I remember when the visitors came.

            "Do you remember Charles Martin?" They asked.

            "Martin Charles? I knew him," I said.

            My mouth was dry. It tasted like penicillin or some other medical candy, but my memory was as good as the day I'd last seen him.

            It was a Sunday morning: early dawn. He just stepped out of the club. His eyelids flickered a lot when the sunlight hit them, and I joked about it. I told him what a pushover he looked like batting his lashes like that, but he didn't get it. Imagine? One night in a club and Martin couldn't hold up come morning. What a loser. 

            I guess his mind was extra sluggish, cause he was real boozed up. He kept saying he wanted to go home, but I wouldn't allow it. 

            He asked what I wanted, and I suggested we get some bread - for breakfast. He was at a loss as to where we could go, so I said we should go to the bakery. Where else? Still, he didn't seem convinced a bakery would have a lot of bread on a Sunday, so I told him what kind of idiot he was, cause bakeries always have dough.

            I could tell by the crease in one of my visitor's eyebrows and the hard set line on the other's mouth that they, too, were annoyed by Martin's dimwittedness, so, to ease them, I moved on.

            "I was the one who drove," I said.

            It didn't take long: just five minutes, and when we arrived, only the baker was there.

            Martin placed the order, but the baker told him to wait till he was done making sandwiches out of five loaves resting on the counter.  He said it was a standing order.

            Waiting didn't go down well with Martin, though. He said it made him nervous. He was about ready to forget the whole thing, so I had to convince him to cool it a little – you know, be patient for just a bit longer. He listened. He waited and watched as the baker cut the belly of each loaf open then slathered them with slices of salami. The sticky smell of iron filled the air.

            Martin started fidgeting about then. He said he'd had enough, but the baker wouldn’t let up, so Martin threatened to leave, but I stalled him. After all, why should I miss out on a good meal, especially one just within reach? So, I suggested if he didn’t’ want to wait any longer he could grab one of the already prepared loaves. Like c’mon, they were just sitting there unattended. Who could stop him if he took one, anyway? Certainly not that fat baker. He laughed at that and decided to stay.

            The memories were tumbling out by this point, and I could tell, by their grim faces, my visitors were holding on to my every word. Their eyes bored into me like they could see inside my head; like they could see what happened after Martin followed through with our new plan.

            It was a good one, mind you, but as soon as Martin grabbed the loaf, that dawdling baker roared real loud spooking Martin so much that he bolted out the doors. The baker jumped over the counter and ran after him. Neither of them seemed to remember I was there, but out of concern for my friend, I followed behind them. Outside, Martin was already in the car and gunning the engine. That didn't slow the baker down, though.  It seemed to propel him even more, cause in seconds, he was at the driver's window, throwing himself up against it. I knew there was no way I could allow him to get to Martin, so I tackled him, hoping I'd be able to pry him away.

            The calamity must have been too much for Martin's common sense – him being so dumb and all – cause the next thing I knew, the car lurched then careened forward, but there was nowhere for it to go.  The entranceway to the bakery was too narrow for that kind of speed. The car ended up crashing into the concrete wall of an adjacent building. It was crumpled. Martin was crushed. The sticky smell of iron was there again.

            "It was an accident," I said.

             My voice was just a whisper, yet one of the visitors got real riled up after I said that. He said that wasn't true.

            "It was bread, just a loaf of bread," I said, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, he gave a strange version of the events. I started to sob, but he didn't care. The other visitor tried to stop him.

            "Jim that's enough."

            But Jim wouldn't ease up. Instead, he accused me of being behind the most grizzly and macabre things. The more he talked, the more real his accusations seemed. I couldn't take it. I writhed on my bed.

            "Nurse, nurse," I cried out. "My pills, my pills."

            My accuser kept ranting, but soon I felt hands prodding me, steadying my head, squeezing my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and shortly after, the voices stilled as a fog enveloped me.

            "My pills, my pills," I sighed. "They make me dream soft dreams."

             My pills. They give me soft schoolboy thoughts.