She was taken from me, by the cruel man, that sick bastard I called a father. He discarded my mother, had her killed so he could marry a younger woman.

My mother, Anne, she loved me, she raised me with callused hands and sweat beaten brow, without any help from my father. It wasn't like she was his first or true love, He had had two wives before her, and he had only married my mother for her beauty. Perhaps it was her naivety to have fallen for a rich old lard, but she did, and oh how she fell hard. That man, all he ever wanted was a son, his first 2 wives had failed at this. While one was able to give him a son, my brother died in early infancy, and along with the first wife she had been tossed aside. Then of course he met my mother and she had me. No, I wasn't born male, born with Guevedoces meant I was a girl, and there was no indication of otherwise, so of course I was raised as such. With the only love given to me from my mother she dressed me in dresses and played with me every chance she got while my father looked on in disgust, he had me, a daughter, a useless female who had no rights to his land, fortune, nor the right to carry on his name. To him, women were nothing but cattle, to play with, breed,  and do house work, nothing more. He certainly held no interest in having another one leeching off his money supply. He mistreated me, reminded me every day of the kind of garbage I was, how I was a disappointment, a stain on his family name. How dare I be born a female, about how our family line was known for its proud primarily male dominant bloodline, yet here I was, his only living child and female. I'd watch as he'd mistreat my mother, grip her tightly by her blonde hair and yank her to the side of his throne he had built to inflate his pompous ego more. I'd hear her screams and crying as he held her up by the fist full of hair in his hand, spitting cruel words at her before tossing her away. Every time she tried to fight back shouting would break out, and she be met with a heavy-handed slap to he cheek, before that man would kiss ass, beg her to stay, promise he'd change, oh and how she kept falling for his lies. Time and time again, encounters getting more and more violent, glass bottles being thrown, being cut by glass he intentionally held to her skin, threatening to burn her by lighting her hair on fire with a nearby candle, burning at her skin with said candle. and every time, begging for her forgiveness like a manipulative scoundrel. Twisting her defenses, 'proving' to her, it wasn't as bad as it really was, convincing her there was a reason, making her believe this was natural, normal, okay. Making her think this was HER fault, SHE was the reason for his lashing out, and everyday she was yanked from my hands to have this done to her right in front of me. As I got older, he didn't spare he any longer, gripping my hair and pulling me by it when things didn't go his way with me, using my mother to force me into submission to him, and using me against her. Several years into this my mother's spirit was finally broken, she had gained the lost, dead look in her eyes, she stopped carrying and she stopped loving. She became the mindless drone of that Sick twisted Henry. She had become obedient, like a well trained dog, doing whatever he asked, and doing well to avoid conflict with the obese hairy pompous bastard. As the years went by I continued to be belittle, degraded, miss treated by my own father. When I reached eleven the man had taken things too far, taken them to a SICKENING place. I had been playing with my mother, learning things and having fun with a much less lively and much more depressed woman whom was the only person I had ever loved, when that man came in, plucking me by my hair like a butcher plucks a bird's feathers, before dragging me off. I kicked and I screamed and my mother tried to protest, but there was no stopping him. He dragged me into my room before........he did things unspeakable.... to his own daughter. For several years before this, his perverse ways had begun to show when he'd come into my room at night and make me change in front of him, he'd tell me to wait after removing my underwear and he's just look, and stare, before allowing me to finish changing and leaving my room. Never had I told a SOUL of those nightly visits, I was too scared, too terrified of his wrath, I was innocent, Naive, oblivious. Was this how a father was supposed to treat his daughter? However, the day he took things too far like an angel, my mother found us at things came to an end, she screamed and shouted, and she threw things at the man and he retaliated, hitting her, beating her, but he had done her best to fight back. Luckily, things came to an end before my mother got killed, however, whatever relationship this family had before this, had fallen apart. My mother had begun her escape with me, planning, writing out these plans as she came up with them each night while he slept. The exchanged between then were short and held with lingering hostility, of course my mother still looked after me but even then she was much more quiet, and reserved. Sadly, happy endings don't exist, the bastard's servant had found the folded notes in my mother's desk one day while cleaning and like a loyal servant, passed them on to my father, who read them and had then, made his decision to get rid of my other. If she ran he'd still be legally bound to her in marriage and wouldn't be able to marry another, but if she stayed he'd get nothing from her, their relationship was beyond saving, sooo He hired an assassin. He hired assassins to kill of my mother as she went out one day to tend the garden, something she had built as a means of release, escape from the vile man, and here he used the very thing she loved to kill her. From the window I watched helplessly as the Aarde assassin grew the plants of the garden with their magic and wrapped silently, quickly, and tightly around my mother's throat, before squeezing the life out of her. Then, as quickly as they wrapped around her throat, the plants returned to their normal size and I watched helplessly as her body dropped. As she was breathing her last breath I saw her turn and reach out an arm to me, her daughter in the window, Unable to hear my warnings through the thick glass pane. With that, the assassin was paid any my mother's dead body was carried away and any evidence of her death was scrubbed away by some lackies.

Now I was alone, stuck with the vile man I called father, the man who violated me, with the only person to ever care about me gone, dead, murdered before my own silver eyes. I was horrified, I could feel the bile rising in my throat I watched her die and I couldn't save her when she reached out for me, all I could do was sit and watch. What was an 11, going on 12, year old to do? The death of my beloved mother hit me hard, I became isolated as much as possible mute when I wasn't forced to speak. I kept to myself, but this didn't stop the occasional beatings, or the endless cruel words, belittle me for my gender, and not only that, but now for having a 'weak and disgusting mother'. During this time the man found another wife, much younger than my own  mother had been, the 2 seemed happy together and it didn't take long before another child came along. My little sister, Elizabeth. Now, she was female, but my father didn't mind anymore, perhaps he was just so in love with the new wife that he accepted their daughter, or in his old age he accepted he wouldn't be able to make anymore children anyways, either way he had loved her along with his wife. Elizabeth grew up being spoiled and treated with all the love my father never gave to me or my mother. A few months after my twelfth birthday, I have begun to change, I was.... becoming a boy. It was strange how it worked, I had....new parts forming down below, not only this but my voice was cracking and male puberty had begun for me. Here I was, Alone with no one who loved me, my mother death, and turning into a male without any adult to guide me alone the way. My voice got lower and lower and my father didn't seem to notice or care as my sister grew, sadly though, my step-mother fell ill. She wasn't the type of ill you got better from, she became terribly ill and was confined to the bed, for weeks she stayed there with my father often avoiding for his breaking heart and my young sister being looked after by the servants. One day, however, when we all awoke, we found her lying death in her bed, of which my father had her buried near the home. He of course began to grieve, he became angry, furious at the gods for treating so a 'wonderful rich, glorious man this way', and unfortunately, he took this anger out on me beating me more frequently and more harshly than he had ever before, spouting cruel words to me as he did so. Occasionally he would hold his own daughter and fawn over her, she looked so much like his recent beloved, and he couldn't help but love her so much and so dearly, however he was no father and had to keep relying on the servants to raise her. This never changed, our lives went on like this, rage taken out on me, the only son of the man who had always longed for one, and all the love given to a daughter he once seems to think were nothing but disappointments. If he had ever found out I was male, he didn't care, it was past that, if there was anything worse than getting a daughter it was a son with some defect. So finally, when I was old enough, I stole some money, gathered my things and I made my escape, I ran and I ran, as far away from that god awful mansion as I could and I built my home, here. A small little home away from that sick man where I could finally begin to live normally, alone in the cold arms of darkness, isolated from others, safe from harm from others, where trust was foreign and human touch was nothing but a myth, a reminder of what was lost, and what tortured me through the years.

~Murray ̶T̶u̶d̶o̶r̶..... Murray Boleyn