Twenty-Three Years & a Million Dollars: A Trash Heap or a Penthouse?

My birth parents bankrupted themselves scouring dumpsters for me for twenty-three years.

Meanwhile, I’d been adopted by a millionaire, showered with affection, and basically living like a queen.

When the media shoved a camera in my face, I spat out:

“Did I ask them to look for me? They did it on their own, what’s that got to do with me?”

“So they found me. Big deal. I’m a multi-million dollar heiress now. They could get down on their knees and beg, and I still wouldn’t go back to living in a garbage dump with them!”

The whole country exploded in outrage. People were screaming for justice for my so-called "poor" parents, demanding I be punished and sent straight to hell.

Which was exactly what I wanted.

I turned to my adoptive parents, a big smile spreading across my face. "Mom, Dad," I said, "time to gear up, we're about to be multi-millionaires!"

This is a world where public opinion has real teeth.

Every citizen has the right to voice their opinion, and when something ignites the public's fury or consensus, there can be a national trial.

The trial is a live stream, broadcast across the country.

Every citizen has one vote, and that vote determines guilt or innocence.

You can also abstain.

The winning side gets a $10 million cash reward, plus an avalanche of resources.

The losing side is tossed into a reform school, stripped of their rights, and subjected to torment for the rest of their lives. A permanent prison, where they become the object of national scorn.

In short, a trial means one side ascends to heaven and the other descends to hell.

Lately, people have been pretty content, their happiness levels consistently high. Things just don't generally rile people up enough to call for a national trial.

But my arrogant comments were like a boulder thrown into a calm lake, sending waves everywhere.

The people called for a trial.

My birth parents came to see me, pleading with me not to let it get to that point, saying we're still family.

I just grinned for the cameras. "I’d rather go to hell than live with trash like you!"

The public got even angrier.

My parents, trapped by their own self-righteousness, were forced to agree to the trial.

Endless insults, relentless attacks. I was forced to agree too.

The trial was scheduled quickly. The judge this time was the winner of the last trial:

A middle-aged guy with a rough look but goofy smile.

He'd been the center of a storm after a single mother had accused him of molesting her three-year-old daughter.

No one doubted a mother would lie about something like that, and nobody thought a three-year-old could make it up.

The case captured everyone’s attention.

People were outraged. They wrecked the bakery he owned, chased him out of his home, and practically ruined his life.

But that wasn’t enough. People were screaming that if that kind of creep wasn’t taken off the streets, how many kids would suffer?

So, they demanded he be put on trial, to rot in hell for what he did to a thre...