USSR

I sit here, helpless, body failing me, mind still sharp but trapped. Like bird in cage, I can see, I can think, but I cannot move. And I watch. I watch as Stalin—this crude, quiet man—takes everything. He moves slow, like wolf in winter, creeping, waiting, watching, before he strikes.

Once, I thought he was just tool, useful but nothing more. Not thinker, not leader, just man to do dirty work. But now I see—he was never just tool. He was blade, hidden in the dark, waiting for moment to cut.

Trotsky—ah, Trotsky! So full of words, full of fire, full of belief. He thinks he can outsmart Stalin, outtalk him. But Stalin does not talk—he waits. He lets others wear themselves down, fight among themselves, while he stands silent, patient, like shadow in corner of room.

Zinoviev, Kamenev—they think they play game of politics. They think they control Stalin. Fools. They do not see what I see. Stalin is not playing game—he is changing board itself, moving pieces while they still think they hold power. By time they understand, it will be too late.

I try to stop him. I write, I dictate, I warn Party—"This man is dangerous! He must not have too much power!" But what happens? My words ignored, buried, forgotten. Even now, he smiles in my face, pretends to be loyal, but I know truth. He does not need to fight me—he only needs to wait. He knows I am dying.

And when I am gone? Who will stop him? Who will stand in his way? They will think they can, but they are wrong. Trotsky, so proud, so sure of himself—Stalin will break him. Zinoviev, Kamenev—he will turn them against each other, then crush them both. One by one, they will fall.

Revolution was supposed to be birth of new world, free of tsars, free of tyranny, free of one man holding all power. But now I see truth—revolution does not belong to those who dream it. It belongs to those who survive it. And Stalin… Stalin will survive us all.