The End of the Rainbow

Hands are the most revealing of all body parts: they might not leak with emotion, like one’s eyes; they might not melt into grey and fall with age, like one’s hair. In contrast, they are a reflection of every moment in one’s life, holding memories of dances and fights, affection and war, love and labour.

Walter’s hands told a thousand stories of pain. Despite mixing the cement so effortlessly, as if painting a masterpiece, they were repulsive, with lumps of meat and bone suffocated by skin so beaten that a leper would pity him. The white of his nails had not been allowed to grow for years, leaving patches of exposed flesh and solidified blood. Networks of bulging veins held each part together. These were the hands that once spun pretty girls in circles and sweated with anxiety upon intertwining with another’s; they once delicately wrote poetry and love notes and scribbled innocent drawings. He did not know how they became so rotten that flies would spurn them, working from muscle memory to fund his countless addictions. His hair was dishevelled and various teeth were missing, a combination of poor hygiene and poor choices, and he wore his wedding ring around his neck as to not insult it by wearing it anywhere close to his hands. A grizzly, dirty stubble concealed facial scars which reminded him of nights of battles, lost teeth.

The only recognisable feature of Walter was his eyes: pools of sapphire closely matched those of his youthful years, slightly clouded by imminent cataracts and fractured by streaks of red which came with sleep deprivation and alcoholism. They had seen countless moments, yet burdened him; true tranquillity only came when they were shut.

Walter walked home from work with the same pessimism as every other day. He lugged his heavy body along the pavement that began to sink in spots to the shape of his boots like memory foam. Pale, terraced houses and dim streetlamps guided him home, curtains closed and doors locked as he passed with his head hung, like a snowdrop. The streetlamps were no longer reserved for darkness, for sunlight could never squeeze through the thick, grey clouds that constantly threatened to make his day even worse. He synthesised splashes of colour in his mind as he stumbled, and he awoke from his daydream as an attempt to escape them. Demons are known to exist in the form of people, or monsters, but Walter only trembled at the beautiful flashing lights that stalked him.

Walter’s living room was for everything other than living. He sat, slowly dying, in his armchair, just like the night before, and the night before that. Another lonely armchair sat beside him, with a petite imprint resting in the cushion, as if a small ghost were sat staring at him with disapproval. The TV faced Walter’s seat, having been tilted years prior but never returned, and was off. To his right was a small table, scarred with shadows of dead cans and cups. Resting on it was a lamp that supplied the only light to the cramped room, exposing the crevices that did not want to be seen. It also held a glass filled with cheap whiskey, the perpetrator of the wounds to the table and the countless poor decisions made in the chair. As he lifted the glass to his cracked lips, he braced for the pain that he once experienced – and craved – when drinking it, but responded with emotionlessness to the explosion of hurt that scratched down his oesophagus and was soon seeping through his veins. With every swallow, the blotches of phosphorescence became more concentrated, obstructing his blurry vision whilst belittling him. No man trembles at the mere sight of colour, but even the thought of it caused Walter’s blood to curdle.

Across the room sat his laptop – his forbidden lover. Her skin was smooth and shimmering, like an angel with all of the wrong intentions. She seduced Walter, who could not help but stand and walk towards her. He placed a hand on her surface, and shivered with satisfaction, stroking her beautiful body with his callus-ridden hand. He was a knight and she his princess as he carried her with all of his dominance back to his throne. He lay her on his lap and placed a hand on her lingerie, before lifting off her top and exposing her inside. He turned her on, physically and emotionally, and she beamed with approval, compelling him to continue. He pressed her buttons and the colours arrived, flashing reds and blues and pinks and greens like a box of jewels. He knew he should stop. He could not stop. He delved deeper into her software with so much self-hatred that a quivering hand reached around his neck and removed his wedding ring. He lowered its lifeless corpse, placing it beneath his seat – out of sight. His mistress prayed for more, bursting with colour and light – and love. The payments and feeling of shame made her resemble something closer to a prostitute.

‘-£100’,

‘-£100’.

Each message of grief followed a climax of colour.

‘-£100’,

Each message of pain signified the loss of money that he did not have.

‘-£100’,

‘-£100’.

Each message of hurt stabbed a knife further into his feeble heart, but Walter craved this pain. It reminded him that he was alive, breaking the tedious monotony and thoughtlessness of everyday life. He was digging himself further and further into a hole of debt and emotional safety, and he was now too deep to see any light other than the rainbow on his screen. He was now reliant on this light, sacrificing everything he owned for a glimpse.

‘-£100’,

‘-£100’,

‘-£100’,

‘+£20,000’.

Walter froze in disbelief. He had never seen so many zeros. He blinked his heavy eyelids as confirmation, hoping for it to make his blurred vision clearer, but neither his cataracts nor drunkenness were remedied by this. He lifted his hand, shaking more now than it was before, and rubbed the screen, as if expecting the positive sign to disappear, revealing a monumental loss. However, try as he might, he could not change the outcome, and was now £20,000 richer than he had ever been.

A feeling of euphoria washed over his body as he realised the good that could come of his winnings: he considered buying a boat and sailing away into the empty abyss, being his own captain and exploring somewhere other than his hometown for the first time; he considered buying a new car and driving until he could go no further, escaping his demons with speed and force; he considered buying something beautiful for his wife.

He considered going to rehab and sorting himself out: he no longer needed to be an alcoholic, nor to be addicted to the colours; he considered buying enough food to diminish the chronic hunger he suffered from for years.

He considered paying off the debts that piled up around him like castle walls.

Following the wave of ecstasy was a shock of fear. Walter did not gamble to win – he gambled to feel something, even if it was self-hatred. He had never had the privilege of having money to spend, and fear drove him back to his lover, whose seductive whispers became louder and louder. He missed the colours.

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’.

He needed the colours.

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’.

‘Why did I have to win?’ he thought.

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’,

‘-£1000’.

As Walter’s winnings diminished, his grief became greater and greater. He could no longer afford the boat, and the car would need to be second hand. The gift for his wife was becoming less beautiful, less meaningful.

‘-£2000’,

‘-£2000’.

He could no longer afford rehab.

‘Besides, I love the colours. Why would I want them to go?’ he thought.

‘-£2000’,

‘-£2000’.

Walter started to type the last £3000 into his computer, willing to pay everything he had just to see the colours one final time. He would go out with a bang, one last explosion of colour. He mistyped some numbers before arriving at the correct amount, stumbling along the keyboard with his disgusting fingers like a drunk, his fingers a ghastly representation of his internal being. Before pulling the trigger for the final time, his eyes drifted to the seat his wife once sat on, noticing a little black book. He clambered to his feet, falling back once before finding his balance. He picked up the leather book which seemed abnormally small in his huge hands. The contents were concealed by a sheath of black leather, clasped closed by an elastic band. Walter removed the band and lifted the cover, revealing beautiful blotches of ink sculpted into his wife’s delicate handwriting. The letters curled and flicked like a sparkler on bonfire night yet revealed years of grief and debt disguised by the innocent font. Hundreds, thousands unpaid, haunting them; she dared not vent to her husband, so resorted to her best friend – her addiction – the notebook. Years of suffering was summarised by numbers scattered on a page, with the notebook screaming his deepest of insecurities.

The full extent of what he had done suddenly hit him, like a train. He wished he were killed by the impact, but was instead paralysed, throbbing with pain. He imagined burning the notebook, which he could have done with the £20,000, but the leftovers would barely scratch the first few pages. His face was red, painted by a mixture of rage and turmoil, and his eyes melted with salty emotions. He deteriorated into chaotic sobbing and destruction, the lonely lamp being catapulted at the wall and becoming dust, and the table being pulled to splinters. He pulled at his hair, hoping to pull it out, but could not do so, instead kicking the wall in an attempt to shift his emotional pain to physical. He was used to dealing with physical pain, it was easier. Instead, the two held hands, wreaking havoc on Walter.

He gazed at his laptop through blurred vision, squinting to find solace in the colours through a wall of opaque tears. £3000, the remnants of his winnings, lay lifeless on the screen, offering the chance to win back more than he had already won. He swore he would do it differently and fell to his knees, praying to a god that he had never formerly spoken to.

‘I swear,’ he bellowed. ‘Give me one more chance. You blessed me once and I sinned, but this time I will do better.’

He rested his head on the rough carpet, banging it against it with the last of his energy.

‘Curse you, colours!’ He roared pure pain, knowing that he would do everything differently this time, before wiping his face with his shirt. He imagined rehab, and not needing the colours to survive. He imagined seeing his wife smile.

He picked up his wedding ring from the ground and placed it back around his neck, where it belonged. The screen beamed phosphorescence like always, and his lifeline, the £3000, trembled with him, knowing of the suicide mission it was entering. Walter’s puddles of blue continued to leak. He enjoyed the psychedelic colours like they were his last high and then he gambled his final winnings.

Walter walked to work the same as he did the day before, and the day before that. His head was hung like it was made of lead and too heavy to carry. Passers by crossed the road as they saw him approach, scared of what he could do. They were oblivious that just the night before, he experienced royalty, but threw it all away.