I remember as a young girl when it was possible to behold a million stars at night, now I’m lucky if I observe only six at any given time. But that was then, when I lived far away by the sea and the stars burst throughout the cosmos as far as the eye could see. Now I live the city dweller’s lot, with artificial light impairing my view of the universe. Excessive use of manufactured luster with polluting glare, skyglow, trespass and clutter shifts my attention is shifted towards a neighbor when lights are on and shadows are no longer cast. I see them roving about and I wonder what goes on behind their walls where I cannot hear their words or sense their thoughts.

  For instance, the family next door in the apartment facing my kitchen window. They seem happy enough. I often see the two teenagers on the street. A boy and a girl with traces of a smile on their faces who seem content. The mother is always at the fridge opening and shutting the door preparing family meals. They are foreign and I don’t understand their words. The father is grossly overweight and I try to imagine the sex life of this couple. How is it possible? She must always be on top for he would squish her with his girth. He seems to have given up on himself. Embracing temptation constantly within reach. I sometimes watch them unload their groceries from the car with bags of potato chips and cookies spilling over the full paper bags.

   If I witnessed more stars would I contemplate nearby residents? Perhaps I’d imagine black holes and aliens. Spacecrafts and abductions. Being transported to other spheres where life is dissimilar, yet congenial. A new beginning. I’ve always dreamt of such an encounter. Would I see them coming and could I send a postcard from this unfamiliar place? Hey…. wish you were here.

   He sees only six stars at night from his prison cell. He calculates the number of years incarcerated for each one. He needs one more star to complete his assigned sentence, but it isn’t there. Only the six he can routinely see when the evening is clear and free from cloud cover. Perhaps he will be released for good behavior, but this isn’t likely. He killed his neighbor. A right dick of a man. He stomped and played loud music, stole his mail for month upon month and he knows very well it was him who killed his lovely kitty Mini-Moo. Strung her up on the clothesline on his balcony just like in the scene from Midnight Express. She was dangling there in the afternoon sheen when he came home. He knows it is easily accessible from his neighbor’s upstairs flat. One calculated jump below, if one is determined. How, he loved that little beast. She was so gentle and loving. Friendly with all who came near.

   He had no idea how the thing started. One evening several months prior he passed his neighbor on the staircase and accidently brushed his arm knocking the beer bottles from his hands to the hard, cement steps. He apologized profusely and offered to pay, but the neighbor angrily refused initially. Then seconds later he grabbed the money from his outstretched hand. Because the liquor store was already closed for the evening and his neighbor would be without his desired quota of drink, he assumes it began right there and then. But come on, why be so vengeful? It happened the minute he returned home. The brouhaha. The banging. The endless dragging of furniture and dropping of heavy objects upon his head. Then there was the incident with Mini-Moo. That could never be forgiven.

   He never, for an instant, thought it would come to that, but every time he heard his upstairs neighbor he had visions of violence. Slitting his throat – slowly though, so that the sheer experience of the act would seep in. He wouldn’t be able to grasp exactly what was happening to him. Then the blood would flow fast like a swift moving river. And then the gagging. Now you see the consequences, you bastard. I’ll make sure you won’t have nine lives. Then he imagined a knife. One quick jab to the heart. In the end he pushed him over the balcony, which was fifteen floors up. The act was witnessed by several, so denying his guilt was futile. He was given a life sentence with no chance of early parole.

   He sees six stars at night from his prison cell. Each star represents a chapter in his life for what was and will not be. He wants to transport himself through space and time before this incident. He should have simply poisoned him. Sneakily and undetected. Collecting monkshood in the nearest meadow on the outskirts of town. He’d look innocent enough with his basket of pretty purple flowers. Folk would think he was bringing them to his lady friend. But no, they would be intended for another. It would appear innocent enough. A kaleidoscope of possible cardiovascular events. His neighbor was out of shape and overweight. No one would know the difference. He could have been at the pet rescue adopting another kitty if it hadn’t been for his temper that fateful day.

It came on slowly, as if she wasn’t certain if it even had. The gradual loss of sight. At first, she thought it was fatigue, for she let it go for some time. She lives in the country on the edge of the sea and her car had been acting up for a while. She knew she should have made an earlier appointment, but she kept putting it off. She never used to be like this, yet now she is this prototype. A version of her former self, which procrastinates and ignores all that she prefers not to see or do. It is a gift to herself that came with age. Avoid the hurrying, let’s get it done, fully loaded with pressure from her departed self, now she is some long gone adaptation. A more mañana sort of gal.

   She used to be able to see a thousand stars and should still be able to as her geographical location has never altered, but now she is close to blindness and can only see shadows and sometimes a very bright light. Now if she’s fortunate, she can see six stars when the night sky is clear and luminous.

I’m back looking at the neighbors. Why do I do this? I could be reading a book or doing something constructive. If I saw more stars, I’m positive I wouldn’t give them a second thought. Yet there he is again in the fridge, pondering what to eat. But who am I to judge? Don’t we all do the same? Not the ones with threadlike forms who don’t lug around additional poundage. I hate those types. Why should they have all the luck? If anyone had peered in my family windows, they would have heard shrieks and screams, witnessed plates flying through the air like flying saucers. Arms flailing about in all directions. Slammed doors and the sound of hard, loud footsteps walking away. The smell of rubber that long lingered after a car sped off to the unknown.

   He uses the stars as meditation points. In the day there is a strange-shaped crack on the wall of his prison cell that serves as his focal position. If he stares at it long enough it quiets his head and his mind becomes still. Most of his anxiety dissipating into the very oxygen itself becoming fluid with all. Sometimes he sees a desert and feels the heat of the sun upon his head. He imagines walking and walking until he melts creating a pond of moisture for a thirsty migrant bird. Although when he sees the stars, he walks through doors into vast open spaces. Hearing the sounds of the surf crashing against the shore filled with exotic foliage swaying in the salty breeze. Sunbeams bouncing off the horizon. He envisions himself on a surfboard. A light one. Freestyling through the air touching down on a great wave. Acrobatics of the blue.

With each star she remembers a slice of life when her sight was in attendance. Not merely shadows and bits of cream-coloured spheres, almost like almonds, as it is now. How she examined the world with wonder and awe when she could see. Dazzled by the very essence of nature and all of its force. She finds it difficult to remember her children. Their faces are fading from memory. When they call her, she tries to imagine what they look like, because it has been some time since she has laid eyes on them. They moved from this seaside where work was unheard of and all that was left is a view and the scent of the ocean. The sound of the waves.

   Her kids want her to leave this house and set up somewhere where she will be safer, with assistance, but she won’t hear any of it. She remembers the stars she looked at every night when the sky was clear and the fog had retreated back to the open sea; the Big and Little Dippers, thousands of lights and constellations. Now, if she’s lucky, she can barely make out six stars at night, that seem like tiny, fuzzy specks. She allots a sliver of time for each star, which nearly accounts for her number of years on this earth. She remembers her delight in the colors of childhood. Toys, presents and prettily decorated cakes on special occasions. The lights at Christmas and frilly girly dresses. Polka dots and fluffy stuffed animals of varied hues. Another represents her adolescent and early years. Psychedelic trips and funky clothes. Lots of sex and fun.

   Other stars symbolize her children, failed marriage and this part of the coast where her feet are firmly and permanently planted. The only way they’ll get her out of here is feet first. Do you hear me? This house had been full of laughter at one time with mewing cats, barking dogs and an adopted donkey of her son’s that never stopped braying called Byron. He even got rewarded with special treats on his supposed birthday. He dropped dead after her son left home. She assumed from a broken heart. All the pets who lived here once are gone. The cats had their nine lives and the dogs lived out their doggy adventures. Now she is left with only semblances of light, colors and faces that, with each passing day, become more elusive in her mind’s eye.

I’m back to the neighbors again. There’s a huge hullabaloo taking place. Someone has called the police and I see them approaching the apartment building next door. They’re leading the father away in cuffs, the one I always see before the fridge contemplating what to put in his mouth. I heard a loud shriek followed by a slap and then a thud on the floor. In the open volcano for him. If only it was so easy. I could do it. One after the other for all the animal, child and women abusers. In one endless lineup into the hungry mouth of the precipice. I’d kick them in without a moment’s hesitation then saunter away and drink a cold beer watching the smoke rise to the heavens, yet they would melt into the center of the earth. I wonder if they had more stars to distract them would it make a difference. Perhaps gazing to the night sky taking their minds off their present-day confined existence. The abode where they reside and can’t afford another.

   It’s raining hard outside, which means he won’t see his six stars at night. He’ll only witness the darkness outside the cell window, which he fights against every day. Sometimes, it closes in like a tight fist suffocating him with brutal force. Reminding him who is the boss here, but he’ll fight, focusing on the cracks in the walls that take him to beautiful places where he travels in his thoughts. To the highest mountains and turquoise seas. Tonight, when he looks at one of his six stars, he’ll hitch a ride on starlight and saunter on a moonbeam, and later take a turn around the earth like a slow stroll in a lush overgrown garden. He’ll extract himself from these thick, concrete walls in search of all the light which eludes itself freeing himself from all dark matter.

– Susan E Lloy