If you've EVER interacted with Rainbow Dash i would suggest giving this a read!!
In the sun-bleached outskirts of Riyadh, where the sand stretched for miles in a color somewhere between gold and bone, there lived a man whose name people never quite forgot—Rainbow Dash.
Of course, that wasn’t his birth name. His mother had named him Rashid Al-Dawsari, a name tied to a tribe, a heritage, and the expectations of a long desert lineage. But Rashid had never been comfortable inside the boundaries placed around him. He was a boy who painted his sandals different colors just to annoy the school headmaster, who carved shapes into the desert dunes instead of doing the chores his father assigned him. By the time he was sixteen, half the kids in his neighborhood were calling him “Rainbow." Later, after he began signing his name as Rainbow Dash on the side of everything from notebooks to motorbikes, the name stuck.
In 2003, Rainbow Dash was twenty-seven years old, restless, unpredictable, and known equally for his charm and his foolishness. He worked odd jobs, usually with cars—selling parts, repairing clutches, sometimes repainting old trucks until they gleamed like polished gemstones. His latest pride and joy, and the thing he talked about more than anything else, was his Toyota Hilux. White, slightly battered on the left door, engine powerful enough to make him feel larger than the world.
To Rainbow Dash, the Hilux wasn’t just a vehicle. It was the symbol of everything he loved: freedom, velocity, the ability to disappear into the desert anytime life pressed too hard.
But freedom, like many things, comes with a cost.
Rainbow Dash spent most of his evenings at a small mechanic yard run by an old friend, Mubarak. The yard smelled of motor oil, hot metal, and faint dust storms that swept through at dusk. They would sit together on upturned crates drinking tea that Mubarak brewed with cloves strong enough to sting the tongue.
“Rashid,” Mubarak would say, insisting on using the real name, “you drive like the world is chasing you.”
Rainbow grinned his usual cocky grin. “Maybe it is.”
“You laugh,” Mubarak said one night, waving a spanner for emphasis, “but speed is not a joke. It gives no one mercy.”
Rainbow shrugged. “I know how to handle a car.”
“You think you do.”
This was the pattern: warnings that bounced off Rainbow’s pride like pebbles against steel.
If there was one person who worried more than Mubarak, it was Rainbow’s younger sister, Hanan. At twenty-two, she worked at a school and lived with Rainbow and their widowed mother.
“Slow down,” she told him almost every week. “You act invincible.”
“I just like the wind,” he’d answer, and he’d kiss her forehead before heading out again.
She never stopped worrying. And he never stopped brushing it away.
On a warm late-April evening in 2003, the streets of the small district of Al-Muzahimiyah were unusually busy. Families were out buying food for an upcoming gathering, and the smell of street-side shawarma drifted through the air.
Rainbow Dash was restless that day, more than usual. He had gotten into a pointless argument with his mother about responsibility, about settling down, about everything he didn’t want to hear. After storming out of the house, he drove aimlessly for a while before ending up at Mubarak’s workshop.
“You look like someone boiled your head,” Mubarak muttered when he arrived.
Rainbow grumbled something incoherent.
“Go home and apologize,” Mubarak said.
“I’d rather drive.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
But Rainbow had already turned toward his Hilux.
The sun was slipping toward the horizon, a glowing orange sliced by the edges of buildings. Rainbow slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and felt the familiar rumble—his comfort, his escape.
He pulled out of the yard, turned onto the main road, and pressed the accelerator.
The Hilux answered eagerly.
On the other side of town, the Al-Harbi family—father Khalid, mother Aisha, and their children Mariam and little Sami—were walking back from the grocery shop. They lived close enough that they preferred to walk rather than drive. The kids were giddy because their mother had bought them mango juice, the kind they only got on special occasions.
“Don’t spill it,” Aisha warned, though she was smiling.
Sami held his box of juice with both hands as if it were treasure.
Khalid walked beside them carrying two bags of vegetables, humming softly.
They approached a crosswalk that connected the market area to the residential street. Normally traffic there was modest, and drivers tended to slow down because of the foot traffic.
But that evening, something would align terribly: a distracted man, a speeding truck, and a family simply trying to go home.
Rainbow Dash wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t under the influence of anything except frustration and a need to feel in control. But sometimes that is enough.
He turned onto the market road too fast, the Hilux’s tires kicking up small clouds of dust. He tapped the steering wheel rhythmically, trying to calm the boiling energy inside him. He accelerated again.
Up ahead, the crosswalk.
Up ahead, figures.
He saw them late. Too late.
In moments like these, the world compresses. Sound disappears. Instinct takes over. Rainbow slammed the brakes. The Hilux skidded, tires screeching like an animal in pain. He tried to swerve, but the momentum was too strong.
The collision wasn’t loud. It was strangely muted, swallowed by shock and disbelief.
Then silence.
Then screams—from bystanders, from the world itself.
Rainbow Dash’s hands trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He opened the door and stumbled out.
What lay before him was a scene he would never unsee for the rest of his life—shapes where a family had stood moments before, motionless on the asphalt.
People rushed forward. Some yelled. Some cried out prayers. Someone shouted for an ambulance.
Rainbow Dash didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
His heart seemed to stop, then restart only to pound painfully, like it was trying to escape his chest.
He tried to step forward but someone shoved him back, screaming at him. Another man pulled the angry one aside. Confusion, chaos, horror—all swirling around Rainbow like a storm.
When the authorities arrived, Rainbow Dash surrendered without a word.
In the hours that followed, Rainbow sat in a small holding room, his hands cold, his throat too dry to swallow. A police officer asked him questions, but Rainbow only nodded numbly.
He didn’t try to deny responsibility.
He didn’t try to make excuses.
He only said one sentence clearly:
“I didn’t mean to.”
But accidental or not, lives had been lost.
Later that night, after all procedures were completed, Rainbow was transferred to a detention center. The air there felt heavy. The silence felt judgmental.
He lay on a thin mattress staring at the ceiling, hearing over and over the muted sound of the impact, the cry of a child’s juice box bursting on the ground.
He pressed his palms to his face and cried harder than he ever had in his life.
News spread quickly. The story of the incident reached his neighborhood before sunrise. Hanan was inconsolable. His mother collapsed in shock. Mubarak visited them, trying to offer comfort, but he was shaking too.
For days, Rainbow Dash replayed the moment of the accident. He replayed the warnings he ignored. He replayed the choices he made that seemed insignificant but led to catastrophe.
The guilt was relentless.
He wished he could go back to that moment—to slow down, to pay attention, to take a different road, to do anything other than what he did. But he couldn’t.
Time moves only forward, dragging consequences behind it like a chain.
He prayed daily. Sometimes silently. Sometimes aloud until his voice cracked.
He asked God to forgive him.
He asked the world to forgive him.
He asked himself to forgive himself—but that one he couldn’t grant.
The legal process was slow. Rainbow Dash was charged, questioned, evaluated. The surviving relatives of the Al-Harbi family were devastated. Some were furious. Others couldn’t even speak. The system moved through its procedures with formality, precision, and somber weight.
Eventually, a judgment was reached: Rainbow was held responsible for the deaths caused by his negligence. Punishment was necessary. Restitution was required. His sentence reflected the gravity of the loss.
He accepted it without argument.
During his time in confinement, Rainbow worked in silence. He read the Qur’an often. He avoided trouble. He barely spoke to other inmates. Many recognized him—some judged him, some pitied him, some warned him that guilt, if left unattended, could destroy a man from inside.
Months passed. Then a year. Then another.
He changed.
The wildness drained out of him. The reckless confidence dissolved. What remained was someone quieter, more thoughtful, and constantly burdened by memory.
After serving his sentence, Rainbow Dash walked out into the daylight a different man. Hanan was waiting for him, older and sadder but still his sister. She hugged him tightly, as if to anchor him back into the world.
Their mother had aged dramatically. When Rainbow entered the house, she cried, touching his face like she wasn’t sure he was real.
He stayed home for weeks, barely leaving, barely speaking. Every time he saw a car pass, he felt a knot form in his chest.
But life, stubborn as it is, tries to continue.
Mubarak visited him one evening, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Rashid,” he said softly, “you cannot undo what happened. But you can decide what kind of man you are from now on.”
“I don’t think I deserve to move on,” Rainbow whispered.
“You don’t move on from tragedy,” Mubarak answered. “You carry it. But you carry it in a way that prevents more tragedy. That is the only path.”
Rainbow listened. It was the first advice he didn’t push away.
He sold the Hilux. He couldn’t even look at it anymore.
He took a job at a community center, helping with maintenance, fixing equipment, and occasionally teaching young boys how engines work—though he always ended with the same message:
“Machines obey physics, not pride. Respect speed. Respect the road.”
He told no one his past unless they asked. And when they did, he didn’t hide it. He told the truth, not to gain sympathy, but to warn them.
Over time, people began to know him not as the man who caused tragedy, but as the man who devoted his life to preventing others from experiencing the same.
It wasn’t redemption. It wasn’t forgiveness.
It was responsibility.
Years later, after he had rebuilt a quiet, humble life, a letter arrived. It was from a relative of the Al-Harbi family. Rainbow’s hands trembled as he opened it.
The letter was short.
It did not absolve him. It did not condemn him.
It simply said:
“Nothing will bring them back. But we have chosen not to let hatred consume us. We hope you choose to live with care, so no other family suffers as we did.”
Rainbow read the words again and again. Tears fell silently.
For the first time since that evening in 2003, he felt like he could breathe without drowning.
He never reclaimed the name Rainbow Dash publicly. It felt childish now, a symbol of recklessness he had shed. But sometimes, alone at night, he thought about what the name could mean if he redefined it.
Not a symbol of speed.
Not of irresponsibility.
But of transformation.
Rainbows appear after storms. They do not erase the storm, but they remind the world that beauty can follow tragedy, that life insists on continuing.
One evening, years after the accident, Rainbow found himself near the market road where everything had changed. He stood across the street from the crosswalk. The area had grown—new shops, new lights, new families walking hand-in-hand.
He bowed his head and whispered a prayer for the family he had taken too soon.
Then he whispered another—for the man he had once been, and the man he was trying to become.
He walked back to his modest home under a sky that was slowly fading into dusk. Colors streaked the horizon—soft blues, gentle oranges, hints of violet.
A rainbow of sorts.
Not bright. Not dramatic.
But real.
And Rainbow Dash, the man who had once been defined by recklessness, finally understood that the truest meaning of his name was not what he had done in a moment of carelessness, but what he would choose to do with the rest of his life.
THE COLOR OF CONSEQUENCE
In the sun-bleached outskirts of Riyadh, where the sand stretched for miles in a color somewhere between gold and bone, there lived a man whose name people never quite forgot—Rainbow Dash.
Of course, that wasn’t his birth name. His mother had named him Rashid Al-Dawsari, a name tied to a tribe, a heritage, and the expectations of a long desert lineage. But Rashid had never been comfortable inside the boundaries placed around him. He was a boy who painted his sandals different colors just to annoy the school headmaster, who carved shapes into the desert dunes instead of doing the chores his father assigned him. By the time he was sixteen, half the kids in his neighborhood were calling him “Rainbow." Later, after he began signing his name as Rainbow Dash on the side of everything from notebooks to motorbikes, the name stuck.
In 2003, Rainbow Dash was twenty-seven years old, restless, unpredictable, and known equally for his charm and his foolishness. He worked odd jobs, usually with cars—selling parts, repairing clutches, sometimes repainting old trucks until they gleamed like polished gemstones. His latest pride and joy, and the thing he talked about more than anything else, was his Toyota Hilux. White, slightly battered on the left door, engine powerful enough to make him feel larger than the world.
To Rainbow Dash, the Hilux wasn’t just a vehicle. It was the symbol of everything he loved: freedom, velocity, the ability to disappear into the desert anytime life pressed too hard.
But freedom, like many things, comes with a cost.
PART I – THE MAN BEFORE THE MOMENT
Rainbow Dash spent most of his evenings at a small mechanic yard run by an old friend, Mubarak. The yard smelled of motor oil, hot metal, and faint dust storms that swept through at dusk. They would sit together on upturned crates drinking tea that Mubarak brewed with cloves strong enough to sting the tongue.
“Rashid,” Mubarak would say, insisting on using the real name, “you drive like the world is chasing you.”
Rainbow grinned his usual cocky grin. “Maybe it is.”
“You laugh,” Mubarak said one night, waving a spanner for emphasis, “but speed is not a joke. It gives no one mercy.”
Rainbow shrugged. “I know how to handle a car.”
“You think you do.”
This was the pattern: warnings that bounced off Rainbow’s pride like pebbles against steel.
If there was one person who worried more than Mubarak, it was Rainbow’s younger sister, Hanan. At twenty-two, she worked at a school and lived with Rainbow and their widowed mother.
“Slow down,” she told him almost every week. “You act invincible.”
“I just like the wind,” he’d answer, and he’d kiss her forehead before heading out again.
She never stopped worrying. And he never stopped brushing it away.
PART II – THE ROAD TO RUIN
On a warm late-April evening in 2003, the streets of the small district of Al-Muzahimiyah were unusually busy. Families were out buying food for an upcoming gathering, and the smell of street-side shawarma drifted through the air.
Rainbow Dash was restless that day, more than usual. He had gotten into a pointless argument with his mother about responsibility, about settling down, about everything he didn’t want to hear. After storming out of the house, he drove aimlessly for a while before ending up at Mubarak’s workshop.
“You look like someone boiled your head,” Mubarak muttered when he arrived.
Rainbow grumbled something incoherent.
“Go home and apologize,” Mubarak said.
“I’d rather drive.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
But Rainbow had already turned toward his Hilux.
The sun was slipping toward the horizon, a glowing orange sliced by the edges of buildings. Rainbow slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and felt the familiar rumble—his comfort, his escape.
He pulled out of the yard, turned onto the main road, and pressed the accelerator.
The Hilux answered eagerly.
PART III – THE FAMILY OF FOUR
On the other side of town, the Al-Harbi family—father Khalid, mother Aisha, and their children Mariam and little Sami—were walking back from the grocery shop. They lived close enough that they preferred to walk rather than drive. The kids were giddy because their mother had bought them mango juice, the kind they only got on special occasions.
“Don’t spill it,” Aisha warned, though she was smiling.
Sami held his box of juice with both hands as if it were treasure.
Khalid walked beside them carrying two bags of vegetables, humming softly.
They approached a crosswalk that connected the market area to the residential street. Normally traffic there was modest, and drivers tended to slow down because of the foot traffic.
But that evening, something would align terribly: a distracted man, a speeding truck, and a family simply trying to go home.
PART IV – THE MOMENT
Rainbow Dash wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t under the influence of anything except frustration and a need to feel in control. But sometimes that is enough.
He turned onto the market road too fast, the Hilux’s tires kicking up small clouds of dust. He tapped the steering wheel rhythmically, trying to calm the boiling energy inside him. He accelerated again.
Up ahead, the crosswalk.
Up ahead, figures.
He saw them late. Too late.
In moments like these, the world compresses. Sound disappears. Instinct takes over. Rainbow slammed the brakes. The Hilux skidded, tires screeching like an animal in pain. He tried to swerve, but the momentum was too strong.
The collision wasn’t loud. It was strangely muted, swallowed by shock and disbelief.
Then silence.
Then screams—from bystanders, from the world itself.
Rainbow Dash’s hands trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He opened the door and stumbled out.
What lay before him was a scene he would never unsee for the rest of his life—shapes where a family had stood moments before, motionless on the asphalt.
People rushed forward. Some yelled. Some cried out prayers. Someone shouted for an ambulance.
Rainbow Dash didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
His heart seemed to stop, then restart only to pound painfully, like it was trying to escape his chest.
He tried to step forward but someone shoved him back, screaming at him. Another man pulled the angry one aside. Confusion, chaos, horror—all swirling around Rainbow like a storm.
When the authorities arrived, Rainbow Dash surrendered without a word.
PART V – THE AFTERMATH
In the hours that followed, Rainbow sat in a small holding room, his hands cold, his throat too dry to swallow. A police officer asked him questions, but Rainbow only nodded numbly.
He didn’t try to deny responsibility.
He didn’t try to make excuses.
He only said one sentence clearly:
“I didn’t mean to.”
But accidental or not, lives had been lost.
Later that night, after all procedures were completed, Rainbow was transferred to a detention center. The air there felt heavy. The silence felt judgmental.
He lay on a thin mattress staring at the ceiling, hearing over and over the muted sound of the impact, the cry of a child’s juice box bursting on the ground.
He pressed his palms to his face and cried harder than he ever had in his life.
PART VI – THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
News spread quickly. The story of the incident reached his neighborhood before sunrise. Hanan was inconsolable. His mother collapsed in shock. Mubarak visited them, trying to offer comfort, but he was shaking too.
For days, Rainbow Dash replayed the moment of the accident. He replayed the warnings he ignored. He replayed the choices he made that seemed insignificant but led to catastrophe.
The guilt was relentless.
He wished he could go back to that moment—to slow down, to pay attention, to take a different road, to do anything other than what he did. But he couldn’t.
Time moves only forward, dragging consequences behind it like a chain.
He prayed daily. Sometimes silently. Sometimes aloud until his voice cracked.
He asked God to forgive him.
He asked the world to forgive him.
He asked himself to forgive himself—but that one he couldn’t grant.
PART VII – JUSTICE, MERCY, AND THE LONG ROAD
The legal process was slow. Rainbow Dash was charged, questioned, evaluated. The surviving relatives of the Al-Harbi family were devastated. Some were furious. Others couldn’t even speak. The system moved through its procedures with formality, precision, and somber weight.
Eventually, a judgment was reached: Rainbow was held responsible for the deaths caused by his negligence. Punishment was necessary. Restitution was required. His sentence reflected the gravity of the loss.
He accepted it without argument.
During his time in confinement, Rainbow worked in silence. He read the Qur’an often. He avoided trouble. He barely spoke to other inmates. Many recognized him—some judged him, some pitied him, some warned him that guilt, if left unattended, could destroy a man from inside.
Months passed. Then a year. Then another.
He changed.
The wildness drained out of him. The reckless confidence dissolved. What remained was someone quieter, more thoughtful, and constantly burdened by memory.
PART VIII – RELEASE INTO A QUIETER WORLD
After serving his sentence, Rainbow Dash walked out into the daylight a different man. Hanan was waiting for him, older and sadder but still his sister. She hugged him tightly, as if to anchor him back into the world.
Their mother had aged dramatically. When Rainbow entered the house, she cried, touching his face like she wasn’t sure he was real.
He stayed home for weeks, barely leaving, barely speaking. Every time he saw a car pass, he felt a knot form in his chest.
But life, stubborn as it is, tries to continue.
Mubarak visited him one evening, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Rashid,” he said softly, “you cannot undo what happened. But you can decide what kind of man you are from now on.”
“I don’t think I deserve to move on,” Rainbow whispered.
“You don’t move on from tragedy,” Mubarak answered. “You carry it. But you carry it in a way that prevents more tragedy. That is the only path.”
Rainbow listened. It was the first advice he didn’t push away.
He sold the Hilux. He couldn’t even look at it anymore.
He took a job at a community center, helping with maintenance, fixing equipment, and occasionally teaching young boys how engines work—though he always ended with the same message:
“Machines obey physics, not pride. Respect speed. Respect the road.”
He told no one his past unless they asked. And when they did, he didn’t hide it. He told the truth, not to gain sympathy, but to warn them.
Over time, people began to know him not as the man who caused tragedy, but as the man who devoted his life to preventing others from experiencing the same.
It wasn’t redemption. It wasn’t forgiveness.
It was responsibility.
PART IX – THE LETTERS
Years later, after he had rebuilt a quiet, humble life, a letter arrived. It was from a relative of the Al-Harbi family. Rainbow’s hands trembled as he opened it.
The letter was short.
It did not absolve him. It did not condemn him.
It simply said:
“Nothing will bring them back. But we have chosen not to let hatred consume us. We hope you choose to live with care, so no other family suffers as we did.”
Rainbow read the words again and again. Tears fell silently.
For the first time since that evening in 2003, he felt like he could breathe without drowning.
PART X – RAINBOW DASH, AT LAST
He never reclaimed the name Rainbow Dash publicly. It felt childish now, a symbol of recklessness he had shed. But sometimes, alone at night, he thought about what the name could mean if he redefined it.
Not a symbol of speed.
Not of irresponsibility.
But of transformation.
Rainbows appear after storms. They do not erase the storm, but they remind the world that beauty can follow tragedy, that life insists on continuing.
One evening, years after the accident, Rainbow found himself near the market road where everything had changed. He stood across the street from the crosswalk. The area had grown—new shops, new lights, new families walking hand-in-hand.
He bowed his head and whispered a prayer for the family he had taken too soon.
Then he whispered another—for the man he had once been, and the man he was trying to become.
He walked back to his modest home under a sky that was slowly fading into dusk. Colors streaked the horizon—soft blues, gentle oranges, hints of violet.
A rainbow of sorts.
Not bright. Not dramatic.
But real.
And Rainbow Dash, the man who had once been defined by recklessness, finally understood that the truest meaning of his name was not what he had done in a moment of carelessness, but what he would choose to do with the rest of his life.
Game Master
