The Story of Milla

About the Narrator

As I was riding through town on Pocahontas, I took a whiff of the air and could not figure out what was going through my nostrils. I decided that it was smoked cotton candy I took a whiff of. It was a wonderful smell. Though, I could not figure out why. Why did it smell like smoked cotton candy? Why was it refreshing to me? Did it make me feel like a kid again with a hint of an adult? I had no idea, and I didn't intend to.

I looked at the streets and sidewalks with disgust. They were not taken care of and looked as if there was a place to buy drugs on every corner. Lord knows that's what it was. It was satisfying to see that there were people who were just like me: didn't own any food, yet, had somewhat of a transportation unit. We were not considered poor but were not the wealthiest of people either.

My name is Milla Rosemary. I was originally born in the Netherlands but moved to Memphis, Tennessee forever ago. Though it feels like just yesterday, I was three and did not want to go on a plane. I had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Whenever I bring it up, I feel as if I'm introducing it to someone, like "Hey, Andrea! This is Brain Cancer!" "Oh, well it sure is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cancer!" That's just how I had always done it.

Trust me, a lot of people feel bad for me as if they are related to me in some way. Like they know what it feels like to be diagnosed with a lifelong enemy named cancer. In my case, brain cancer. It is disappointing to know that people feel the need to apologize as if it was their fault all along. It wasn't. Like, get over it.

I was wandering the streets of Memphis. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of Jailhouse Rock, performed not by Elvis, but by a local street performer. He was good. He looked fairly nice to my knowledge. He was wearing a red and black plaid sweater over some blue jean overalls. He had beat up Chuck Taylors that were supposed to be a white shade but had a few splatters of either red paint, ketchup or blood stains. I wouldn't be surprised if it happened to be blood stains. Memphis does happen to be the fourth most violent city in the United States.

So I watched. As he finished his gig, he looked over at me and gestured me over. I slowly moved my feet but didn't necessarily want to. I did anyway. "What's your name young'n," he said. "Rosemary. Milla Rosemary," I said. He told me how beautiful my name was. He asked me why I was wearing tubes. I told him my life story. And boy, was he stunned. He asked me how old I was, who my parents were if I was related to anyone famous. I told him how old I was, who my parents were, and that I wasn't related to anyone famous, but that I planned to become a rock star one day, and ain't nobody goin' to stop me from livin' it. He told me to have a nice night. I wished him the same. As I walked back to the bar, I heard him calling my name. I answered politely. He asked me if I was free to grab a beer. I accepted. And off we went.

I sipped on some beers, whiskey, and hard liquor. I was told that I became unconscious, but I didn't believe it. I woke up in a bland and blank room. It was painted white and so cold. Marble floors were intact with large windows in an arch shape. There was a problem: there was no door.