The Last Day of Edward's Live–Part 2

"Never try to woo a woman empty handed—we love to feel cherished and pampered", his mother used to say. Smiling slightly, Edward left the coffee shop in pursue of a gift of flowers to his lady love—although Rosalie couldn't fully appreciate the gesture, he still wanted to do something nice for her. An inscrutable sense of melancholy sat heavily within Edward's chest while he made his way to the florist. The sun was hidden under a thick layer of clouds; nevertheless the world seemed to have acquired a vivid array of colors, each blending into the next, as if the world were a mad artist's canvas. Edward fancied he could hear a music playing in the background—almost like a soundtrack for the mundane act of walking.

When he got to his destination, Edward couldn't help but hesitate before crossing the threshold of the charming little place. In its window sat a line of vases adorned with tiny little bluebells … The sight of such an unpretentious flower made him want to howl in despair, because underneath its delicate appearance lay the strength to endure the worst of weather and in its simplicity it was more beautiful than the other garish flowers that usually attracted the eye.

An epiphany fought its way to the forefront of his mind, but it was a lost battle. Edward regained control of his wayward emotions and shook away his strange mood. He had no business noticing bluebells, for he'd come for Rosalie's favorite flowers. While he waited for the lilies-of-the-valley to be arranged into a pretty bouquet, Edward tried to envision the future that had been so clear just the other night. For some unfathomable reason he couldn't, and that only added to the maudlin thoughts darting through his mind.

After receiving his purchase, Edward should have left the shop, but he couldn't—his feet seemed glued to the ground; his mind debating whether he should or should not buy some bluebells as well. Or if maybe he should return the flowers he was holding and leave the shop with only the vase of bluebells. For him it was merely about flowers—Edward refused to acknowledge the symbology of the choice he was about to make.

Had he been a better man he wouldn't have debated which flower he should pick—he would have known beyond a shadow of a doubt. But Edward wasn't a better man—he was merely a better version of his teenager self and a very far cry from the man he could have been, had he picked the right girl. He stood trapped in a moment of indecision when an electric blue van came careening into the shop, throwing him into the air. As his body hit the wall and his neck broke, Edward's only thought was how he wouldn't have to decide which flower he liked best after all.