Standrew awoke with a splitting headache in a room that was much too bright. His gaze focused on the figure sitting across from him. Her expression was troubled.
“Why do you bother, Stan?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion. “You know you’re not going to escape. Nobody ever has.”
Standrew sat back in the restraining chair, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. “I got pretty far. Out of my cell, down the hall, up the stairs, through the first door . . . there can’t be that many more security checkpoints.”
“Actually, there can be.” The woman reorganized a sheaf of papers. “This is your third escape attempt in six weeks, and I see no indication that your inevitable capture is having any effect on your resolve. I’m afraid it’s time to talk about serious punishment.”
“What, solitary confinement?” Standrew snorted. “I love the peace and quiet! Please, put me in solitary for another week and wait to see what kind of escape plans I think up.”
“No, not solitary.” She looked down, almost regretfully, at the papers in her hands. “You’re going to join the Redemption Community.”
Standrew’s face lost its mirth. “No.”
Five minutes later, Standrew was being escorted down the hall by two guards. They entered the solitary confinement wing, descending a flight of stairs and continuing through two more sets of security gates. Rounding a final corner, they stopped at a massive iron door. The thief was shoved through the door into a room that was entirely devoid of light and sound.
Standrew entered cautiously, feeling along the wall until his foot struck something that felt like a bench. He seated himself on the bench in the utterly silent, pitch-dark room and waited.
After two minutes of waiting, he began to chuckle. “I’m supposed to crack under the pressure of being put in a dark quiet room? That’s how they brainwash people into joining the Redemption Community?” Standrew guffawed. “This is better than solitary! No light to distract me. Just me and my thoughts.”
“And me,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Standrew jumped up, tripping over the bench and falling backward. “Who’s there?”
The voice still spoke as if it were directly next to him. “I want to help you, Standrew.”
“I don’t need your help,” he glared. “Show yourself!”
The voice did not heed his request. “Tell me, Standrew, what do you love most about prison?”
“Um . . . ” The thief furrowed his brow in confusion. “It's a prison. So, nothing at all.”
“You don’t love the regiment of hard work that helps build you into a more independent and effective human being?”
“No, of course not! Who are you? Why are you asking me these stupid questions?” Standrew shook his head to clear it. “I’m not going to join the Redemption Community — you can’t turn me into one of those mindless clones to do your dirty work.”
“Oh, Standrew, you have it all wrong,” the voice chuckled. “You already are part of the Community. You always have been.”
A wave of nausea hit Standrew, and he doubled over. His thoughts felt like bubbles in molasses, unable to form themselves into coherent ideas. “What . . . what are you talking about?”
The voice in his ear was almost melodic. “Don’t you remember all the courageous and important work you put towards building the new hospital ward? Just yesterday, you were telling the Community about your dedication to improving this facility.”
The thief stumbled to lean against the wall. His head was throbbing, and a cloud seemed to fill his mind. He didn’t recall doing any of the things the voice was describing, but he also couldn’t picture what he had done yesterday.
The voice continued. “Don’t you appreciate the crisp white uniforms?”
“No, I hate the uniforms.” Another dizzy spell washed over Standrew. “They’re so . . . ” He trailed off.
“You do want to help us, don’t you, Standrew? You’ve always been a pillar of the Community.”
“I don’t think so,” Standrew mumbled, uncertainly. His mind struggled to find a reason to disagree with the voice. “Why would — ”
“This is your home,” the voice interrupted.
The thief staggered. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, this is your home.”
“No . . . it’s not!” He collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t remember what he was doing in this dark room. Why did his head feel so fuzzy? Who was talking to him?
“Standrew. This. Is. Your. Home.”
Standrew stood up. His thoughts weren’t cloudy anymore. In fact, it felt as if a gear in his mind had suddenly clicked into place. “Okay.”
“Excellent,” the voice cooed. “Welcome home, Standrew. The Redemption Community has missed you. There is a door on the opposite side of the room from where you entered. Please open it and proceed through.”
“Of course.” Standrew promptly strode to the door, opened it, and entered into a large warehouse. Workers in prison uniforms rushed busily around the space, moving equipment, indexing packages, and building large machines. Every one of them was smiling.
Standrew walked purposefully to a desk near the front. “How can I best assist the Community?”
The prisoner behind the desk beamed back at him. “Would you care to join the fence maintenance team?”
“Absolutely!” Standrew grinned. Then, picking up a pair of safety glasses, he made his way to the maintenance quadrant, where he would spend the rest of his life repairing prison fences.
“Why do you bother, Stan?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion. “You know you’re not going to escape. Nobody ever has.”
Standrew sat back in the restraining chair, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. “I got pretty far. Out of my cell, down the hall, up the stairs, through the first door . . . there can’t be that many more security checkpoints.”
“Actually, there can be.” The woman reorganized a sheaf of papers. “This is your third escape attempt in six weeks, and I see no indication that your inevitable capture is having any effect on your resolve. I’m afraid it’s time to talk about serious punishment.”
“What, solitary confinement?” Standrew snorted. “I love the peace and quiet! Please, put me in solitary for another week and wait to see what kind of escape plans I think up.”
“No, not solitary.” She looked down, almost regretfully, at the papers in her hands. “You’re going to join the Redemption Community.”
Standrew’s face lost its mirth. “No.”
Five minutes later, Standrew was being escorted down the hall by two guards. They entered the solitary confinement wing, descending a flight of stairs and continuing through two more sets of security gates. Rounding a final corner, they stopped at a massive iron door. The thief was shoved through the door into a room that was entirely devoid of light and sound.
Standrew entered cautiously, feeling along the wall until his foot struck something that felt like a bench. He seated himself on the bench in the utterly silent, pitch-dark room and waited.
After two minutes of waiting, he began to chuckle. “I’m supposed to crack under the pressure of being put in a dark quiet room? That’s how they brainwash people into joining the Redemption Community?” Standrew guffawed. “This is better than solitary! No light to distract me. Just me and my thoughts.”
“And me,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Standrew jumped up, tripping over the bench and falling backward. “Who’s there?”
The voice still spoke as if it were directly next to him. “I want to help you, Standrew.”
“I don’t need your help,” he glared. “Show yourself!”
The voice did not heed his request. “Tell me, Standrew, what do you love most about prison?”
“Um . . . ” The thief furrowed his brow in confusion. “It's a prison. So, nothing at all.”
“You don’t love the regiment of hard work that helps build you into a more independent and effective human being?”
“No, of course not! Who are you? Why are you asking me these stupid questions?” Standrew shook his head to clear it. “I’m not going to join the Redemption Community — you can’t turn me into one of those mindless clones to do your dirty work.”
“Oh, Standrew, you have it all wrong,” the voice chuckled. “You already are part of the Community. You always have been.”
A wave of nausea hit Standrew, and he doubled over. His thoughts felt like bubbles in molasses, unable to form themselves into coherent ideas. “What . . . what are you talking about?”
The voice in his ear was almost melodic. “Don’t you remember all the courageous and important work you put towards building the new hospital ward? Just yesterday, you were telling the Community about your dedication to improving this facility.”
The thief stumbled to lean against the wall. His head was throbbing, and a cloud seemed to fill his mind. He didn’t recall doing any of the things the voice was describing, but he also couldn’t picture what he had done yesterday.
The voice continued. “Don’t you appreciate the crisp white uniforms?”
“No, I hate the uniforms.” Another dizzy spell washed over Standrew. “They’re so . . . ” He trailed off.
“You do want to help us, don’t you, Standrew? You’ve always been a pillar of the Community.”
“I don’t think so,” Standrew mumbled, uncertainly. His mind struggled to find a reason to disagree with the voice. “Why would — ”
“This is your home,” the voice interrupted.
The thief staggered. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, this is your home.”
“No . . . it’s not!” He collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t remember what he was doing in this dark room. Why did his head feel so fuzzy? Who was talking to him?
“Standrew. This. Is. Your. Home.”
Standrew stood up. His thoughts weren’t cloudy anymore. In fact, it felt as if a gear in his mind had suddenly clicked into place. “Okay.”
“Excellent,” the voice cooed. “Welcome home, Standrew. The Redemption Community has missed you. There is a door on the opposite side of the room from where you entered. Please open it and proceed through.”
“Of course.” Standrew promptly strode to the door, opened it, and entered into a large warehouse. Workers in prison uniforms rushed busily around the space, moving equipment, indexing packages, and building large machines. Every one of them was smiling.
Standrew walked purposefully to a desk near the front. “How can I best assist the Community?”
The prisoner behind the desk beamed back at him. “Would you care to join the fence maintenance team?”
“Absolutely!” Standrew grinned. Then, picking up a pair of safety glasses, he made his way to the maintenance quadrant, where he would spend the rest of his life repairing prison fences.