Stark would be the best word to describe the commandant's office. It is devoid of all but the barest of furniture requirements, which consist of a desk and two chairs. There are neither trinket nor knick-knack of any sort to be found. For this unscrupulous individual there's no place for personal interest in a work environment.
The room itself is mostly dark as the high officer prefers natural light to artificial ones and only turns on a light when it becomes necessary to the completion of his task. A waning commodity in the afternoon as the sun dips low and casts long shadows across the floor. Still, he sits behind his desk waiting for the door to open.
There's a knock. "Herr commandant," a voice speaks from the other side.
"Enter," the seated officer replies while scribbling a note.
The door opens and within steps a soldier. "Herr commandant, there is a prisoner waiting to see you," he informs his superior while standing too.
"Send her in," his superior issues the command without looking up.
"Yavol!" the soldier snaps off a salute and sets his feet to the task as he ushers within a scraggly body.
It could be contrived that at one point this mere vestige resembled something human, but not now, not at this time. So empty is this frame of a person that her presence does not even cause the wood to creak.
The commandant leers at her, before eyeing the soldier standing near. "Leave," he commands with stern words and a sharp eye.
The subordinate complies without a word and closes the door behind him.
For a moment neither of them says anything. The moment passes and the commandant takes control.
"Sit," he commands as he gestures to the empty chair opposite his own.
The woman shuffles as best her weak, almost non-existent, muscles will allow her to, taking the seat indicated. The hard chair leaves much to be desired, but the woman does not even think to complain. For her, it is the best seat that she has had for a long time.
The commandant snaps on his desk lamp and begins rifling through some papers. "You have been with us a long time," he begins while he continues his search. "A very long time indeed." He looks up. "And yet you remain as you have always been. Everyday you grow weaker, but somehow, you do not give in."
The high official stares at the woman. She in turn retains her gaze as best as her hollow sockets will allow.
The commandant stands and begins to pace. "You do not ask for help. You do not bargain with the scavengers. You do not struggle with the rest," he lists her activities, before turning about, facing the beleaguered woman. "Where do you get your strength? What drives one as weak as you?"
The woman's dry mouth cracks open. "Am I permitted to speak freely?" she asks after several moments have passed while her body shakes from the effort.
The commandant listens closely as the weak voice will not carry far. "You are," he assures her and gives a nod.
"Then I will say," the woman starts in and gazes with what little defiance she can muster. "That it is you who are weak."
The commandant is taken aback by the statement and nearly starts to laugh, but he restrains himself and waits for the woman to continue.
After what seems an eternity of silence, the woman carries on. "You believe me strong, possessing of some great power, as though I had a direct line to an infinitely more powerful source," she explains herself while remaining still. "But I tell you that I am only strong by comparison. It is the weak that make me look so." It is at this moment that the woman's stomach growls and is heard by all in the room.
The commandant leans across the desk and adopts his best concerned expression. "Would you like something to eat?" he asks as he eyes a small try of cheeses that had been part of his lunch.
The woman swallows hard and a trickle of saliva escapes the crack of her mouth. "I am too weak to eat solid food, it is the price I've had to pay," she informs her head captor, before turning and leering at him. "But I would ask how long could you go without food?"
The question of food had never once crossed the commandant's mind, but suddenly, as if by a magic spell, the word spoken by the woman causes him to desire it. It even makes his arms go momentarily weak and his body sag.
"You are just like them. You want what you cannot have," the woman points out and coughs. "What good would it do me to fight for the leavings granted us? Why should I waste most of my energy to acquire food so miniscule that it will not even fill half my belly?" She casts her eyes upon a nearby window. "They fight each other and so make enemies of one another. And in this they become worse than you. For they are the roaches crawling atop one another to gain an advantage. But there is no advantage. We are only given what will not be missed, such as the scraps of clothes. And it is this dependence that makes them weak."
The commandant stands and slowly rounds his desk, all the while staring at the skeleton of a figure who had spoken with such vigor. He sits on the front of the desk and crosses his arms. He'd been given much to think about, but still he doesn't have the answers he seeks. He continues to contemplate.
It's then that he realizes. He's deluding himself. Attributing to the woman powers that she did not possess. Making her bigger, by desiring what she alone possesses. He cannot help but view her as some saint or goddess raised above him, set upon a pedestal, but he knows this would do no good. He has to figure out just what it is that makes her tick and if he can't do this then the only way to contend with her, is to break her.
"What is your background?" the commandant asks as he retrieves the papers from his desk.
The woman's eyes lowers. "I do not…" she barely ekes out as she sniffs deeply.
"You do not know?" The commandant finishes her statement in the form of a question and glances at the answer in his hand.
The woman shakes her head as a single tear trails down her face, while her interrogator stares into her eyes, looking for some sign of deception, but there's nothing there. The hollow sockets simply stare back at him.
The commandant curls his chin in contemplation as he gleams over the information in his hand, all of which tells him nothing. Simple child, simple family, simple job, nothing extraordinary. Then he realizes what he had perhaps already known. There is no secret to the woman's strength. Hers is merely the strength of will of the individual person.
This is not a power he could possess. For this power was born of deprivation. Settling for less. A direct contrast to his own upbringing, of taking all he could. To never be satisfied and climb to the highest heights. He could never possess her strength, but neither could he allow her strength to remain.
The commandant had hoped to take her strength, barring that he hoped to discredit her. His offer of food was meant to be a trap. A way of exposing her as a glutton hiding in the skin of a starved woman. Unfortunately, she had not taken the bait. She truly is strong and this strength is noticed by the rest of the camp and if not handled quickly, could become an epidemic.
The commandant stands from the desk and sets the papers down. He rounds the seated woman and removes the pistol on his belt, checking to see that it's loaded. Despite his better judgment, he knows this is how it was always going to end. What a shame, what a sheer waste, but such is what life has allotted to these players.
"I must inform you," he begins and rounds the chair. "That I cannot allow you to live any longer. You are causing dissention and I must put a stop to it." He raises the pistol to the back of the woman's head.
"Then you are here to free me," she responds simply and does not even turn her head.
"If that is how you wish to see it," the commandant replies with all sincerity and charges his weapon as he sets it against the back of her head. "May your god welcome you with open arms." He pulls the trigger and the shot rings out.
The woman's body pitches forward and crumples on the floor.
Just then the door bursts open and two soldiers dash inside, their weapons drawn. "Are you alright sir?" one of them asks as they both note the situation.
"I'm fine," the Commandant assures his subordinates as he returns his pistol to its holster. "Send someone in to clean my floor and remove the body."
"Yavol," both soldiers snap too while one hurries out the door.
The commandant turns and stares out the window, while the other soldier awaits his comrade's return. He soon does with a cleaning lady and hustles her in the door.
"Clean the commandant's floor and be quick about it!" the soldier orders the newly arrived woman before rejoining his fellow soldier.
She quickly sets about the task, scrubbing the blood from the floor.
Dead bodies are nothing new to the cleaning lady and she ignores the body. That is until the face is turned over and she sees who it is. Tears fill her eyes and for a brief moment she gazes at the commandant, but he remains with his back to her. Remembering herself the old woman returns to the task, tears streaming down her face, as she cleans up the mess left behind by her dear friend.
The commandant is alone again. The soldiers had removed the body and the cleaning lady had finished with her task. He continues to stare out the window, before turning and gazing at the wet spot on his floor, anger beginning to swell within him. He clenches his fist and stares. That which he could not possess he would destroy. Even if that meant toppling the world's foundations and letting it all fall down around him.
So be it. Onward and upward. For he's one of the master race. He's an Uber Mench. And they, they, they are the lower forms of life to be crushed. And it would be his jack boot that carries out the eradication. Still, as much as this thought empowers him, the superior of the camp can't help but feel that it's flawed.
The anger is diminishing and with it the strength it gave. No longer does he feel strong. He feels simply, normal. He'd seen the look of the woman and hoped, at least for an instant, that she might attack him. That she would show that she was more than just a defeated woman, but she did not. This infuriated him.
He had not joined the army to crush weak women. He was a soldier and desired the field of battle, but this was the post he'd been assigned and he could not leave it. After all, duty must come before anything, and we are nothing if not the obligations that will always stand strong as our legacy.
The commandant places his hand upon the window pane and allows his emotions to wash over him. It doesn't help. He simply feels too weak at this moment. He watches as the sun slips beneath the hills, leaving the world in darkness. The superior officer dons his overcoat and hat, it's time to go home, for tomorrow is another day.