Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
History is wrong most of the time. Even the people involved don't know or understand what happened. The A-bombs in Japan, 9/11 in New York, even the assassination of Lincoln was a lot different than how history records it.
To some degree, that's because I wrote it.
I don't like lying. It's never been my favorite past time. One of my most important lies, though, began in July 1918, in the small town of Yekaterinburg. The Russian village was well fortified for many months that year, and I can still remember the screams of the dead yelling above the fire of Russian guns as the Romanovs were supposedly murdered in the night.
Would you be surprised if I told you that, too, was a lie?
I had Vladimir Lenin and the rest of Europe under my thumb. The Great War, as it was called back then, was still underway, though it had entered its dying months. We had caused it, of course-- what haven't we caused?-- but it was far, far worse than we had dared believe it to be. We, the multiverse's best-kept secret, had failed yet again to stop our influence, our family squabbles, from pouring out into the world of simpletons and tomfoolery.
We didn't mean to start it of course-- who means to kill 20 million and wound more than twice that many?-- but it happened. A multiversal family argument started a petty fight in Europe leading up to the "assassination" of cousin Franz. It was a planned suicide in reality, not that any semi-sane European that knows about me or us would ever admit that, but it's true. Unbeknowst to me, he owed essentially half the world's money to my brother, having lost it all by gambling on an unimportant politic contest in Britain. Rather than consulting me or just refusing to pay, though, he hired Serbians to kill him.
Thus, the whole of Europe went to war rather than looking at me, the lone stable, sane, unmarried Belecthorian woman with a mind of her own-- probably the only one on Earth other than Sophia of Prussia-- instead opting into a more violent family feud.
I did what I could to prevent too many casualties, but at long last, the oh so noble and wise Kaiser sent Lenin to Russia against my orders. (I killed both of them myself for defying orders; Stalin was somewhat controllable, and I promise that the world was better with him in charge than without him.)
In the nick of time, I reached Yekaterinburg and used my prowess of magic to create duplicates of the Romanov family, teleporting them into Great Britain before sending them by ship to New York City. Tatiana, Nicolas, three of the servants, and Alexei all died of influenza after reaching the New World. The girls, their mother, and Dr. Botkin survived.
There's more to the story, of course-- all four girls had children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren (some of them famous)-- but the truth has stayed hidden. Does the name Bernie Sanders ring a bell? Princess Di? Marilyn Monroe? You're welcome, I gave them to you.
"So then why," you, dear reader, might ask, "are you recording this in a journal?"
To that I say, "Why the hell not?" If this is ever found, it just means the truth will be out, and the truth, at best, makes the birther theory seem to be far more acceptable than it really is (no, Obama is an American, he was born in Hawaii).