His comrades used to call him Watchman, but definitely not for perfect vision. Hell, he had known it was horrible ever since the day in fifth grade that he realized his failure to see the board was why he couldn't understand basic geometry. So he got glasses, and the day he did he started to notice the small, strange details of everyday life. Desks that had been shifted half an inch, phones in pockets they normally weren't, pencils sharpened, shoes soiled. Nothing escaped his attentive (albeit heavily corrected) eyesight, and watching people became his favorite hobby. This fact eventually and inevitably lead to his nickname. His brothers in arms were understandably grateful for this innate ability; it meant every glint in a church tower was one less solider bleeding on the street, every wire one less explosive dismemberment. But regardless of their gratitude, none of his compatriots came to visit him now. To be fair, most were long since dead from combat, or cancer, or some other ungodly disease that plagued the elderly; those who were not in the grave quite yet couldn't make the trek to his rest home considering their old and forsaken bodies had slowly degenerated into useless husks for weary souls. He was aware of the difficulties presented by these complications, but still wished for the occasional communion between warriors.
They didn't come, and so he spent his days looking out of the second story window of the "home" his children had unceremoniously discarded him in. To be fair to his children, the abandonment didn't bother him, in fact, he almost enjoyed it. Peering out the second story window from his wheelchair was his favorite part of the morning, and arguably his favorite part of the day. A quick scan by his scrutinizing gaze revealed that the 802 bus was running late again. He found it somewhat humorous that the countless businessmen and women were so irked by this five minute delay when he would have given anything for a five minute break in schedule to have a meaningless conversation with someone who wasn't absurdly senile or doped to high heaven. He was about to shift his focus elsewhere when something caught his watchful eye. It was a man, but business wasn't an adjective that could be used to describe him; the man simply did not have the business feel about him. No suit, no briefcase, no shoes that were just shined for five bucks a pop, and to the Watchman's amusement, the man tried to converse with his fellow bus patrons. His efforts were promptly met with cold glances and several hearty doses of disdain. The man, now despondent, continued his nervous fidgeting, reaching his hands in and out and in and out and in and out of his left jacket pocket. The Watchman knew by the man's actions something important was protected by the thin veil of fabric, but the object remained hidden in complete disregard of the Watchman's observational prowess.
Then something diverted the not-quite-businessman's attention away from his pocket. A young woman and her date were walking hand in hand across the street, and the man was intently ogling them as they shared a laugh. The man began to follow their path, matching the couples speed on his side of the street, staring at them the whole time. The Watchman couldn't blame the man for his curiosity, after all, the woman was gorgeous, but nevertheless it was a bit unusual. The Watchman concluded that the man must know one of them, nothing else gave reason to the otherwise inexplicable behavior. And as the two silent spectators watched, one walking and the other wishing he could, the couple kissed deeply and passionately. The man, as if possessed, stepped out into the busy city street and began to gravitate towards the couple. Several cars swerved around him, making gestures that were no doubt accompanied by words that shouldn't be used in polite company, but the man continued his trance-like walk heedlessly. One of the drivers tried to break the stupor by using his horn, but to no avail. However, the loud sound did cause the couple to disengage themselves from each other. The beautiful woman glanced around, trying to find the source of the disruptive noise. Her eyes locked onto the man in the road, and shame flooded over her features.
The 802 bus was running late again; the driver was in a panic. If he got fired, it would be the third job he had lost in as many months, and he had a wife and several lovely children to take care of. The stress was overpowering, and he ripped around the corner at high speed, nearly tipping the bus. Unfortunately for the bus driver there was an oblivious man standing in the middle of the road. Reaction times were not quite fast enough, and bus impacted the man with a sickening crunch. The Watchman followed the man's trajectory across the roadway, a single tear was visible on the man's cheek as his lifeless body collided with the ground. And finally, the illusive object fell from the his pocket. A black velvet ring box slid softly to the ground, and laid next to its deceased owner. The Watchman wheeled himself away from the window as the first screams echoed down below. It was almost lunch time, and he didn't want to miss the jello that was served. Eating jello was his favorite part of the afternoon, and arguably his favorite part of the day.
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It came to me after reading a similar flash-fiction on reddit. Feedback would be appreciated.
