In Memoriam to all those that are The Unwanted.
I silently protested alone outside Milton Keynes’s primary abortion mill: Acorn House. I was tired and cold and about to go home. My arms ached from holding a large plastic sign displaying ‘1000 babies murdered here per year’; it did not have the shock value I had hoped. I’ve since learned that the correct figure of deaths was almost double that number. It’s a thankless task raising awareness of infanticide in a city that does not value life or God’s Salvation. It was raining now. I pulled up my hood and noticed a sizeable 4×4 parking adjacent to where I stood — Mum and Dad with at least two young kids in the back. Mum alighted and descended the wet concrete steps I’m forbidden to set foot on. The Police have told me it’s private property to those opposing child sacrifice. The slim black Mum now crossed the small square courtyard and, with an expressionless face, read my sign before casually passing by the small spindly tree (since cut down) that Catholics tie silver medals of their pagan queen in the fragile fruitless branches.
Where The Babies Go To Die
Acorn House is a nondescript concrete oblong building offering cheap office space on the sloping Midsummer Boulevard. The Community Foundation owns it. A local charity whose slogan proudly states, “Connecting and growing our community for 34 years”. It would be more accurate to say that the charity connects unborn babies with their executioners and reduces our community! It’s common practice for the abortion industry and those who facilitate it to use pleasant-sounding euphemisms to make their evil ways sound more benign to the public. I like calling things what they are; however, I’ve called it tragically wrong on this occasion.
Siblings Separated Forever
Mum had not headed to the main entrance like I expected, where many disparate businesses reside; instead, she had entered the side door and was inside the human abattoir. Her entering confused me. It’s not unusual for a woman to enter alone, but I’ve never seen kids wait in the car whilst their mother nips in to knock off their sibling! I fall to my knees, praying earnestly. The Dad who sat behind the wheel is now standing over me. A well-dressed black man in his late 40s confirms my fears that his child is about to be ‘processed’ at the taxpayer’s expense. The abortion industry is worth billions. It’s shocking how lucrative it is and who is championing this legalised murder. Bill and Melinda Gates were not half the surprise to me as WaterAid or Johnson&Johnson were! I’m not sure which of us spoke first. He became outraged when I asked him to go inside and rescue his child.
Save Your Baby!
I pointed to his other children in the back seat, awaiting their Mum, “their brother or sister is being murdered, and you can stop it from happening; you have to go inside now; please save your baby!” He threw away his chance by launching into a madly irrelevant monologue on how Martin Luther attached his 95 theses to a door in Wittenberg! This tension tested my sanity. “we have enough children already for our age” was another excuse for his inaction. Racists founded the abortion industry to cull blacks, yet this black man appeared ignorant. Did the murderous name, Margaret Sanger, mean nothing to him? It meant as much as his child’s life: nothing. He returned to his vehicle. We had both failed to save his unborn baby. I shall see that baby in heaven one day, and it will know by my countenance that it is wanted alive, not dead.
Then, finally, in a city known for its apathy, I called it a day: a terrible day. I was so distressed over this lost baby that I could not return to Acorn House for many months.
