Over the next few days Arthur gathered the materials for the hat, making sure to pay the top price for the fabrics. He wanted to drain Alfred of the money he did nothing to earn. He wanted to take part in his downfall. Arthur smiled at each pound passed and each coin traded for a material. He laughed between each step and paid no mind to those who stared as he passed by.

Arthur laughed as he walked back to his shop, materials in hand. He threw the basket of fabrics onto his work table and felt his face heat up at the thought of those fabrics being buried with that smug bastard. He continued to smile at the materials as he laid them on the table, but then he questioned his motives.

"Perhaps," he said to himself. Lately his thoughts had become more vocal. "Heh, perhaps I don't hate the bastard," he continued as he stared at the somewhat smudged chalk drawing on the table. "No, of course you do," he answered himself, unsure why he suddenly felt the need to. "He hasn't worked a day for those clothes on his back." He then laughed at the thought of the man trying to do any physical labour, even with the aid of his toned stature. "Then he walks in here, willing to throw money at me like some kind of whore to make him a damn hat he doesn't even know the function of…what game is he playing with me?"

Arthur thought of his furniture and compared them to Alfred. He decided this aristocrat was indeed like his dresser, staring at him, waiting for him to fail. He decided Alfred was like the clock, lying to him and playing games of mock sympathy. Alfred was the bedposts in his room, always there, watching and waiting.

Arthur hit is palm on the table in response to his conclusion. "Damn him," he finally said. He looked at the basket of wool parts and felt baubles. Filled with unwanted and unwelcome thoughts, he overturned it in a single motion.

He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm his heart. It was odd. In the past few weeks Arthur had become out of breath more easily. He blamed the majority of his health on the cold and the shortness of breath on the bitterness of the winter air in his lungs. He cursed the winter winds for the redness of his face and hands when he looked in the mirror; he even shunned the smiling moon for his insomnia, but nothing, nothing was as bad as the lying clock.

"Might as well just get this over with," he told himself, bringing his thoughts back to the present task. He stood at the table and retrieved the objects he had thrown from the basket. From there he began measuring and cutting the fabrics to match the pattern he scrawled on the table.

Progress was slow. Throughout the period of measuring and outlining Arthur continued to catch himself zoning in and out of concentration. The room was growing darker as the light from the day began to fade. He lit a few candles and told himself to keep working if he wanted to stay on schedule. As the shadows grew larger Arthur noticed the lack of progress he continued to make. The clock was about to strike midnight when Arthur caught himself spacing out again.

"It's all these damn breaks!" Arthur shouted at nothing. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his tired eyes. "It's his fault," he said into his cold palms. "It's his bloody fault! What is the damn point of this anymore?" He blinked as the room seemed to grow darker despite the lying clock's chiming.

Only the scattered pieces of wool fabric remained visible in the candlelight. Arthur pushed these pieces together to made a little wool pile that seemed larger because of its dancing shadow. "He wants to see you fail," he whispered to himself. "He won't even pay y-Go to hell!" Arthur screamed at his own voice.

He noticed his conversations more often now. Arthur couldn't remember ever having talked to himself so much. Was it something new? Or was it always there and just never noticed. He couldn't remember anymore. Arthur laughed at his own pathetic state. "He wants to see me fail?" He whispered to the dancing candle flame. He grinned, "Not a chance in hell. I hate that bastard. I'll make him this damn hat if it kills me." He then rubbed his face with his hands and stared back at the materials.

Pin. Cut. Snip. Stitch.

Again those words echoed through his ears. The clock ticked in the background, but Arthur didn't hear it. He was too focused on the task at hand. Sitting in the dark room with the candle wax dripping onto the table, Arthur laughed. His manic state fuelled his determination.

Arthur slashed the fabric with a twisted smile. His hands shook with lack of sleep. He hummed various rhyming words and whispered secrets to the darkness. Unaware of the hour Arthur continued to work, always debating his feelings towards Alfred. In one moment he loved the man for giving him work and food money. In the next moment he despised the man, questioning every gesture, every second of his presence in the shop. Luxury was rare, so what game was he playing?

Over the next two weeks Arthur's mind had split in two. The deadline for the hat was approaching and he continued to question everything, even the shadows that mocked his progress. Some nights Arthur would just sit and stare at the laughing fabric. Some nights he would laugh with it as he stabbed it with the needle and thread. That'll shut it up. He thought in those moments.

A bloody lovely idea popped into Arthur's head. "I'll make sure this man dies with me. Ha! I don't even know why I hate him. Oh yes you do. No, he's just a bloke. No, he's lying to you. He's mocking you even now." Arthur looked at the fabric where a loose stitch was waiting to be pulled tight. The crisscrossed threads laughed at Arthur. He smiled back at them with a lopsided grin. "Yes," he said. "I'll make sure your mocking face dies with me."

Arthur calmly opened the drawer where he kept his tools. He began rummaging and throwing various items against the walls until he found what he was looking for. Carefully he pulled the stitch tight, shutting it up for a moment. He took the pair of scissors he acquired from the drawer and began cutting more fabric.

Arthur laughed into the darkness. "This is personal now, you see," he told the almost complete top hat. He cut the fabric with precision and calmness. He then lay the blade to his wrist. The same precision and calmness. Again Arthur laughed as he felt the chill of the blade glide along his hot skin. He whispered rhyming words to the fabric in his own morbid lullaby. "Poetic isn't it?" He asked the hat. "Because, you see, this blade works both ways," he licked his wrist. "Something so beautiful was made with something so destructive. The best thing is, no one will ever know. It's funny, you should be laughing!" He shouted to the hat. "No, I didn't think you would understand. You see, I created you. I signed you with my blood." Arthur continued to grin, but the hat was not laughing anymore. "Why aren't you laughing, you damn hat!" His voiced wavered as he screamed those words, the room suddenly felt colder to him.

Arthur ignored the hat now, he was pleased with his morbid secret. He told the darkness in the corner of his eye of this little incident. He thought of Alfred wearing the hat proudly around the town square, unknowing of the twisted secrets that lay behind its production. "That bastard," he spat in the middle of his conversation with the shadows. "He won't even know of this little secret."

Arthur continued to laugh in a deranged state as he worked on the hat through the night. In the morning he didn't remember when he had gone to sleep or if he even slept. All he knew was he suddenly found himself, facedown on the table, his wrist scabbed over and dried blood in circles under his arm. The hat was sitting on the working pedestal in a ray of sun.

Arthur lifted his head with an ache in his neck. "Funny," he said to the hat. "Even now you mock me. You stand in the sun as I bow before you. You will fit perfectly with that bastard of a man. In fact, he should be picking you up today."

Arthur quickly grabbed a piece of paper, saved from weeks ago. He wanted this paper or a special occasion and what was more special than this? He took a jar of ink and a pen and began writing his note to Alfred. Once he was satisfied with the message he picked up the hat and note. He glanced at the clock out of habit more than curiosity. Arthur had no care for time anymore, it lied to him anyway.

With note and hat in hand Arthur walked to the front shop where sunlight burst through the unclean show windows. He set the hat on a pedestal atop the counter and placed the note beside it. He smiled once more at the proud hat, bid it farewell, then entered his workroom to finish what he had started.

Arthur sat in his creaking wooden chair and grabbed the scissors. He stared at them with admiration and hatred. He laughed at the blades edges, his reflection visible in the metal razors. With a smile and a tip of his head he cut into his wrist with the same care and precision he used to make that bastard's hat. The lonely nights were over, the coldness of the dark winter finished forever. The laughing would cease and the starvation would end. No more lying clocks.

"Oh Alfred," he whispered to nothing once more. "I do hope you enjoy that damn hat." He laughed again, and closed his eyes. "I really did go through so much trouble to make it perfect." The numbness was already seeping in. The fabrics no longer mocked him, and the hunger in his stomach was lost. He heard the scissors hit the wooden floor as he inhaled deeply.

Dark. Numb. Peace.