The Unfinished: Chapter 11 - The Pigtail Monster
The Unfinished: Chapter 11 - The Pigtail Monster
The river of rescued children is flowing home, but the river of harm is still rising.
Every dawn brings new names, new faces, new small bodies found in places no child should ever be. Every dusk, another warrior (grandmother, gnome, owl, fae, saint) collapses into exhausted sleep, braid undone, wings trembling, heart cracked open by one more story they could not unhear.
Nothing they have done is permanent. Not yet.
The roses will need tending again tomorrow. The dolls will need new scars sewn with love. The potato pancakes will need flipping for stomachs that woke up hungry again.
This is not a battle that ends with one ride, one flight, one sky-written ENOUGH.
This is a war measured in lifetimes.
And so the birds gather again (not hundreds now, not thousands). Millions.
From every forest, every city rooftop, every temple dome and cathedral spire, every cracked alley where a pigeon once shared a crust with a child who had nothing else, they rise.
Snow owls from the Arctic circle. Rock doves from Cairo’s minarets. Turtle doves from olive groves older than scripture. Pigeons from Tokyo subways, Mumbai trains, New York fire escapes.
They form one living river across the face of the earth, a single feathered arrow aimed at every palace, every parliament, every glass tower where men and women in tailored suits trade children like currency.
They carry one message, written in fire across every language ever prayed:
OUR CHILDREN ARE NOT FOR SALE.
No matter what name you give the Holy. No matter how you pronounce mercy. No matter which direction you face when you kneel.
There is only one judgment that waits for us all.
You make one living - breathing child bleed, the whole world bleeds, and the wound passes down the generations until someone, somewhere, chooses to stop it.
The flocks do not rest. They fly through storms, through gunfire, through borders drawn by people who never held a crying child at 3 a.m.
They fly until they reach the places where the powerful gather behind closed doors and velvet ropes, where masks are worn (not the paper kind, but the kind made of money, influence, and practiced indifference).
Only then (only when every marble hall, every private jet window, every gilded ballroom is directly beneath them) do they finally, gloriously, relieve themselves.
A white raining down of justice.
Petals and pigeon poop together, scarlet and indigo mixed with the honest, ancient, unmistakable mark of creatures who have decided:
No more.
The scent of Lilith’s roses clings to every droplet. The word ENOUGH burns again in the sky (this time in every alphabet, every script, every heartbeat).
And beneath that burning word, the birds speak with one voice that is not a voice:
We see you. We know what you did in the dark. We know what you are planning tomorrow.
Every child you harmed is carried in these wings. Every child you will try to harm tomorrow is guarded by these eyes.
We do not sleep. We do not forgive. We do not forget.
We are the owls who hunt by night. We are the doves who refuse to shut up about peace. We are the pigeons who have survived every net you ever set.
And we are coming again. Every day. Until the last cage is broken. Until the last ledger is burned. Until the last child falls asleep certain that tomorrow will not hurt.
This war is not over.
It has only just learned how to fly.
So listen, you who still trade in small bodies: The sky is full of wings now. And they are not leaving.
ENOUGH. Forever. And ever. Amen.
Signed the Messengers of the Great I AM.
__
Comments