The Same Hat

           Was it crowded? No, the street was not crowded. Busy, but not unduly so. Despite this however, one man walks alone in the gutter. There is plenty of room for him on the clean pavement yet instead he walks in the mud. Cold rainwater will be working its wet fingers into his well made shoes.
                            He is not a poor man. Today he is heading for the train station. His suit is neat, his case packed and his hat fashionable.  It would be a fair way to walk but he was willing to make the journey. After all, some things are better left behind.
                         A dog barks, he looks up – just for a second – as he never did like the creatures and retained a healthy respect for them. It was only a terrier, and a small one at that. It wouldn't bother him. However, as he glanced quickly back again, his eyes caught those of a man upon the pavement.
                          The man upon the pavement was not much different to the man we know walking in the gutter. His suit was the same, so was his hat, and shoes. Even their faces had an odd similarity about them. They were both heading for the station.
                            As they passed each other, the pavement man spat. Spat right into the gutter man's face. There were others on the street who saw, but they didn't even blink an eye. There could be serious consequences for blinking eyes.
                            The gutter man did not retaliate, without even raising an arm to wipe the spit from his face he walked past.
                             But the pavement man was not happy with this. To him the job felt incomplete.
            Quickly, he grabbed the arm of the gutter man as he stumbled away. The gutter man didn't struggle. There is no point in running once you have been trapped.
                         Pain. It spread its icy fingers over the gutter man's face as his attacker hit out at him with his fists. Lashed. Kicked. Whack, thump, batter, strike. Time is usually a rock solid thing, but pain has an odd way of melting it, of blurring it. The gutter man could remember falling to his knees. He could remember his hat tumbling from his head and landing in the mud beside him. He had clear recollection of his attacker shouting at him, of his very similar hat falling down to rest near his in the gutter.
             Strangely enough he could not remember any passersby coming to his aid, he had no memory of some authority coming to arrest the pavement man, his attacker.
                     Surely though, he must have just forgotten, or perhaps not noticed whilst he'd been swathed in the agony. No one could just walk past that in the middle of the street, in broad daylight. No one. It was inhumane.
                                   The gutter man had no idea how long the torment lasted, and the pavement man didn't know how long he persisted in hitting out at the filth.
                          All that mattered was that it ended. The pavement man stopped, stood up, caught his breath. Unsteadily he stepped back up onto the pavement, where he belonged. A smile fluttered across his lips.
                           At first the gutter man did not breathe. He was too scared to.  Eventually the courage came to him, he let the air fill his lungs. Shakily he mimed the pavement man and rose to his feet. His knees were caked in mud. When he touched his face with his fingers they came away red.
                    Neither of them spoke. In silence, they stayed, staring at the two hats in the mud. The two identical hats.
                               After a brief while the gutter man pointed to one, "I think that's yours."
               The words fell from his lips. He could almost see them as they plummeted from his mouth. Soft and light, yet indescribably heavy.
                         Nodding, the pavement man bent down, and picked up the hat. He placed it on his head before walking away, continuing his journey along the pavement.
             The gutter man waited a little longer. He stayed still until all those who had been watching the attack seeped away, returning to their mundane world.
                       Once they did, he picked up his hat and placed it firmly on his head. Taking a deep breath he followed the pavement man's steps to the train station.
                             There had been only one difference between those men. Upon one's arm there had been a proud black swastika, bold against its white and red background. On the other's was stitched a shabby looking, six pointed yellow star.
                             Yet, essentially, they had both been the same.
                They had both been wearing the same hats.