Poison

A/N: Hey, I know this is really, extremely different from what I usually write, but I'm sending this in to a short story writing contest, and was wondering if you guys could critique it for me? Tell me if something doesn't make sense, or if there's any mistakes? That'd be great, thanks so much!

-Mel♥

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Jonna Walters sat in one of the plush chairs of the nursing home, watching in amusement as a few of the Alzheimer's patients wandered around aimlessly.

Alice Jones sat on the couch next to her, a stupid little smile on her face, but no one- not even Alice- had a clue why it was there. She was just happy in general, and she didn't care about what people thought of her. If they yelled at her, cursed her out, she wouldn't remember it anyways.

Mike Mital stalked through the small den area of the nursing home, his slight limp slowing his angry stride down. When he finally reached one of the CNAs, he demanded to know why they had kidnapped him. She gently reminded him that he lived there, which made him flustered to no extent.

Scott Grimsby rolled out of his room in his wheelchair, the squeaking deafening to anyone sane enough to hear the obnoxious noise. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, a confused look on his wrinkled face as he looked around. He slowly retreated back into his one room 'apartment'.

Michelle Alloy walked into the kitchen, which was connected to the den, her walked clicking and the tennis balls squelching. She muttered some things to herself, not even aware that she was doing it, and then demanded food from anyone who would listen.

The other eight residents sat in their rooms, either drooling in their sleep from the effects that their medications had on their feeble minds, or raising the volume of the game show on television to the point that the same two shows echoed around the entire building. The only television shows that were deemed acceptable by the patients of Maple Grove nursing home today were either reruns of Little House on the Prairie, or a new episode of The Price is Right.

Neither of which Jonna could stand in the slightest. She preferred to watch one of the daring cop shows on nowadays, like Castle or Motive. Either way, they weren't on at 11 am.

Sunny Livingston, the CNA that had set about making lunch that day, went to the white board and erased 'meatloaf'. She replaced it with 'cabbage soup' in bright red marker.

"Hello!" Alice Jones chirped suddenly, making Jonna jump. "What's your name?"

"Jonna,"

"I'm-" she cut off and frowned for a second before her dark eyes drifted back towards the television, where a man had just won a car. A few seconds later, Alice turned to her again and repeated, "Hello! What's your name?"

Jonna sent her a polite look, pitying the woman that couldn't even remember her own name. They went through the entire process six more times before Jonna finally got up, limbs creaking, and ambled slowly down to her room.

The next afternoon, Jonna was sitting in her room, eyeing the cars that sped past her window jealously, when her door flew open. Mike Mital all but ran in, limping to the point that he almost fell.

"What are you doing in my room?!" He demanded. "Get out! Get out!"

"This isn't your room, Mike," she reminded him with a soft sigh.

"How do you know my name?!" His eyes widened in complete horror. "Nurse! Nurse!"

It took quite a lot of convincing, but eventually Mike retreated back to his room, which was on the other aide of the building completely.

That evening, Scott Grimsby wandered into the den where Jonna sat, her eyes glued to the new episode of Elementary that was on. His wheel chair squeaked every time the left wheel rolled over the unoiled spot, making Jonna sigh at his sudden presence.

"What are you watching," he demanded instead of asking in his rough voice, his eyebrows knitting together as he squinted at the television in an attempt to see the screen better.

"Elementary," she responded softly.

"Huh?!" He yelled. She repeated herself, slightly louder, only to get a "what?!" In response.

"Elementary!" She yelled, hopefully loud enough for him to hear. He settled back into his wheelchair to stare at the screen for a few seconds.

"What's it about," he spat out, his voice low and scratchy.

"An ex drug addict who teams up with his personal-"

"What?!" He yelled at her. "Speak up! I can't hear your mumbling!" Jonna sighed and got off the couch, only a small struggle with her aging bones and muscles, and went to her room, slamming the door behind her.

The next morning, Jonna was in the kitchen, reading the paper at one of the tables. She had just started an article on the town's recent murder trial, when the creaking, squelching, and mumbling started behind her. Her eyes drifted from the paper to glare at nothing in particular, as a heavy sigh passed through her lips.

"This Nixon fellow, I don't know about him!" Michelle Alloy announced to anyone who would listen. Unluckily, her dark eyes landed on Jonna's slumped over form. "Do you know what I mean? His heart's in the right place, but I don't think his brain is all there! And you want to let him into the whitehouse?!" She tutted.

"Michelle, it's 2013," Jonna reminded her. "The president is Barack Obama. He's in his second term, already!"

"You're funny!" Michelle laughed a hoarse lough, cutting off suddenly when she began her hacking couch. When she stopped, she said, "Did you vote for Nixon?"

"Yes, I voted for Nixon," she sighed finally, grabbing her paper and retreating to her room again.

That afternoon, the whiteboard never changed, still saying they were having the remnants of the cabbage soup that Jonna enjoyed the day before. She even offered to help heat up the soup, adding in a few special ingredients that her mother had once put in the same soup for her father so many years before.

"Would you like some soup, Jonna?" The CNA, Sunny Livingston asked politely.

"Oh, goodness, no!" Jonna laughed. "A cook never likes her own creation!" Sunny smiled and moved onto the other residents, all liking the idea that Jonna had helped make the soup, even if they hadn't the slightest clue who Jonna was.

The cook herself settled for a cup of tea and a seat on the couch, waiting for the scene and front of her to unfold.

"No idea what happened, officer," Jonna sniffled, fake tears welling in her blue eyes. The police had responded to her frantic call minutes earlier.

"Well, thanks for the help," the officer frowned and clipped his notepad shut, watching as paramedics wheeled out the thirteen body bags, zipped to the top.

One thing was for sure, Jonna missed her father dearly.