Dark Rainbow

Rach

Things became more complicated as I grew older. I was never considered an extraordinary beauty, but I had a sweet smile, expressive eyes behind my glasses, and a gentle glow that seemed to blossom with age. My stepmother began making comments about my appearance, telling me I was chubby and should eat less. Worse still, she introduced me to the neighbours as her cousin instead of her stepdaughter. That was when I realised I had probably lost my father long ago. Sometimes, I wondered if the thirteen-year age gap between my father and stepmother had anything to do with it—perhaps embarrassment, insecurity, or simply resentment towards my existence. I never truly knew. Whenever my father visited, I would sit quietly and listen as he and my stepmother excitedly talked about their holidays, their new clothes, and the things they had bought. It always reminded me of the time I had asked my father for a new pair of glasses and he had dismissed it. In the end, it was my grandfather who bought them for me.

Slowly, I understood that life would never be the same. I was growing up largely through the kindness of my aunts and uncles. The money my grandparents spent raising me came mostly from their children, while my father rarely contributed, always saying that he had his own family to support now. That was when the deepest c***k formed in my heart.

I was still in high school when my Aunt Jane and my father had one of their worst arguments over me. I had started worrying about my exam fees, tuition, and school books. I didn't want to keep relying on my grandparents' savings, so I had been quietly saving whatever small amounts of money my maternal grandmother, aunts, uncles, and other relatives gave me whenever they visited or during special occasions. When Uncle Ethan eventually paid my tuition fees, he treated it as though it were nothing, but Aunt Jane was furious. She felt my father was being unreasonable and that everyone else was constantly being forced to compensate for his lack of responsibility. One afternoon, my father and stepmother arrived unexpectedly to drop off my younger half-siblings because they were attending a dinner gathering. Aunt Jane finally confronted him. “Brother, we have paid Rach's tuition fees. I just gave the money to Mom. I think you should take some responsibility for her expenses too.” My father's expression hardened. “I am. She's my daughter, after all. You guys are the ones voluntarily giving it to her.” Before Aunt Jane could respond, my stepmother turned towards me. “Rach, see how people are disrespecting your father because of you? Yet you side with them more than your own father. Don't you feel ashamed or responsible for protecting your father's respect?” I stood there, confused and humiliated, barely understanding why I was suddenly being made responsible for an argument between adults. Before I could say anything, my father cut in. “Rach, from here on, you're prohibited from visiting them. You are not to take any gifts, make any calls, or do anything else with them. Or else...” My grandfather finally broke his silence. “This is my house. My rule. Don't make a commotion like a wet market. Stop it.” My stepmother looked offended, turned around, and walked towards the car, followed by my father. I simply stood there, not knowing what I was supposed to say. Uncle Ethan, who had remained quiet throughout the entire argument, walked over and hugged me. “I'll come and visit you next week,” he whispered before heading towards the car. Aunt Jane gave me one last look. “Your father is useless,” she muttered, then walked away.

I was left there, sulking and trying to figure out how I was supposed to handle the ache in my chest. A few minutes later, the house phone rang. It was my maternal grandmother. She told me she wouldn't be able to visit that time because she wasn't feeling well. My eyes immediately welled up. I wanted to know how she was. I even asked for her address, hoping I could visit her myself, but she refused. She didn't want to make things worse with my father. She promised she would come once she was well enough to travel. She only visited me about once a year, and my father had never allowed me to visit her. In fact, I had never been to her home even once. He claimed that my mother had fallen ill because of the constant conflicts between her brothers and my grandmother over an inheritance. I never knew how much of that was true. What I did know was that my maternal grandmother had been visiting me since I was only a few months old. She would travel all that way just to see me, bringing little dresses, cash, and gifts. They were often simple things, but to me, they meant everything. I had grown up with my paternal grandparents, but I loved my maternal grandmother just as much. Apart from her, I had never really known anyone from my mother's side of the family. So when she told me she couldn't come, I felt as though another small piece of my world had been taken away.

Things were already difficult emotionally, but they became much harder one night when I was studying for my year-end examination. The exam was the next day, and I was trying desperately to concentrate when I heard a strange sound coming from my grandmother's room. At first, it sounded like mumbling, so I assumed she was dreaming. Then I heard the bed creak. Her mumbling became louder, more distressed. I immediately put my books aside and ran to her room. What I saw made my heart pound so hard I could hear it in my ears. My grandmother had wet the bed and looked completely disoriented. “Ma?” I called softly. She looked at me as though I were a stranger. I walked closer and touched her hand, only to recoil at how cold it felt. Her face was pale. I tried helping her stand, but her knees buckled beneath her. I quickly helped her sit back on the bed and reached for the phone. My father lived closer than several of my other uncles, so I called him first. He didn't answer. I tried again. Nothing. I couldn't rely on my grandfather either. He had recently undergone open-heart surgery and still needed a walking stick. I called my father several more times, but there was still no answer. Finally, I called Uncle Ethan. He lived the second closest to us. After a few rings, he answered. I was only fifteen. I didn't know what else to do. I simply told him what had happened. He immediately told me to stay calm and wait for him. I wanted to stay calm, but I couldn't. I was terrified. I'd never seen my grandmother like that before, and I felt completely lost.

I slowly wiped her down, changed her into fresh clothes, and waited for Uncle Ethan to arrive. When he finally came, we rushed her to the hospital. The doctors determined that her blood pressure was dangerously high, most likely aggravated by stress, and that she had suffered a mild stroke. She needed to be hospitalised for a few days until her blood pressure stabilised. Uncle Ethan stayed long enough to help settle everything before taking me home. I was still in a daze when I explained what had happened to my grandfather. He simply nodded and returned to his room. I looked at my schoolbooks sitting where I'd left them earlier that night and knew one thing for certain—I wasn't going to be able to sit for my exam as I'd intended.

For the next several days, my life revolved around the hospital. I'd visit my grandmother after school, while one of my neighbours helped prepare food for me and my grandfather. Those days became one of the frozen parts of my childhood, moments that seemed to exist outside normal time. My father eventually came after a few days and helped arrange my grandmother's discharge. I remember begging him to stay with us for a few days afterwards because I was terrified even to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my grandmother lying helplessly on that bed, pale and confused, looking at me as though she didn't know who I was.

Something changed in me after that.

My body seemed to learn that sleep was no longer something it could surrender to completely. I began sleeping lightly, waking at the smallest sound, always listening, always checking. What if something happened again? What if I didn't hear her? What if I wasn't there?

I was fifteen when I first learned that fear could become a habit.And somehow, it never really left me.Even now, all these years later, a part of me still sleeps with one ear open.