The Death of Susan Boyer

“Anthony Boyer”.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

The pencil scratched against the paper as his eyes wandered off, almost immediately trying to get away from doing his essay. He had been putting it off for weeks, Wesley had already gotten his done, which said a lot considering Wesley rarely had his work in on time. Anthony could get essays done like no other, especially when it was an academic topic. But a personal essay? He erased his name.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

And his pencil stopped once more, right before the red line on the left side. He lifted and put his pencil back down against the smooth, creamy feeling of paper the pencil lead snapped. A yell from across the house echoed through the empty halls. Yet all Anthony could do was stare at the broken piece of lead, unattached to the rest of the small, wood-cracked pencil he gripped in his hand. Another yell. And then a meek female voice. And then a screaming match. His hand gripped tighter against the wood before it fractured into splinters, scratching the skin of his fingertips. “Jesus Christ.”

The teenager stood up, opening the door gently, watching through what felt like an eternal hallway and seeing his mother and father spitting at each other, screaming, one significantly louder than the other yet no matter how loud the other was, neither of them were listening.

“Robbie, please-”

“Don’t you fucking call me that, you whore, I would kill you if I had the chance.”

Anthony tensed slightly at the words. He knew his father wasn’t a murderer, nor did he have intentions but sometimes Anthony believed he was close to snapping.

“Tony can probably hear you, quiet down, you’ll scare him!”

“The boy needs to learn what the real world is like, I’ll hit him harder on the back of the head if it means getting some sense into him!”

“He’s sixteen, he doesn’t deserve this, you need to stop hurting him-”

“If he’d listen and start acting like a real man, maybe I wouldn’t have to!”

Anthony watched. That's all he could do. He didn’t want to interfere. He didn’t want to yell back at them. And at this point, the voices were meshing together and he couldn’t decipher which one of them was which. His body felt numb, felt weak. He wanted to lie down but he needed to listen. His parents were arguing because of him. They were screaming at each other because he couldn’t be a person properly. Because he can’t listen to his father or “be a man”. It was his fault.

“Robbie, please, you can’t keep doing this, it’s hurting him,” Susan cried, grabbing Robert’s arm before being slammed into the stove behind her, the skin against her wrist sizzling against the burning grill. She yelped, her tears flowing more as she held it, Robert not having a care anymore. With one hand grabbing her wrist and the other grabbing her hair down to her scalp, he slammed her back into the running stove, the red grates and burners scorching against his wife’s soft flesh. A scream emitted from the kitchen, with her flesh boiling and hissing against the heat. Robert didn’t have anything in his expression other than anger. He had no sympathetic reaction to his wife’s burns and scars forming. Her cries for help only fueled him more, clutching her hair and impacting her face into the burners. She could feel her vocal cords strain, almost rip as she attempted to cry out, with how much agony she was experiencing. Susan’s eyes were wide, shutting her eyes almost instantly as soon as her eye touched it.

Her lips were scarred with the grill imprint on her face.

And all Anthony did was tighten, stiff in his place in front of his bedroom. His mother’s screams went into his ear but never went out the other, instead settling inside his head and crowding it, not being able to hear anything else. His voice was quiet, it felt childish as he called out for her. “Momma…?”

His voice wasn’t heard, his mother and father yelling overpowering it as Susan was yanked and thrown to the wooden floorboards, her flesh bubbling and almost melting and dripping with blood. Grabbing the back of her head and her jaw tightly, Robert split her jaw, dislocating her jaw and kicking her head back down. “Fucking bitch.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat, her head, her scalp, her eyes, her lips, her arms, burned and bleeding rapidly. She was crying and it was unimaginable how much pain she was in. Every tear burned like molten lava dripping down her face. Robert stared down at her, disgusted, uncaring, pissed.

Anthony watched him hit her, watched him rip out her hair, punch her teeth in, dislocate her body parts just to make her pain last longer. She fell to the floor, not getting up, not crying anymore, not breathing anymore, laying inanimate underneath the man she had once loved. As Robert stomped his wife’s head, a loud crack rang around Anthony like a wind, the boy felt his air get sucked out of him, his lungs out of breath and his eyes glassy, his body aching, and his intrusive thoughts replacing the cries of help his now silent mother once screamed. Police sirens were heard outside, loud, so loud that his father covered his ears a bit. Neighbors chattered outside, worried and watching as the police stormed into the Boyer house and tackled Robert. Anthony was still, as still as his mother. His mother was dead. His mother was dead. And all he did was stand there. He didn’t help her, didn’t reply to her pleading for someone to help and fight for her. He didn’t call the police. He didn’t fight his father off. He didn’t run out for help. He didn’t help her.

“Kid, you okay? What happened?”

“I think he’s in shock.”

“What’s your name, bud?”

Anthony finally glanced away from the horror of his mother’s dead body, his green eyes now looking at the faces of the police officers. “Anthony.”

“Anthony? Hey, Anthony, my name is Officer Johnson, we’re going to bring you to the station, okay?” The police officer said softly, blocking Anthony’s sight to the kitchen.

Officer Johnson was tall, taller than him, taller than his father. He didn’t quite remember how tall his father was. Officer Johnson brushed his blonde hair out of his face, and his kind and warm eyes gave Anthony a smile. Anthony didn’t smile back.

“Johnson, I’ll get the mother, you get the boy?” The other officer clarified. Officer Johnson nodded, turning back to Anthony almost as quickly as possible. Anthony nodded slightly. He followed him to his front door and his gaze landed back on his mother. His dead mother. She laid there, her face almost unrecognizable with her jaw too far to the left, her nose crooked, her left eyeball almost falling out of its socket with dripping red burned tissue barely holding it in. Her lip was curled upwards a bit, stuck like that with the wounds intacting it.

“Momma.” Anthony muttered, the officer leading him grabbing his jaw and turning it back forwards to not look at her. The other officer covered his mother in a white sheet, and for some reason, Anthony’s mind immediately went to peace. She wasn’t just dead, she was at peace.

✧—---------------------------------------------✧-------------------------------------------------✧

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

“My momma’s dead.”

“I know, Anthony, I’m sorry. Can you tell me how she died?”

Officer Johnson looked at Anthony with gentle eyes, he’s only ever seen those eyes with one other person. A notepad was on the metal table, a pen in hand.

“Anthony Robert Boyer”.

“Robert Boyer, Susan Boyer”.

“16, birthday 03/19/1938”.

“Family essay??”

Anthony had read over those notes multiple times, and each time he felt like he couldn’t remember past his parents’ names. He stopped reading the notes.“I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Can we talk about something else at least? Maybe about the essay?” Officer Johnson asked, tilting his head again. Anthony stared.

“The essay is ridiculous,” Anthony started, fidgeting with his fingers, his thumb rubbing the palm of his hand to calm his cramping. He never knew why his palm was cramping, it had been cramping a lot recently. And it was only his right one. Officer Johnson gave him a look to continue, his pen clicking with the tip of it ready to write at any moment. “It’s Honors English Literature 3, I should be learning analysis, how to look at the little things in writings, not write an essay on personal experience, what good does that do? I want to think deeper about english, not be a fucking writer.”

“I get that, writing is difficult,” Officer Johnson replied, his hands intertwining with each other as he listened. Anthony had never been listened to this long by an adult except for teachers, but they only listened when he had something academic to say. Officer Johnson’s brown eyes were gentle, not judging, not yelling at him to knock off the cussing. They just listened.

“And Wesley’s already finished his essay which is absurd because he literally never finishes his work but the one time he does, I’m behind and I don’t even know if I’ll have time to come up with something to write before tomorrow,” the boy responded, thumb digging into his palm like a coal miner. The pressing hurt, but it was either the cramping or the pain.

“Who’s Wesley?” Johnson asked, trying to get Anthony to open up more about his personal life. Hoping, praying that the boy would open up about something.

“McCormick, he’s my best friend. He’s going to be an actor, you know? Stars in every school play and he always does great.” Anthony leaned back, chuckling a bit. “Every time after one of his shows, we go to the diner a couple blocks away and we talk about how everyone else did wrong in the play and how he did fantastic. We’ve been doing that since grade school.” Anthony paused for a moment, his hands stopping as he took a deep breath in. “Shit, I’m missing his show..”

“You’re missing his show? Is it today?” Officer Johnson scribbled more on his notepad.

“Wesley McCormick: best friend, actor, school play, diner”.

“It’s right now, he’s Riff in West Side Story, and he really wanted me to come see it, he bought me the tickets,” Anthony said, guilt eating at his flesh like a piranha. His palm hurt again. “I told him I wouldn’t miss it-”

He didn’t know why he was hit with such sudden anxiety, hit with such sudden fear. His leg bounced, the fabric of the slacks rubbing against the metal leg of the table, the shifting noise filling the room besides the heavier breaths. Tears brimmed from his eyes, hands in fists, and body trembling. Touch was the last thing he expected right now.

Officer Johnson laid a hand down against Anthony’s fist, prying it open gently and gripping it. “You are okay. I promise you.”

“I’m missing his show-”

“You are not going to be in trouble for missing his show. Why are you panicking? What’s going on?” His voice was calm, there was no mocking or judging or annoyance, it was just gentle.

“Wesley will hate me.”

“No, he won’t. He’s your best friend.” Officer Johnson wrote in his notepad again, keeping it out of view of Anthony, who was calming his breathing and grinding his right palm into the corner of the table. Officer Johnson wrote more.

“Talk to Martha about counseling”.

Anthony just nodded, he knew he was being irrational, but suddenly he had a constant fear. A fear that he knew wasn’t going to go away, at least not tonight. He wanted to see Wesley, call him on the telephone outside, but he knew he wouldn’t answer. He was performing, expressing his happiness on the stage. And Anthony was stuck here, chained to the invisible ball of his trauma.

“Wesley does acting, you said? Do you have any hobbies? A girlfriend? Hanging out with friends?” Officer Johnson urged, finally putting his pencil down and tilting his head as Anthony began.

“I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Valerie, she’s super pretty. And smart, and fun. She parties a lot and that’s pretty cool because I get dragged along to them. Have you ever, like, touched the petal of a rose? And there’s that softness and smooth feeling? That’s what her touch feels like. If I could marry her now, I would.” Anthony said. He loved Valerie, and she knew that. But he couldn’t help the constant feeling that Valerie didn’t love him, that she was so much farther ahead of him. Her spotlight shone only on her, and with every light there was a shadow.

“She sounds like a delight, do you hang out with her a lot?”

“I do. But it’s usually with friends. My parents never really let me hang out with her because they caught her smoking. Which is hypocritical of them because I saw them smoke all the time.” Anthony said, his voice getting quieter and quieter as he continued. His parents hated Valerie, thinking she was a horrible influence with her smoking, yet Anthony grew up in a house surrounded by gray clouds of nicotine. His parents were just as, if not more addicted. His parents. There was a pause. “Do you think they hated me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think they hated me? My parents?”

“Kid-”

“They wouldn’t hurt me if they loved me, right? Wesley’s parents didn’t hurt him or Jim’s, or Val’s, or Lizzie’s, or anybody’s but mine. Why did I have to have parents that hated me?”

“It wasn’t your fault, kid. Some people aren’t made to be parents and you certainly did nothing wrong. Not even a little bit.”

“Then, why would they want to hurt me? I was four. How could they have already hated me before I was even able to give them a reason?”

Officer Johnson took a deep breath. “..Because your parents were horrible people. They treated you like you were a worthless mutt on the side of the road. They didn’t give you the love you deserved and by the looks of how they treated each other, their own spouses, it looks like they didn't have much love to give in the first place. You were four. None of what they said or did was ever your fault. None of it.”

“I tried to be good.”

“I know you did. All you wanted was to be loved, I know. And I promise you I will make sure that you will get the comfort and love you deserve.”

Anthony could feel tears brimming at his eyes. His hands clenched against the hard wooden top of the table, the cold touch sending a shiver through his body. The room was cold, like ghosts were surrounding the area. Anthony rarely cried in front of people, and it was often that he would shut himself down completely instead of letting the tears spill. But he wasn’t this time. A salty droplet landed on the table, before breaking the molecules and splattering. And it happened again. And again. And again. Until Anthony began to tug at his sleeve and rapidly wipe his eyes, the rivers stopping only for a brief moment before flowing down his cheeks once more. “I hate my parents.”

“And you have every right to. You have every right to feel how you do. They failed you as parents and they failed me as people. You are safe now. I promise.”

His legs curled up against his chest in the chair, the soles of his shoes barely on the edge of the seat as he closed himself off. The pencil met the paper again.

✧—--------------------------------------------✧--------------------------------------------------✧

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 11th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

“I am sixteen years old. I turn seventeen next March. For the sixteen years I’ve lived, my identity felt as if it was set in stone. Us as humans develop ourselves through our environment, our likes, our dislikes, and most importantly: the people we grow with. Our first look at life is seeing the faces of our parents glimmering down at us, and our first interactions and displays of how people act are through our parents, carrying on and moving just with their day to day life. Family defines a name, defines safety, defines love. And us children mimic ourselves after them, attempting to just simply fit in with society. If we see love, we mimic love. If we see stress, we mimic stress. If we see violence, we mimic violence. Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves.

“My identity was carved through fear and violence. The people holding the knives were my parents. My parents started fighting early on in my childhood, screaming or hitting or hiding from each other. I watched my mother cower in fear because my father broke the glass of our gun case. He had threatened to shoot both my mother and I if we wouldn’t stop crying about stupid things. I was six and the stupid thing was being slammed into a wall by him five minutes previous. He had held the gun with one hand, my mother’s hair in the other, and he mocked her as he nudged her temple with the tip of the gun and his pointer finger on the trigger, acting as if he would push it. That was the day that I had first thought I was useless. That I had defined myself as nothing but pathetic and useless. The concept that I believe I am pathetic and weak only creates chains around me and prevents me from keeping myself from ever asking anyone for help because I believe I am not strong enough to deserve that attention.

“When I was younger, I used to believe I deserved what I had gotten, what cards I had been dealt. And it pains me to say that sometimes I still do. My memories of my home are only devoured by my anxiety by the fact that I even have to step foot into that place again. I can never say that I didn’t learn stuff from my parents, even though I still don’t know how to tie a tie or drive a car or order food for myself at a restaurant; instead, I learned what to say when walking on eggshells, what footsteps belonged to whom, how to identify moods depending on mannerisms. I learned survival, not safety.

“Last week, I watched my father brutally hurt and kill my mother. My name had been brought up in the conversation previous of it. My mother was not my mother when my father was done, she was barely even recognizable, but that was my mother. And to have some of her last words being my name screamed, to hear some of the words that I last heard from my father be my name with such an angry tone, only added to how I see myself. The guilt has eaten at me. I am a horrible son. I am a horrible friend. I am burdening. I am pathetic. I am unlovable. And I am a disgrace to my family’s name. The way that my father defined me, how he saw me, only made me see it in myself more because he was my blood, and the person I was supposed to look up to the most and the person that I was supposed to think did no wrong. And if he thought that I was a horrible son, a horrible friend, burdening, pathetic, and unlovable? Then, so be it. Robert Boyer had shaped my thinking about myself more than I had even thought. Because my parents were who I was supposed to look up to, and who they taught me to be, who they were, had already created the traumatic identity shaped into my very body.

“Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves. My parents are gone, and my stepping stone is twenty feet below the surface level, the level most children start. My biological family created who I am now and with my own actions, my found family will create who I will be. I am not the case of ‘the boy whose father killed his mother’, but I am the boy who survived it. My identity lasts every day but everyday I get to pinch off their effects little by little.”