He stared intensely at the desk. The characters on all the papers seemed different now. To his eyes, they were not typed, but handwritten. All the papers looked like the personal records of the women here. Everything seemed to have a mark of life imprinted on it. His eyes flicked back forth, to and fro over the crowded desk. He was alarmed. In disbelief his mind raced as he tried to reason with himself. The desk now looked shrouded in dissimilar scraps of paper.
To steady himself, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches and a single cigarette. The crackling of the match as it lit calmed SturmmannDresner immediately. The cigarette remained poised against his lips as he lit it, and in one deep breath, the delight of tobacco rushed through his veins. His tensed muscles relaxed almost immediately. It was a comforting and calming thing, the cigarette.
He was intoxicated by the power he had. Dresner could save these women, the papers. Fold them and keep them in his pocket. Or, he could let them fade away into an existence of merely memories.
He flicked the match to the ground and stamped it out with his heavy black boots. His expression darkened and he began to erupt into fits of laughter. His maniacal fits of laughter caused the cigarette stub to fall from his mouth.
Sturmann Dresner lit another match, except this time; there was no cigarette to accompany it. He flicked the lit match onto the heaped pile of papers on the table. The papers on the table rapidly caught ablaze. The flames danced in front of his dark brown eyes and illuminated the darkened hut.