For my part, I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of stars makes me dream.

- Vincent van Gogh

the sight of stars

Twilight is slow and gentle in its approach, the first fingers of plum etching the shadows as they lengthen and stretch across the lush green yard. In the last tangerine glows of sunlight a mist is illuminated in a small garden plot edged by a white picket fence. Through the fine droplets, from just the right angle from the expansive redwood deck, a rainbow can be seen. It glows in the final moments of day, before fading to the palest of colors and then seeping into the rapidly darkening shadows. A spray of salmon melts with the orange as the sun makes its final descent over the horizon, then giving way to the late shades of indigo and amethyst.

She stands at the railing of the deck, resting her elbows on it and looking across the lawn to her garden plot. Hyacinth and roses populate along the fence, interspersed with bleeding hearts. Within this fragrant border are a tangle of wildflowers and a single large bush of lavender. It had become her refuge, her place of solitude, even amongst this secluded estate she now lived on. In the fading light she could still make out a few butterflies floating from flower to flower. The quiet hiss of the water provided a backdrop to the symphony of crickets that was now tuning up.

The first stars begin to appear high overhead, as the silver-white light of the moon begins to illuminate the upper branches of the trees that surround the house. The significance of stars is no longer lost on Clarice, but the sight of them still makes her dream.

Stars were the vary first thing she could remember seeing after that fateful night. There are still nights when she lies awake in the king size bed in the master suite of the home wishing that they were the only things she remembered. There are nights when she comes close to screaming in desperation, trying to undo what was done. There are nights when she finds herself in her garden, hands scratched and bleeding from pushing through the rose bushes, blood from her wounds staining the crushed rose petals beneath her heels.

But then, he is always there to rescue her.

The pressure of the muzzle against the thin cloth of her blouse. The steadily increasing weight her finger was pressing against the trigger. The light of realization coming in his eyes.

She could still hear him call her name in desperation.

She could still feel the sudden roar of silence in her ears as she dropped bodily to the linoleum.

Had he not been there, there would have been a single, simple word for her actions. Futility. Had he not been there the Tattler would have had a field day with her suicide and Ardelia would have seen to it that she were interred in the West Virginia soil alongside her mother and oldest brother.

But then, he was always there to rescue her, even from herself when need be.

She straightens from her lazy position at the rail, stretching an aching knot of muscle in her back. As she moves there is another twinge of pressure and she presses a hand gently to her belly. She rubbed gently until the pressure eased, the twinge subsiding, and a smile crosses her face. For beneath the scar that remains from her actions resides the second miracle of life the doctor has given her. First he saved hers, then he helped her to create anew. She smiles serenely into the new fallen night as steps cross the redwood deck behind her. An arm encircles her waist, ever so gently, and draws her towards him. Warm breath blows across her ear as he whispers into it, both of them gazing upwards into the sky.

"Clarice, its after dark, come inside."

"One more minute. I want to look at the stars."

"Are they still the same?"

"They are."

~FIN~