The image of the coffee swirling around the mug mesmerises him. Its aroma: enticing. The first sip is always the best. As his lips make contact with the surface it burns, but only for a moment. The taste makes him lust for more. Then he is hit with the feeling of warmth spreading throughout his whole body. He is taken on a greater journey in that one sip than the coffee’s journey from bean to cup. He had lived a life of solitude for as long as he could remember. Every day, at precisely seven-thirty, he awoke to a sound similar to the low hum of a microwave. He had never needed an alarm clock, for he had an excellent perception of time. He continued his day by having a shower, and getting dressed into the usual white tracksuit and trainers.
Walking into the echoing hallway, his appearance camouflaged him against the plain white walls. He closed the door to his bedroom with a loud boom, marking the beginning of his day, and paced straight ahead, towards the kitchen and past “The Room”, which had been locked for as long as he could remember. The only sound that could be heard, as he made his way along the hall, was of his footsteps and the buzz of machinery networked along the ceiling, both of which were amplified by the room’s enormity. He had his breakfast - a bowl of porridge, an apple, and a cup of coffee. By eight-forty-five he was working out in the exercise room. Dedicating ten minutes to each machine, he completed the entire gymnasium within fifty minutes. He did this twice. Then, after rewarding himself with a second cup of coffee, it was onto the patrol. His occupation, if you could call it that, was to patrol one of the many facilities dotted across the world. The factory converted the waste that people produced into fuels. Scientists had only figured out how to recycle in such a manner a couple of centuries back, around twenty-forty-one. Up until then they buried most of it, sweeping it under the carpet, so to speak. Looking after the facility was all he knew. This was his purpose. He was another cog in the machine. Eventually, when he reached the age of forty, his days within the factory would come to an end. He could never recall his employers explaining the details of why, but distinctly remembered being told to go to “The Room” and to leave the facility on his fortieth birthday. Memory was never his strength, but his ignorance comforted him, as knowledge was his greatest fear. He was afraid to discover himself, who he was. He was afraid of the future, focusing solely on the here and now. He was afraid of everything outside his safe, enclosed bubble. That was why there were no photographs on the walls, no clothes that differed from boring, plain, white, no music to fill the halls. He was a blank slate, no character, no name. He had turned forty this morning, and he was scared. He did not want to go. Up until the previous day he had known and felt completely comfortable with the thought of concluding his duty. He always understood it as the way things were. Funnily enough, it was coffee that gave him this realisation, made him see that things did not have to be this way. Coffee made him feel. Whenever he tasted it, he wanted to draw. He wanted to sing and dance. He wanted to make music. He wanted to shout from the top of the building. He wanted to have his own family. He felt he had a greater purpose in life. Upon awaking, he did not stick to his usual routine. He stayed in bed for a while and when he did get up he propped himself upright on his bed, placed his feet on the ground and tapped the floor in a rhythmic beat in time to the sound of the machinery whirring. He gathered some pots and pans from the kitchen and started to bang them together, learning their different pitches and sounds and combinations. By late morning he had made himself a symphony of household items. Glasses, cutlery, lamps, plates, anything he could get his hands on. He got the recorder from his bedside drawer that he was supposed to use if something were to ever go wrong in the facility. They would find a logged entry giving them an explanation of what happened, if anything ever did. If they were to come by, however, what they would hear on the recorder would be the sound of an orchestral piece appropriately titled “Epiphany”. He decided to give himself a name. Printed on the back of many items around the house were the words “Made by Paul Johnson”. He swapped the words around and from that moment on he was called “John Paulson”, and John was happy. He was not leaving. The next morning, however, John awoke to a resonating metallic click in the hallway outside his bedroom. His stomach churned with anxiety. What was it? Was it going to hurt him? The creak of an opening door echoed throughout the building. What did this mean? Have they arrived to meet him, to congratulate him on dedicating his life to the company? Maybe this was their plan all along. He was going to be saved! Fear turned to excitement. Slowly, he made his way over to his bedroom door. He grabbed the handle with an overwhelming urge to be sick, but fought the feeling. He steadily pulled the handle towards himself, pressing his face against the gap, and squinted. John’s eyes shot open as he felt his heart aggressively beat against his chest. What John saw, through that gap, was a man with a chilling resemblance to his younger self. Everything became clear. It all made sense. John was a copy of a nobody, manufactured by the company. No one cared about him; he was insignificant, disposable. Why did he ever think he was important to anyone? Nothing mattered anymore. He did not care. His life was a lie. All his feelings were fake, not real, produced over something as stupid as coffee. Why did he name himself? He did not deserve to be named. He was not human. He did not live, he simply existed. Numb with emotion, John sank to his bed in defeat. Feeling a sharp pain against his back, he reached around and pulled out the recorder. He pressed play and quietly listened to his musical composition, his precious life-affirming mark on the world. The percussion beautifully diminuendoed as the piece came to an end, breaking a smile through John’s tears. Just as he began to put the recorder back in his pocket it clicked onto what sounded like an older recording. After few seconds, “Epiphany”, his piece, his unique piece, played back to him, note for note. John stopped the recording and wiped the tears from his eyes as his expression fell to a frown. He silently opened his drawer and dropped the recorder inside. The replacement had made his way to the kitchen, and obliviously made breakfast. John half-heartedly made his way to “The Room”. It was dark and cold, with only a single light flickering inside the enclosed space. Machinery droned away as it had done so every day before. He bolted the door behind him, sealing his own fate, and slumped inside the open capsule, the centrepiece, pressing the only button in the pod. The door slid shut. An interface appeared on the glass displaying a timer counting down from three hundred, mocking him. John sobbed quietly to himself. As the numbers fell his consciousness faded. Five… Four… Three… Two… In the kitchen, a cup of coffee is poured.