"A thanks to all my tears
Who were always there in my darkest times when I was alone."
This book is not about my pathetic pitied self. Perhaps that's all they'll ever see me as, perhaps they'll always assume that I was the victim. Perhaps this will...
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For some reason I was painting Napoleon. Maybe it was because my boyfriend was so obsessed with him. But all I knew was that I was painting Napoleon.
I was painting his world renowned picture so I could gift it to him. I had always admired Napoleon and Alexander, and all those who had tried conquering the world.
Without the unsatisfied ones there would be no development. I admired their courage, I admired their arrogance, I admired their need, I admired their hunger.
If I were them, I would've never been able to do so much. I would've never been able to believe in myself that I would be able to do it.
They were known everywhere. They had historic places named after them. They believed in themselves, and that was why everyone believed in them, why everyone was scared of them.
I loved Napoleon's horse. It looked so brave and strong, and had contributed so much to Napoleon's success. I spent more time painting his horse than I spent painting him. I was trying to find the right stroke, the right brushes, the right knives, the right direction.
Painting Napoleon was easy. He was just another man. A man I admired, but at the end of the day just another man. I had painted many men so it wasn't hard for me.
I video-called Reece when I was done with the painting. I didn't bother washing off the paint, I was too excited to do all that.
Reece was happy to see the painting, I could tell from his expression and the tone of his voice. He was happy with what I had made for him. And then he told me those words I would always remember,
"That's the white horse I would sit on and conquer the Europe and then I'd make you my queen,"
I didn't figure out whether he actually meant that he wanted us forever or not, but I was too flushed to think so much.
"I love you," he spoke, bringing me back from my flustered state.
"I love you too," I lied. White lies were my favorite and it hurt me saying those words. He didn't see through that lie. I didn't want to lie to him, but I didn't want to hurt him either.
The next few weeks went by with a routine. Everyday after school we would talk for an hour or so and every time before ending the call he would say 'I love you'.
Sometimes I would say it back.
Sometimes I would just say 'me too'.
And sometimes I would just change the topic.
He noticed it. I could tell that he did. Cause he started saying less, and it hurt me, but I was certain he was hurt more.
I didn't want to lie much to him. I hated lying to him. I wished we would be able to have one proper conversation, but I felt like that would be rushing things too much.
