Author's Note:

Okey-dokey, well sorry I took so long, but here is the newest chapter. I know, it is a sad one, but fear not, for Quil will in back in the story very soon. Very, very soon (hint, hint). I hope you enjoy this chapter, even though it is a little saddening. I can assure you though, it is essential to the plot line. Happy reading, and REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW! The more reviews, the sooner I update. No lie.

I am very devastated to admit that I do not, in fact, own any of the Twilight characters. Boo.

When you're broken in a million little pieces

And you're trying but you can't hold on anymore

Every tear falls down for a reason

Don't you stop believing in yourself

When you're broken

-Lindsay Haun, Broken

Ch.6 Falling Over the Edge

When I landed in Boston, I practically knocked over Dylan as I leaped into his wide open arms, soaking into his familiar form. He nuzzled my neck with his parched lips, and took my carry-on bag from my hand. I only buried my head in his shoulder, hiding the tears that trickled down, without my permission.

He whispered softly in my ear, "Why are you crying, baby?"

I let out an embarrassing sob at the sound of his voice. He smelled like spearmint gum.

He didn't try to ask again, easily seeing I was in no condition for a proper conversation in my current state. He carried me over to the baggage claim, my head still glued to his shoulder, with no intention of moving anytime soon. The embarrassing tears steadily flowed, fashioning my face redder and redder as we walked on.

When he located my suitcase, he set me down gently, and I almost crumbled unto the paisley patterned carpet out of weakness. My legs were like withered stems, sloppily swaying side to side. He grabbed my bag, and caught me from falling just in time, as other people started staring at me suspiciously with apprehensive gazes. He picked me up again, with one arm, and awkwardly dragged my bags behind us, with the other.

When we reached his black corvette, fifteen minutes later, his breath was heavy and spaced. I felt lousy. I had made him carry me, and my bags, while I cried like a baby on his brand new, twill, designer suit. Real mature, Claire.

He set me in the passenger side ever-so-gently and stuck my bags in the leather back seat. I rubbed my eyes, which had stopped tearing a few minutes ago. I looked in the rear view mirror, checking my appearance. The red rims that shadowed my brown eyes were atrocious looking. My black mascara ran down my cheeks in messy, glimmering streaks. My usually silky hair was puffed out in odd places, reminding me of a feather duster.

The ride to my penthouse building was noiseless. Dylan turned to give me a few discerning looks, with his perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowed, and I figured he thought I was on the border of insanity. Either that, or I'd become a drug addict. I felt symptoms of both.

I didn't really feel up to explaining it all, so I silently stared out the passenger window, pretending to be fascinated by the scam artists, pan handlers, and homeless hobos wandering around on the dark streets.

When we pulled into my building's cement parking lot, Dylan helped me out carefully and carried me up to my floor, making me feel guilty all over again. But that still wasn't enough to make me protest.

He walked in without a word or glance in any direction but my face, and he set me gently on my bed, lifting the goose down covers over me. I closed my eyes.

I woke up the next morning with a crashing headache, and I stalked into the bathroom and shoved a couple Advil's down my throat. This throbbing pain in my head was worse than any hangover I had ever experienced. Even the morning after my senior prom.

I looked up from the sink. The monster that looked back at me in the mirror was no longer a person. She was a hollow body, merely an empty frame. Disconnected. Soulless. Heartless.

I felt numb, other than the now subsiding headache, as I ate my yogurt for breakfast. For all I knew, it could have been liquid concrete. I felt no desire to do anything but spend the rest of my life in this chair.

Something vibrated on the table, and snapped me back into my senses. I reminded myself. I am Claire Mason. I am 24 years old. I am engaged to Dylan Sutton.

I robotically lifted the phone to my ear.

"Claire? Honey, are you okay now? What happened?" Dylan's panicked voice whispered urgently. Whispered?

"Wha..." I said, losing the grip on the control of my mind once again. It seemed like the neurons weren't making the connection.

"Are you alright?" He whispered anxiously again.

"Why are you whispering?" I automatically asked, again without any self control.

"I'm just... in a meeting right now, and I couldn't wait any longer to know if you were okay."

His sweet comment felt indifferent to me. Since when? A week ago that kind of comment would have melted me into a puddle of mush. What was wrong with me?

"Claire? Claire, say something", he pleaded.

"I'm fine." I didn't even believe that myself, truthfully. But, I wouldn't tell him that.

"No, your not." Well, I tried. "Claire, go to the doctor, or I'm coming over right now", he commanded, losing his patience with my lack of words.

And then my finger pressed the end button. My finger.

Dial tone.

My brain was screaming at my hands to reach for the buttons to call back, but they just sat there, motionlessly. What was happening to me?

Then everything went blank. Black.

I blinked my eyes open to a ice-white square room, shiny cords laying in a mess all over my body. I had needles in my arm, pumping some unknown chemical into my bloodstream. I could barely see anything because the blinding fluorescent lighting was stinging my eyes.

I was in a hospital room.

"Claire? Honey, are you awake?" Dylan's cold hands were wrapped securely around one of mine. His hopeful face was merely inches away from me, anxiously awaiting my response. I closed my eyes again, praying he wouldn't notice my brief awakening. He sat back down in his plastic chair letting out a "Humph".

The sound of my heart beating was steady, but heart monitors couldn't detect the heartache. They didn't detect that empty feeling, almost like a gaping hole in my heart. They didn't detect the constant throbbing, comparable to a ceaseless heart attack. And they didn't detect the lack of love I had for Dylan, my fiance, anymore.

I fried the image of his face into my eyelids, forcing myself to stare at him, focusing on all the things that I loved about him, somehow thinking that it would change my feelings and I would love him again. But nothing happened. It was comparable to staring at a rock. I felt nothing.

Suddenly, the clicks of a woman's heels entered the room, and I prepared myself for an annoying nurse to disturb my peaceful resting. But, after a few seconds of silence, I opened my eyes a slit to peek at what was going on, still hoping to maintain my 'sleep' routine just in case Dylan was still watching.

He wasn't.

And she wasn't a nurse. She was a secretary. Dylan's secretary.

And they were kissing.

No, let me rephrase that. They were making out.

He was pressing her against the white hospital wall, her elongated legs wrapped around his hips, and her skin-tight gray skirt rising higher and higher with every movement. Small grunts and whines slipped out from their connected mouths.

Why wasn't I angry? Why didn't I feel the urge to go punch them both?

I didn't feel the dangerous temptation for revenge rush over me. In fact, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I watched with a blank mind as my fiance gripped his hands around the secretary's ass, releasing a low groan from his mouth. She was practically squealing now, each one of them completely oblivious to my awakening.

After about a half an hour of total mouth-to-mouth, they heaved sighs of finality and slid off each other casually, acting as if they hadn't just dry-humped each other. She gave him a small red-lipped peck on the cheek while brushing her skirt, before heading back out the hospital room door. He wiped it off quickly after she left. Dylan came back to me, resetting his supportive post by my side. His clammy hands slid around mine again. I opened my eyes, tired of continuing the charade.

"Claire, sweetheart, how are you feeling?" He leaned forward to caress my forehead, assessing my temperature as if he were a doctor himself.

"I think that's a better question for you", I said, letting the sarcasm reap out. He froze. His face was as white as the hospital walls in a matter of seconds.

"How long have you been awake baby?" He asked nervously, his lips quivering a tad bit. He wasn't gonna tell me, unless he made sure I knew already. I wondered curiously how long this 'affair' had been going on, with me unaware. Years, probably.

"Long enough." I separated our hands, pulling mine back to my body.

"Listen, Claire, I'm really sorry. She just was having a hard time, and I was helping her out, and we just..."

"I don't care." I truthfully didn't. I had no concerns for their affair. I had no care for Dylan. I didn't care if they went and had sex right now.

"Please, baby", he appealed, thinking he was going to reel me back to him so easily. I had no patience for his apologies anymore. I just wanted him out of my life.

"Leave."

"Claire..."

"LEAVE", I screamed, and the heart rate monitor started beating faster and faster. Dylan sprinted out of the room faster than I had ever seen him run before. That would be the last time I ever saw him.

Seconds later, a gray-haired nurse rushed in with a panicked expression on her wrinkled face. She scurried to the monitor, glancing back at me occasionally as my heart rate slowed down. Finally, she let out a relieved sigh and walked over to the side of the bed.

"Oh, dear, you scared the bejeebies out of me. What in the world happened?" She asked in a sweet voice that reminded me of my grandmothers.

"Nothing", I answered blankly. I wasn't in the mood for a pity party. I wanted to be alone to figure out what the hell happened to me. What could have possibly caused me to lose all my love for my fiance? What?

My life was a mess.