Wake, work, home, eat, sleep—repeat. His life was simply this constant loop. An endless cycle that never seems to change. Every morning, he wakes up to the soft hum of the air conditioner. The air is stale. The room is dark. His eyes shoot open as he rises from his bed, not wanting to but ready for the start of his inescapable nightmare.
Pssssshhhhhhh—Shhht, with a twist of the valve, the stream of water slows to a stop. Methodically, he continues his routine, drying himself and gently rubbing his skin with a towel. Next, he slips on a dark denim blue dress shirt, black slacks, and shoes. In the mirror, a thin man in his early 20s, long black hair tied loosely, round glasses with a thin metal frame resting on his nose, and eyes which look like the greyed-out static of a television screen stare back at him, seeming as if they are waiting for something worthy of their focus. But there is nothing, so noisy static they stay. No emotion can be seen on the man. Not eagerness, happiness, sadness, or anger. Just calm, cold resolution. Lacking the time necessary for a lover and lacking the energy for friendship. He is alone.
Nothing but years of monotony have done this to the man.
Work arrives.
The Baxter Building. Tall in structure but common when compared with its surroundings. Located near the edge of the capital, 20 minutes from his home. Blending in with the crowd, he walks into the building, runs his bag through the scanner, gets on an elevator and selects his floor, 10. Four bodies surround him, but in his static eyes, they all look the same.
In silence, the elevator slowly empties, then— “ding”, his destination arrives. Soft steps sound out as he steps out, swipes himself in, and goes to his desk. His work day begins with coffee. In his wait for the brown liquid, someone enters “Morning Marmalade.” Another faceless body greets him. “Morning…” he murmurs in response. Not bothering to spare a glance. With a “Ping”, his coffee is finished.
Born Marmalade Grey, you would expect someone with that name to have lived a unique or at least exciting life, but no, that isn’t the case.
As with any other day at work, Marmalade returns to his desk, powers on his desktop, and begins in silence. Hours flash by, and the office empties. The pattern continues. Time to return home.
Marmalade packs up and leaves. Stepping outside, he stops. His grey static eyes begin to shift. Left, right, and finally looking up towards the sky. The static begins to focus into something tangible. From random speckles of white and black to cool tones of blue with a wave of warm orange.
His chest tightens—breaths become heavy.
Something’s changed.
Marmalade:
“This can’t be it, something, anything needs to change”.
As a moth to a flame in the dead of night, motivated by a force to gravitate towards the light with no knowledge of why, Marmalade steps forward, his gaze locked upwards.
Step after step sounds out as he continues on, just walking, towards the painted hues that have finally touched his eyes. The sounds of masses returning to their dwelling become muted against his ears. The smell of burnt concrete, topped with the crisp flavourings of street food being prepared, tickles his nose. These disappear more and more with each step he takes until finally a cool, saline breeze sweeps in, hugging him, carrying the gentle tug of kelp and driftwood, washing the smoke and stress from his lungs.
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A seemingly endless view—wisps of rose-pink clouds drifting across the heavens, like brush strokes dancing across a canvas. Molten gold drips and bleeds into the water, forming scattered coins that drift across the water’s surface.
Marmalade:
‘Perfection. This is perfection”
No longer is there the television static glazed across his vision. The noise is fully focused on the brilliant hues, which, while it being something that’s always been there, has never entered his eyes. Just for this moment, his mind is not tortured by the cycle that’s plagued him. No. This perfect picture seems to have a power to it that Marmalade felt spiritual. Or rather, this almost perfect picture.
Like a cactus on the beach, right at the corner of his vision rests a disturbance. Floating there, drinking up the ocean in its fibres, riding the waves, being banged against the tetrapods, rest scattered sheets.
The static crawls back in as Marmalade’s eyes laser onto them, exuding a tension that hasn’t been present in years upon the inanimate object polluting his treasure. This couldn't stand. It needed to be fixed. Breaking off the path, he carefully begins to climb down the rocky surface. With each steady step, the brighter the low rumble and light cracks of the tide sound out. The cool aroma of wet stone and salt taints his nostrils.
With one final precarious hop, Marmalade arrives at his destination.
Cards.
What looks like a full deck of 52 cards is floating at the water's edge, just within reach. With a deliberate stretch, he begins to nimbly remove the stains from the canvas. Complete. His volunteer work had finished as he collected the 52nd soaked card from the water—an ace of hearts. The deck now firmly grasped in his clasp; he begins to inspect it.
Marmalade:
“Hmmm, looks fancy. If you discount the withered edges, smeared ink, and overall water damage, it’s ornate-looking. Must’ve been worth a lot brand now.”
With the water cleaned, Marmalade makes his ascent.
As he climbs, at the edge of his vision, something... massive, begins to flicker into view, into existence. Turning and looking at what beholds him leaves Marmalade without words, his heart skipping. In the middle of the water, in the centre of the painted vista, a small isle with a tower scaling to the heavens now fizzles into reality. Its appearance is unnerving. Its transition into reality resembles magnetic fluid travelling towards its attractor.
Unconsciously, his grip tightens on the deck, water drops quickening as they descend onto the stone below, chest thumping with every drop.
Drop—ba-bum, drop—ba-bum, drop—ba-bum…
Marmalade:
“Am I seeing things? Has everything finally pushed me over the edge?”
Blood drains from his limbs as drops to his knees, arms limp by his sides, fear creeping down his neck.
Using "massive" to describe it would be an understatement. Its structure seemingly shouldn't be possible as the tower at the centre of the island begins to split off into different sections, the higher the tower climbs. Seen from the water, the island’s tower appears as a colossal spiral shell scraped raw. The lowest tiers were carved from storm-black stone, the mid-section laced with rusted steel girders, and above that a fractal crown of crystalline arches that seemed to drift apart as if in slow motion. Each ledge was narrower than the last, so that by the time Marmalade’s gaze reached the summit, the tower had thinned into a jagged spire, impossibly delicate yet unyieldingly tall.
The setting golden embers of the sun peak around the structure, leaving dancing streaks of light coating the edges of the tower.
Questions slammed into his mind like crashing waves. He froze on the slick rocks.
Silence followed as he climbed back to the ledge—tower, cards, tower, cards. A single spark ignited in his chest. He had to know.
Eyes locked on the spire, he let the deck slip from his fingers—and the tower dissolved into air. The painted sunset bled back across the sky. Not a breath. Not a whisper. Time stretched into emptiness.
Memories of the grey routine crept into his vision, boring tunnels through his thoughts.
Then a whisper cut the void:
“It can’t get worse.”
Marmalade snatched the soaked cards, his vision fixed on the tower as it reformed before him. He ran, each footfall thundering against the stones. With a final, desperate push, he launched himself into the void.
For a heartbeat, he hovered—then SPLASH.
Water engulfed him. He sank, lungs burning, eyes snapping open. Instinct took over. He kicked upward, and a grin cracked across his face.
An unknown strength was beginning to form in his limbs as he started to swim towards his isle of destiny.
