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I used to think we solved our problems. Now I know we just push them far away from us. I used to think that...

I used to think.

Tiles are great. They mean reason. The world is not reasonable. The world was once, and very much still is, chaotic. Fractured. Step outside and look at the ground. You know, not just outside your house. I mean outside. Outside of civilization. Outside of your comfort zone. Outside of control. Step outside of everything you have ever known and then, look down. What do you see? Rocks? Dirt? No rock is ever the same size, or shape or color. Never exactly. Nothing is exactly identical if not made so by a sapient being. Nothing in nature is exactly the same. Ergo, the world has not been created by a sapient being. But tiles have! They are all square. Exactly, identically, perfectly square.

I have not seen a perfect square in eight years.

DAY 1

"Move along..." We moved along through the narrow, straight hallway with a tiled floor in a huge line. We looked shabby, we were wearing torn skins and clenched on fearfully to our broken, dirty, but ever so precious possessions as if someone would take them from us. Of course, that was silly. We were going to get new things, new clothes, new lives, and we did not need any of our old property anymore. But leaving them behind was still hard, of course. We carried tools, weapons, food, and other things of practical value. For years, we had relied on these to survive. What if it was all a dream? What if, without a doubt that salvation has truly come, we would lower our guards, then to wake up in the barren reality with nothing left? No matter how slim the chance, no-one wants to take the risk.

The officers lead us into a great hall filled with chairs. A the sight of chairs, some of the animals just can't hold their composure. They burst into tears of joy, they need the officers to help them walk the few meters to their seats. Once we are all sitting, a door opens in the back. A fox dressed in uniform appears. All our eyes are immediately drawn to him like compass-needles to a magnet. He nods, smiles, closes the door and steps onto a small elevated space of floor in the middle of the room. And then he just stands there for a while. He looks at us as if we are not complete strangers to him. And he speaks.

"Welcome to the first day of your new life. Long ago, each of you has made a bad decision and paid greatly for it. But today, your sins have been forgiven and your souls have been cleansed. Welcome home. Before you lies a new challenge. The long road to rehabilitation; the process of helping you to leave your past behind and become productive members of society once more. Over the next four months, I and the rest of the staff (more animals in uniforms had appeared) are going to help you transform into the people you never had the chance to be. "

"Did he say two months?"

"Shut up! What's two months here to seven years out there?"

Some of the other returnees seem a little disappointed. But they could have known. It would be ridiculous and dangerous to simply set us loose upon society without any kind of instruction. After some explanation of the program we get the rest of the day off to face our first challenge: falling asleep in a bed. Sleeping on the floor would, of course, be far more comfortable, but is discouraged by the staff.

DAY 2

Our first lesson is a presentation on the workings of the government and voting system. It is, luckily, pretty much like in my memory. It ends with a list of names and pictures of the ministers. Strange to see all those vaguely familiar faces of young politicians running the country.

DAY 4

I spent the entire last night in bed, reason enough for some careful enthusiasm. The fox who runs this facility, whom we address simply as Mister, says it is a sign of me adapting already. It was rather funny to see how a pat-on-the-back from him earns me respect and even slight admiration from some of the other rehabilitees, as if a miniscule part of his glory has transcended upon me. The things we learn are mostly boring, but important. We do everything in our power to soak up as much information as possible, though we know it is impossible to remember everything. I thought back to my school days, or at least, those couple days I spent in class. On my first day of school, all I had been thinking about was how to make sure I wasted no more precious brain room on the things my teachers told me then absolutely necessary. I succeeded. Eventually, after a few years, I got all the adults in my life to grudgingly accept the fact that I was not going to school any longer. My parents pretended they thought I was in class for their own convenience, my teachers denied my existence for similar reasons. Had I been half as eager to learn back then as I am now, I might not even have ended up in this whole situation in the first place. You can say what you want about the banishment policy, (I can't, but you can) but it changes people for the better all right.

We do physical exercise as well, not as much to keep fit as to preserve the few good habits we picked out there. Obesity is a major problem in the big cities, and rehabilitees are especially prone to it after such a sudden, drastic change of lifestyle (All the food you can eat, far less need for physical exercise then the last few years). We can eat our way into a heart attack way faster than other people, because we still have a reflex of eating anything we encounter we need to get rid of. We are given good, but carefully measured meals in the process. We still need the staff to control these kinds of things, but they've promised us we could lead fully independent lives in four months. After all, that's what this entire course is about, isn't it?

DAY 18

Today is my first personal conversation with Doctor Rinn, the camp psychologist. She's here to help us with any mental problems that could stand in the way of our successful reintegration. I've had one group session with her and five others so far. She is a skinny, well-dressed bat who's left paw seems glued to a notepad. In our first group session she did not look particularly interested in me, but in retrospect she probably already noticed that whatever was bothering me, if anything, could wait a few weeks until our first personal meeting.

"First off, I'd like you to tell me what you did and how long you got exiled for it." Her directness surprises me, but I am glad we start out with an easy question. "Involuntary manslaughter, eight years"

"How did it happen?"

"Long story. Short fuse, bad friends, argument on the street, stabbed 'im in the stomach twice, ran for it, died in the hospital from blood loss. I'm sure you've heard my story from countless others already."

She keeps writing on the notepad as if whatever she's writing is far more important than our conversation, although I assume that's what she's writing down. Her attitude annoys me, but kind of amuses me as well.

"Mmm... yeah, no." "Excuse me?"

She looks up at me with an expression as if she were explaining how a pencil works. "You can't hear the same story twice from different people. Every past is different, for everyone who ends up outside bars there have been different factors involved in getting them there. I know people with "short fuses", I know people with bad friends and guys who were convicted for involuntary manslaughter, but what I don't know is what made you, you personally, do it, you see?"

I smiled. "So, basically, what you want from me is to tell you everything that has ever happened to me from birth to conviction?"

She smiled back. "Don't be lazy. I want you to tell me everything that could possibly have had any effect on the decision you made that day. You see, my job is to make sure that the person who will leave this compound in 1,5 months is not the same man who stabbed a stranger to death roughly eight years ago, that would make this all a waste of effort and time. And in order to do so, I must know as much as possible about that guy. Spill it."

"In my defense, it wasn't a complete stranger. I had met him a few times before that night. I was with some friends, and every Saturday night, we went clubbing. There were groups like us all over town, and we had been in a fight with them some..."

"Would you say you were in a gang?" The mere thought of me and the guys as a gang makes me laugh. "No way. We were six or seven guys getting into trouble, that's not a gang. Neither were they, or anyone from my neighborhood, though we liked to pretend we were gangs, of course. But that night, in the club, we saw him and he saw us, and we kicked him out of "our" hangout. Or maybe he rang some buddies up and they decided to teach us a lesson... I just don't remember. I had like twenty beers. Maybe some blow too... I just don't know."

It seems as if she has written everything down I said so far, but based on her posture she might as well be doodling. I can't see what's on that notepad, and for some reason that frustrates me. I want to know what she's turning my memories into, how she is sketching my mind in ink my tail is starting to become restless, I could hold it still if I focus real hard. I just don't want to.

"So it happened in the club? Or outside?" "Outside." "All right. I think I can pretty much guess how you were convicted, and did you time out there... Yeah, that's beautiful. Last question, then we're done for today." She puts the notebook in her back pocket and looks me straight in the eye.

"Did you agree with how long you were exiled, or do you think it should have been shorter? "

Now, that one catches me off guard more than any of the questions from before. How can we be done already? I look at the clock, apparently twenty minutes have past. Way more than I would have guessed, but still, rather short for a therapy session. Even if there are others waiting. Are there even others waiting? Is there still anyone outside of this room, or is the clock ages behind? Have four months already passed while we were here? And if so, how would I know? That clock is all I have to tell me time. No sun, no watch, no accurate biological estimate of time.

"I'd say it was about right."

My tail hurts.

DAY 41

I've noticed it becomes increasingly difficult keeping track of the days. Maybe "difficult" is not the word I'm looking for, because they keep a calendar in the lobby. "It would be increasingly difficult keeping track of the days, were it not for that calendar in the lobby" would probably be more accurate. You see, ever so often I catch myself thinking: Was it yesterday or the day before that we practiced working with computers? And I'll ask one of the others, and they'll say:" I don't know, check the calendar." And then I will, and I'll think: Holy smokes, It's been that many days?

The only plausible explanation is that I am bored. Isn't that strange? Shouldn't I be tired, but enthusiastic and satisfied with the progress that I have made so far? The day when I will definitively leave my old life behind and enter a completely new world, planning to remain there for the rest of my life, is inching closer. All the other rehabilitees seem to be, as one called it some time ago, "nervous in a good way" at this prospect. I wonder why I'm "happy in a mediocre way" instead. I have been thinking about telling Mister, or some other staff member, but I don't want them to think I don't appreciate what they've done for me. For some reason, I already think they have their eye on me, as if I fear they find me to critical, too complaining. We all try to be noticed by the staff for our diligence and cooperation, for some of the more insecure among us it's starting to look an uncomfortable lot like groveling. And even though I like to think I am above all that, I am starting to care more and more what my superiors think of me. One of many slow shifting in my psyche that indicate my adaptation to civilized life.

I have been thinking for more than I wish I would have, about what that shrink said to me a few (I don't know exactly how many) days ago. Was it really fair to punish me the way they have? I mean, I did kill someone, but eight years is a long time. What if I had died out there? That would not have been a huge surprise. Many die. I was lucky. Would it have been some kind of "eye for an eye"? it's not, though. I'm still here, while "that guy", whoever he was, is not. Come to think of it, isn't it strange that after all this time, I still don't know anything about him? Nor about whoever is responsible for exiling me. Is there anyone I can hold responsible but me? The judge, the government, the D.A., my lawyer, the writer of the law... Whoever that may be.

Day 55

"Have you seen any significant results from our last conversation in terms of how you see yourself, and this rehabilitation program?"

My mouth is dry, and I'm sweating like a pig. I can hardly believe what is happening to me. A few days ago, I had an epiphany. But not the kind of epiphany anyone here would ever want me to have. It is as if some insect has laid an egg in my body, and it has hatched and now it's eating me alive. Those things actually exist, you know. I've had them myself a few times, when you're out there for so long your chances of never getting "diggers" as they are commonly known, are slim to none. The females sting you, lay eggs just beneath your skin, and they hatch within a few days. When the larva grows, it eats your tissue, and eventually just pops out and falls off. I was horrified the first time. The second time, it didn't nearly scare me as much. I was just happy to be rid of it. I realized that, though scary, the larvae were actually quite harmless. The only risks are infection, and, if they're in a sensitive spot, nerve damage, I witch case you can carefully cut open the lumps and remove them. That's how my idea feels too. It scares me, but I can't formulate a good reason why. So, here goes.

"I have, actually I feel I have not been completely honest with you last time. When you asked me if I felt like I was satisfied with my punishment, I said I found it about right. Tha t wasn't true."

"Do you feel your punishment was unjust? Like you were wronged?"

"No, I got what I deserved. But I feel I have cheated myself by not having the courage to admit to myself what I really felt. I just thought it was a phase, a temporary bolt of confusion, you know? But now I am certain, I knew it all along but now I finally understand. I enjoyed being out there. It is where I belong and I don't want to go back t..."

Those sentences fell out of my mouth faster then I could ever have imagined I could speak. Once I got going, there was no more stopping the waterfall of words, or so I thought, until I ran out of breath just now. But Rinn doesn't take her opportunity to interrupt. She just stares at me with that expressionless, unreadable face I have come to dislike so much.

"It doesn't feel right. I have to get back outside the walls before this course ends, and you have to help me. I have obviously gone crazy and you said it yourself: your job is to make sure no crazy people are released back into society. Wasn't that what you said?"

She puts down her notepad and inhales deeply. She probable doesn't know what to say, how to respond to something so bizarre. Maybe I shouldn't have told her this altogether, but I had to tell someone...

"You are not the first patient who had this problem, but you are the first to be so convinced. Usually people come to me saying that they somehow have had positive feelings or memories about their excarceration, but no one ever actually said they want to go back. " She sighs. "I never enjoy giving up on someone, saying they are a lost cause. But in this case, I feel I have no other choice. Forcing you back into society would be dangerous and cruel. Do not tell anyone else about this conversation or about what you are planning to do, if anyone finds out they will lock you up and fire me. Take what you need. The front gate is there to keep people out, not in. Find a way. And good luck"

DAY 59

There is no-one around at night. Why would there be? I look around one more time as I walk through the hall. My footsteps are automatically silent, there is no sound tonight whatsoever. I open the door and look out to the world. There is no moon, but the shining of a few vague stars is enough for me. I take one, then two steps over the threshold. I am not scared. I close the door and dissolve into my surroundings.

THE END