We lingered on the forest’s green
velvet underground, before the pregnancy, the abortion, the desperate phone
call eighteen years later about her miscarriage after miscarriage, how she knew
there’d be a price, a lasting curse. That night, we had skipped work in the
factory picking tiny parts to ship in unlabeled boxes to parts unknown. In that
forest, still tripping because the Grateful Dead had come to City Island of all
places, we fucked against a tree. I couldn’t make out forms, only a blur of
colors. The acid had done something to my stomach, twisted; for months later,
I’d only be able to eat carrots and blue cheese dressing. That night, a swirl
of reds and yellows, autumn leaves, the Dead, her love, things that couldn’t
keep.
Randall Brown
Doctor Sleep
Stephen King