Her mournful eyes said everything there was to say. Her withered, old face had more pain etched into it than was bearable. She looked as if she carried the weight of the world upon her shoulders. When people saw her they couldn’t help but feel depressed and ashamed of what society had to offer.

                Her name was simply Milea. That was all she was ever known as to those who actually cared to look twice and say a word or two to the pitiful women who lay sprawled out on her only possession, a thirty year old blanket. She had no place that she could truly call home. And no one could she lovingly call family. 

                She ended up on the streets in an ugly, horrible way. To put it simply, society had thrown her out. It had altogether given up on her. It crushed Melia’s heart knowing that there were people in the world who would just abandon her as if she were some type of dispensable object. It brought to her eyes tears. Tears that would fall ever so gracefully down her pain-stricken face unto her ancient blanket like crystals glistening in the splendid sunlight. The agony she endured day in day out was so unbearable that many a man or woman would have committed suicide were they faced with Milea’s position.

                But within Milea’s very core burned a fire so intense it could not be extinguished. It was the fire of compassion, the fire of reason. This glowing torch burned with the idea that within everyone there was greatness… and all were capable of good beyond what they thought.

                And as Milea sat on her filthy, old blanket she came to the sudden realization that her life had purpose to it. Even if she was seventy-three years old and living on the streets of Los Angeles with no one to call friend, she knew that God had a plan for her. From that very day onward Milea would dedicate her life to a mission which would twist the very fabric of humanity.

To Be Continued