Over the years it had declined. In less than a month it came crashing down.
Perhaps it was inevitable. No longer was he the strong and fearsome country that had fought with the Allies against Nazi Germany during World War II. No longer was he the frightening Union that dominated northern Eurasia, whose ideals instilled the Red Scare in the American people at the beginning of the Cold War. In fact, he had been sick for many years, growing worse and worse as time wore on. But no one would give up. He reformed; he fought with America; he worked endlessly for the preservation of his status, of his Union, of his country.
Still, Ivan couldn't help but feel the nagging feeling of rising despair as the Union of Soviet Socialists Republics crept on its final years.
When the last General Secretary came to power, he allowed himself a small notion of hope as the reforms began. Working with the General Secretary, the two tried various reforms to preserve the Soviet Union. But it seemed inevitable the children would not agree. His boss eventually lost all power and command, dragging away his remaining warm wishes with it.
December arrived. Ivan hated December. A month of bitter cold, that only served to herald the approaching winter, to plague his children and him with frigid shivers, to remind him of his failures, his mistakes. To host the anniversary of the end that seemed to barrage him so quickly.
The Belavezha Accords were written. A moment he had always dreaded would arrive for the past century. Ivan could barely stay standing as they were signed. He remembered seeing his sisters. Ukraine, Belarus and he; but with the Belavezha Accords they ceased to be the Soviet Union. He knew Katyusha had seen the pained betrayal shoved behind his ravaged eyes, that for once did not reflect a demented optimism. He knew Natalia had seen a starving loneliness stuffed behind his lips, that for once were not cemented in an empty smile in a shaky attempt to hide his depths.
But they did not approach him, for there was nothing they could do. And he did not approach them, for he had not gone to anyone for help since Bloody Sunday and he would not now. The Commonwealth was established, but the Union would be dissolved. It was inevitable; they could never be as close. Not after independence, not after they dissolved. No matter how much Natalia pursued, or how much Katyusha tried, or how much Ivan wished. He was merely one country, living in a large, cold house.
The children would disagree. The children always disagreed. So they all signed the protocol. They signed it to remind everyone that the Soviet Union was extinct. Surely as the white snow fell he was forced to face what he did not want to barely two weeks ago. General Winter always made sure he remembered the important things.
He had to see all of them again: all of the Soviet republics. But he did not want to see them any more; he didn't want to think about the Soviet Union, of how great he had been, of how he had struggled to make the country great again, of how he had failed again, of how empty his house was. He just wanted it to be over. He still felt sick and he was still cold; it was inevitable to fight the dissolution, he knew, and they knew, and inside, he wanted it all to be over.
Even his boss, who had once been an advocate for reforms, who had been so dedicated to preserving the Union, had forfeited to inevitability. He had resigned from office not even a week after the summit at Alma-Ata had made them sign the protocol. Even he had acknowledged their Union was deceased. The man who had worked to save it. What more could he do than resign himself to collapse.
The Supreme Soviet followed suite. As the final puzzle piece was burned, the Supreme Soviet had acknowledged that the Soviet Union was no more. And that was that. Ivan had not seen it. He was bedridden and tired from bankruptcy, and did not wish to meet his new boss, the new president. The socialist state he had worked so hard to establish, in order to save his children, that protected them from the Depression, the he had silently fought America to defend, that they had taken for granted had now collapsed. Alfred's influence would surely see to it that people saw him as little more than a communist, an insane wretch, a fallen superpower.
It was over now. The Soviet Union was over. The struggle for its preservation was over. The fear of its dissolution was over. His mind was crumbling and his body was deteriorating, and only his heavy coat and high temperature protected him from the chilling cold of his own December climate as General Winter knocked on his windowpanes.
For now he would ignore it. Today he would hide under his blankets and bury himself in his pillow, and spend the day picking up the remaining bits of his rationality so that he may remain presentable. Tomorrow he would join the president at his side: a leader and his country. He would follow his leadership and stand up for his children and bury his turmoil and confront the other nations with his same plastic smile and they would fear him and shy away just as they had before. Because it was inevitable that they would.
Tomorrow he would face them. Today he would sleep.