Antacids

Welcome to April everyone! Spring is (supposed to be) officially here and the A2Z Blogging challenge has officially started! If you want a reminder of what my theme is this month, please go here. My writing prompt (supplied from here) is below, I'll post it at the bottom of each post, as well. Let the games begin!


You wanna know what the youth of today is good for? Besides being responsible for the increased sales of antacids—nothin'. That's right; a whole lot of nothin'.

Except my Junebug. She's special; but still annoying.

The young man who calls himself Barrett is a typical example of today's youth. No respect, no honor. Which shouldn't come as a surprise with a name like his. He's been tendin' to me for almost a year now and he's learned nothin'. Nothin' about who I was, what I tolerate, what I like. No respect.

So I had to show him.

I took the last of my antacids, first, of course. I'm not one to react impulsively. I only had a few left so I popped them into my mouth and chomped down, their chalkiness coatin' the inside of my mouth with a bitter dust.

When he turned his back to get my tray of food, I made my move. I'm not as fast or as strong anymore, but my mind is quick and my determination stronger than steel, or so Junebug says. I grabbed my bedpan, and quiet as an assassin in the night, shuffled over to Barrett. I was almost there, bedpan high in the air, when the toe of my slipper caught a wire, pulling the lamp from my bedside table.

Barrett turned around, eyes wide with disbelief when he saw the bedpan. I couldn't help but smile. This was the most fun I'd had in years.

"Never underestimate those with the fire inside, sonny, especially if their old." Those were the only words I said to him before I brought that metal bowl down on his thick head. I felt only a little bad when his body dropped to the floor, dead weight.

But it passed.

***

I don't know why they have to make the halls of old folk's home so blasted long. And they all look the same. Yellowed walls, scuffed matted floors. It's easy to get lost. Not that I ever have. In my younger days, breaking out of here would've been easier than puttin' a curse on the neighbor's goats. Now they have security cameras, and watchmen, and nosy patients.

Miss Sequim pokes her bird face out her door and glares at me with a disapprovin' squint. I never did like that woman. I glare right back, tryin' to straighten' my hunched shoulders, but at my age and in my condition, it's useless. Slow as I can—to show how dangerous I still am—I bring my thick, crooked finger up and run it across my throat, tryin' not to let my fingernail catch on the hanging wrinkles. That would ruin the effect.

She huffs at me like an offended hen and ducks back into her room, slammin' her door. The bright paper leprechaun swings against the fake wood, its arms and legs waving at me on little brass joints. Bright green pants and vest, electric orange hair. I grunt. Real leprechauns look nothing like that.

The coast is clear. I turn and face the emergency door at the end of the hall. I haven't been this free since before I left my home. Freedom. I can taste it, and it's better than the crap Barrett tried to fee me.