To the extent of my admittedly limited knowledge, the Twilight series belongs solely to Stephenie Meyer.
Follow Me into the Darkness
Isabella Swan slipped on her deep red coat. It wasn't a particularly fashionable piece, the sleeves slightly too short, the collar stiff, sticking up at an odd angle. It was worn in places, faded around the elbows. But it was her coat, damn it, and she was going to wear it if she wanted to.
She smiled down at the dark wash jeans, pulled tightly around her hips. They were comfortable and inconspicuous, her black sneakers much the same.
Isabella didn't give much thought to the clothes that she was going to wear that day. Maybe if she knew then what was going to happen, she would have headed towards something brighter, clearer, more noticeable.
But she never planned to get knocked off her bicycle, and so she didn't head towards the daffodil-yellow shirt, the lime green joggers, the sunset-orange skirt.
Isabella didn't realise, whilst pulling her cream helmet on, shutting the screen-door behind her and stepping out onto the street, that there was a chance that she would be closing her eyes for the final time in just a few moments.
Isabella Swan didn't realise this, so she didn't bother buckling her helmet securely around her chin.
Isabella didn't realise this, and now, of course, it's too late.
Edward Masen swore loudly as he glanced up at the stainless-steel clock, analogue, hanging above his oven.
Edward was going to be late for the fourth time this week. It wasn't so much that he was tardy, more the fact that for the fourth time this week the milk had turned sour. And without his morning coffee, Edward's body failed to function.
Edward Anthony Masen, Edward by his friends, Mr E. A. Masen by his colleagues, was quite a pretentious man. Tennis with the boys every Saturday morning, a painful, twenty minute phone-call with the parents every second Monday, compulsory by law, and a celebratory drink every Friday, five o'clock on the dot. Edward deserved this drink for no other reason than for the fact that he was Edward, and Edward got what he wanted, no exceptions.
Edward Masen fastened his tie, took one final gulp of his now luke-warm coffee, before marching out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Edward didn't realise, as he slipped the black seat-belt around his waist, that being late to work was, on occasion, fatal.
Edward didn't realise, as he turned the ignition, that by pure coincidence a lovely young lady would be cycling in precisely the same area that Edward intended on speeding through.
Edward had no reason to realise this, and so he didn't. And, of course, it's too late now.