Perhaps he hadn't been clear enough. They'd all simply misunderstood. They would be here, but they thought he didn't want them to. Yes.

Tears. Not because he was sad. He didn't need them.

They'd be back.

The clock ticked. It wouldn't stop, not matter how much he willed it to. Empty seconds.

Where were they? Were they happy?

His hands trembled. Weakness. His fingers traced along the table, the hard, cold wood.

Were they happy without him?

How could they be happy without him, when he was so alone without them?

They'd misunderstood. He should clarify. Yes.

Call them, call them.

It was weak, but fingers traced the buttons of the phone. They would come back to him. Yes.

No one answers. Do they know it's him?

Jabbing buttons viciously now. The phone must not work. They would answer if they knew it was him. Ring louder.

They would answer.

But they didn't.

Later, later. Try again. Too tired now.

They were all sleeping, that was it. Yes.

Eyes burn, but not with tears. No, not tears. There was not wetness, not on his face.

Shame burns his gut, and sleeves soak up the wet.

They forgot. They were going to visit, but they forgot.

Yes.

He should go visit them...

Just a short drabble about Post-Soviet Russia...*nods*