now."
"It all worked out somehow."
But who did it work for?
She's still dead.
Still four.
Still locked in that shed.
Her body?
Evidence bag #4.
Her name?
A whisper no one said.
Your God?
Still distant.
Still golden.
Still pristine overhead.
You speak of love
so infinite it swallows
children whole—
spits out bones,
calls it purpose,
calls it soul.
You say:
"The Lord works
in mysterious ways."
That's not mystery—
that's math that won't solve.
That's rot in silk robes.
That's silence
dressed as song.
That's cruelty christened.
Neglect blessed.
A child tortured—
and you call it
a test.
I reject it.
If this is your God—
who watched her gasp
in shit and heat—
who counted every second
her heart still beat
and did nothing—
then I want
no throne,
no hymn,
no golden street.
You say:
"But God is love."
Then let me say this
clearly:
If heaven's gates cast shadows
shaped like Ada's corpse—
if paradise is built
on babies' bones—
Then let it burn.
Keep your harps.
Keep your halos.
Keep your choir
dressed in white.
Give me hell—
at least it's honest
about its appetite.
Because I believe
in sacred things—
just not your shrine.
Not a God
who feeds on girls
and calls it divine.
Ada never knew blessing.
Never felt grace.
Just splinters.
Just fists.
Just her father's face.
So spare me theology's
pristine hands.
If it can't stop this,
it's not holy—
it's complicit,
it's damned.
I've seen mothers
walk through walls of flame—
skin peeling,
lungs burning—
to reach their children's names.
So tell me—
Why won't your God do the same?
You say I lack faith,
can't see the plan.
But I don't reject God
because I'm faithless—
I reject Him
because I refuse to worship
something less moral
than the average man.
Because when I read Ada's story,
I didn't need scripture
to know it was wrong.
My bones knew.
My blood knew.
My gut twisted itself
into grief's blackest song.
If He gave me a conscience
that screams at her suffering—
then punishes me
for listening to its cry—
Then the test is rigged,
and the teacher
should be fired.
You call it blasphemy.
I call it love—
the only kind that matters:
The kind that chooses
the child
over the crown.
The victim
over the throne.
The truth
over the hymn.
So here's my final prayer:
If there is a God,
may He be nothing
like yours.
May He have calluses
from breaking down doors.
May His knuckles bleed
from punching through walls.
May His voice be hoarse
from screaming
at every father's fist,
every mother's neglect,
every system that failed,
every moment we looked away.
May He smell like bleach
from cleaning children's wounds.
May His arms ache
from carrying the forgotten.
May He never rest
while even one child
dies
like Ada did—
alone,
afraid,
believing this
was all there was.
And if no such God exists?
Then I'll take the title myself.
I'll be the fist through the wall.
The voice that won't stop.
The arms that ache.
Because someone should have saved her.
Someone should have saved her.
Someone should have saved her.
And all your theology
can't change the fact
that no one did.
Not even Him.
Melody Jack
