This story is a fictional story about Alfred Hitchcock. He often credited this situation to the inspiration for his madness. So to speak. Well I hope you enjoy.
SINGERBOY
Alfred Hitchcock:
Broken Teacups
“What was your inspiration to make such horrifying films, Mr. Hitchcock?” A reporter for some magazine I don’t really care about asked me that question. I thought about it for a quick second, and began my explanation.
Well, it probably started when I was four. It’s a very enchanting story. I reached deep down into my memory and pulled it out, recalling every detail in my mind. That cold, cold
Leytonstone morning. Leytonstone, England was the place where I was born. It was frightfully cold that morning due to the rain storm from the previous night.
I sat at my dining room table, enjoying my toast and bacon. As usual mother prepared everyone, including myself, a warm cup of English Tea. Mother could make the best cup of tea around. Anyway, once I’d finished the semi-cold meal, I guzzled my glass of tea. I looked around trying to figure out what to do
with my teacup. The stack of dishes in the sink was almost as tall as me, and it appeared that one more item on the pile would cause the entire stack to topple over. So I threw it behind me, letting it fall where it may. I tended to do that a lot as a
child, actually I do that a lot now. However, that was a big mistake. For the teacup fell on my father’s shoeless foot.
He cried, “That’s it Alfred Joseph Hitchcock My foot has had enough
abuse You’re going to run this house bare of teacups. If I was in my right mind I
would drive you to a cliff, tie a rope to your feet, and hang you off the cliff. Like
my father did to me.” My heart was pounding. My fear of heights was almost as
bad as my fear of eggs. “However, I have something else in mind,” he said.
“You’re not going to hurt him are you dear?” asked my mother, not looking up from her pile of plates.
He said, “No. Now you sit there boy, and don’t you dare move ” My father
left the room and went into his study. My muscles were as stiff as they could possibly be. My skin turned cold and goose bumps appeared on my flesh. My hands shook uncontrollably and I lost all feeling in my legs. The fear of not knowing what was about to happen was enough to make me ill. My mother glanced at me briefly, but long enough for me to capture the look in her eyes. The “Now you’ve done it Alfred. Your father is furious” look. I hated that look.
My father re-entered the room with a piece of paper. “Alfred, would you
please take this to the police station. I need to let the captain read it. And do not stop at the market to beg for food, you filthy boy,” he said.
That was it No beating, no yard labor, nothing That’s not like father at
all Something was wrong. I became more nervous as I got out of the chair. I didn’t know if father was going to kick me as soon as I had my back to him or what. However, he did not have the chance, because once my little, fat, porky feet touched the hard wood floor I was out of the door. Of course, I was so frightened for my behind that I forgot to put on my overcoat. The chill from the wind was almost paralyzing. Our little suburban town was deathly silent. It was extraordinarily frightening, come to think of it. The thud of my feet on the concrete sidewalk rung like a drumbeat as if it were a play and something bad was
about to happen to me.
My heart was racing so fast that I began having trouble breathing. I felt like
my little heart was going to give out, and I would become nothing more than a fat boy lying dead on the street. Sweat began to perspire from all parts of my four- year- old body. Before I knew it, my vision became blurred with tears. The tears were like little droplets of failure. They burned as they attempted to escape my eyes, and roll down my squirrel cheeks. The tear tail caused the wind to make my face even older. It began to feel as though my tears would freeze to my face.
On my way to the police station, I passed the market. Oh, how I was tempted to waddle over there and steel a piece of chocolate or a piece of cheese. But my father’s voice came back into my head telling me not to stop at the market. The cruel tone of his voice gave me chills, or maybe it was just the wind. I didn’t need the food anyways, I was a fat little child and my love for food would only make me crave more food. So, I kept walking.
I was about two blocks away from the police station when I walked past my
church, I was very tempted to run into the cathedral and pray to God, to save my life and not let dad come up with some strange way to punish me. However, I did not want to do this because, every night mother makes me stand on the edge of her bed and answer questions about my day to her. I just never could lie to dear old mother. No matter how odd she may have been.
I was there. In front of the police station doors. My heart beat was the only thing I could hear. That constant Thud one’s heart makes when he’s thinks he is about to walk into certain death caused my hair to stand on end. My legs shook as I climbed the concrete stairs, and the note in my hand shook so violently that the wind could not keep up. I couldn’t help thinking to myself if I would ever come out. My mind began to race at the thought of how many fugitives have entered, and now I was going to enter a home for murders and robbers. I came inches away from vomiting on the steps.
I pushed the door open and handed the Police Chief the note my father had given me. I turned to walk away. “No so fast lad. Come here a moment,” he said from behind me.
Is something wrong sir? I asked as innocently as a mischievous boy of four years could ask.
He responded, “Yes. As a matter of fact there is.” The Police Officer grabbed my arms and slapped a pair of handcuffs on me. At that moment I felt as if all of my freedom had just left me forever. He continued, “You’ve been a bad boy. What a shame.” He opened the door of the nearest jail cell and threw me in there. Frightening looking men, and even a few women, were locked in the jail cell. I turned around and began screaming.
The Police Chief just looked at me giggled. He giggled Here I am a four- year-old boy locked in a jail cell, scared for his life, and the man laughs I turned around looking for a somewhat clean place to rest. I spotted a place in a corner that seemed suitable to rest my bottom. Once I sat down I looked at everyone inthe cell. To my astonishment, none of them looked at me. Not one person thought it was strange to see a little boy locked in jail.
The cell’s occupants were almost as frightening as the actual place. There was one man who went by the name of Andrew sitting next to me, and he had the habit of passing gas every ten minutes of so. The woman across from me went by the name of Rose and she was gray in the hair, missing most of her teeth, and had a most irritating twitch in her right eye. There was another woman that was often sitting on the men’s laps and whispering something in their ears that made them blush. Then, there were two men who had been arguing using words I’ve never dared use in my lifetime. The next thing I knew, they were clawing and hitting at each other like two cats fighting for day old fish at the market. It was odd to say the least. I wonder how many were real psychos.
I found my self looking at the cell window. Although, the window was bard it still taunted me with the thought of freedom. That’s why those windows were in the cells; To show prisoners what they were missing. Freedom. I began weeping into the palms of my hands. My cupped hands could not hold the amount of tears my eyes were producing. However, the lady sitting on top of all the men hadmoved to Andrew, and when she realized I was crying she pulled a handkerchief out of her brassier and offered it to me. I politely declined, and looked out the window again. A bird sat in between the bars, and looked at me. I had the strongest desire for the bird to fly through the window and peck out the police
officer’s eyes.
“Alfred Joseph Hitchcock, you are released. This is what we do to naughty boys. And do remember this or else you’ll be back for another five minutes.” He pushed me out of the door and I ran home. Once I got there, I told my parents and all they did was laugh.
Sorry I must’ve lost myself in thought for a little bit, sir. I hope you don’t mind if we cut this short. I have to go. I told the reporter getting out of my directors chair.
“What’s so important that you have to leave me without answering my last question, Mr. Hitchcock?” The reporter asked angrily.
I’m hungry, I answered honestly.
