That night Arthur slept in a shivering ball, huddled under his paper-thin blanket. The silence turned colder as he thought of the warm man that walked into his shop just a few hours previous. Arthur couldn't figure out a solution to this coincidence. Why would he come to see me about a hat? He thought as he laid awake, moonlight pulsing in and out of the room He was obviously wealthy, he bloody came from America, after all. How did he even find my shop? I'm in the bloody backstreets of this damn cold alleyway. Arthur turned over to warm the other side of his body. His thoughts began giving him a headache. The smell of iron always present in his nose. He wasn't sure why this new phenomena happened, but like everything else, he blamed it on his insomnia and overworking.
I hate him. He thought as he shivered under the blanket.
He wants me to take his bait of false hope.
He want's to watch me fail.
He wants me to fail.
I hate him.
He doesn't shiver in the cold every night.
He doesn't hear these voices in his head.
He doesn't work for a damn pound at the end of the week.
So I hate him.
I hate his pompous arse.
He's mocking me.
He's laughing at me in the darkness right now.
Those thoughts continued to run through his head that night, lulling him to sleep. The coldness of the room helped a little, numbing him to the haunting surroundings. Arthur hated his room at night. The tattered curtains did little to block out the smiling moon. He hated the way his dresser stared at him and the way the floorboards creaked on their own. He hated the sight of the end of his bed, two wooden posts that guarded his prison. Even the door seemed to taunt him, looming taller than anything in the sparse room.
Sometime Arthur would wake in the middle of the night and gaze at the ticking clock atop his dresser. Even the clock seemed to lie to him these days. What seemed like hours passed by in minutes. Arthur decided the clock was playing games with him, laughing at the sigh he would give when he saw he had to endure the darkness for hours more. He decided the clock wanted a laugh, just like the rest of his furniture, so Arthur played along until he couldn't stand the laughing anymore and forced himself to dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Arthur woke slowly, his body cold and unwilling to move. The winter weather was approaching quicker than he anticipated and he hadn't had time or the money to purchase more coal for his fire. "Damn it all," he said as he forced his limbs over the edge of the bed. His thinly clothed body was pierced by the morning air and as he coughed into his hands he noticed how visible his breath was.
He looked at the clock sitting on the dresser and nodded at the time. Right on schedule. He thought as he went to retrieve a clean button down shirt and fresh trousers. I guess the clock grew tired of the game. Once clothed, Arthur carefully walked down the creaking steps from his flat and into his workshop.
He scanned the table with scraps of wool and various tools strewn across the surface. Funny. He didn't remember ever being that disorganised. He dismissed the disorder to lack of concentration as he began separating things that were useless and things that were in progress. As he moved his hands across the various fabrics and ribbons he suddenly remembered the day before, and the promise he made to a certain pompous Alfred Jones.
Arthur sighed. Paper was expensive and disposable. Arthur preferred drawing directly on his work area, he claimed it helped him think in terms of actual size rather than scales. He took a piece of chalk from the drawer under the table and carefully cleared a space on top. From there he went to work sketching and designing a hat that would surely make any hatter envious, as well as any aristocrat turn their heads.
Arc. Pattern. Proportion.
Arthur continued to sketch in an almost trance-like state. Unaware to his surroundings he began making his lines more defined, becoming satisfied with the design and construction of the hat. He hummed to himself as he worked, the tune of some old nursery rhyme vibrating deep in his throat. The distant clock ticked ominously in time to his song and he laughed at the sudden thought of the clock singing with him.
Mark. Line. Match. Brim.
Arthur finished his design just as the clock struck ten. He stood back and looked at his finished concept. "I do think that will satisfy that sick bastard's intentions," he stated to no one.
He smiled as he looked at the mess of chalk outlines. Funny, he thought. I never thought spite would be such a persuasive motivator. He laughed to himself and tipped his head as he thought of the bastard wearing this hat, not knowing the hatred that went into creating it. A morbid thought popped into Arthur's mind. He wanted to see his hatred swallow Alfred. He wanted too see Alfred die in that hat. For his creation to follow that blasted aristocrat into the coffin and into the ground. Die with me. He thought.
It was odd. Arthur never had such strange thoughts before. He shook his head and blamed the moment of absurd thoughts on the coldness of the room. He couldn't think strait because of the temperature. That must be it.
He turned to his work table. Quickly deciding to dismiss his previous project and begin work on the finest of them all.