All Russia could see anymore was darkness. Like his own personal sun had been snuffed out, leaving no light for him to move by, no light to see where he was headed. He was unsure where each step would take him. If he would be safe, or if his choice of action would send him tumbling into a never ending precipise.
Where had his sun gone? Why had it left him? Where was every ounch of assurance that Russia had ever had?
He was scared, horrified even. He could so easily turn to ruin with just one wrong move. He was scared to move. He didn't want to make the deciding error that would kill him.
He could leave that to his leaders, as he had for over 70 years. They knew what was right for him. Lenin, Stalin, Malenkov, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Mikoyan, Andropov, Chernenko, and now Gorbachev. They had known what was right for him. He could blindly follow their lead and not worry if his own actions would be those that would bring him down.
Did he need his little sun back? Did he need his driving force?
With the sense of pain that radiated from his being, he wanted to question the acts of those who led him through the years. There was always the promise that the pain would stop, that Russia's people stop dying for needless causes. But it still hurt. He could feel it in every nerve. He could fix it, maybe. If he knew what he was doing, he could fix it.
One wrong move and he could ruin it all.
All Russia could see was darkness.
Where was his sun?
AN: How in high heaven did I ever forget about this? It sat on my jump drive for a while. Enjoy!
