A/N: This prompt seemed wayyy too predictable…so I made it something completely different than you might be expecting. It's the shortest chapter by far…more of a drabble but I like it!

The pain of waking to an empty bed just before dawn is more physical than you could have imagined. It's not just emotional or mental pain you're feeling, it's the visceral sensation of having your insides torn out. Lying quietly on your back in the dark, your fingers move across the rumpled sheets on the opposite side of the bed as you flash back to the previous night, doing your best not to cry.

It had been dark when you'd finally finished up the final SAT prep course of the year, the stressed and anxious seniors drilling you with inane questions for an hour beyond the usual cut-off time. You had sleepily made your way home, wondering if Will would be waiting. Wondering what state he'd be in if he was.

He'd hidden it so well at the beginning, the whiskey in his coffee, a few shots of tequila before Glee club, a few beers during the game that turned into half a case before you even realized. You'd asked him to get help, to stop drinking, and he promised he would. He didn't.

When you pushed open the door you were delighted to see the table set and dinner waiting for you, Will acting the perfect gentleman and not seeming the least bit intoxicated. You allowed yourself a glimmer of hope that he was serious about no longer drinking.

When dinner was finished Will led you to the bedroom and offered a massage, entirely platonic of course. You had accepted and somehow let yourself become swept up in the sensuality of touch, only to find yourself writhing beneath him as he snatched your virginity away from you. At first, when you realized what you were doing, you panicked but quickly you find yourself overcome with lust, raking your fingernails down his back as he thrusts deeply within you.

In the afterglow you try not to show him how disgusted you are with the sweat and body fluids when you dash to the bathroom and into the shower in an attempt to get clean again. He must notice because when you return to bed, you can smell the alcohol. And so the argument had started anew.

"Will," you began exasperatedly, "You said you were going to get help. You said you would stop drinking."

At first he tries to lie, "I haven't been drinking Emma. I haven't had a drink since you asked me to stop," you can hear the defensiveness in his voice.

"Will, I can smell it."

"It was one drink Em, some people have a cigarette after sex, I like to have a couple fingers of Scotch, what's the harm in that?"

"You have a problem Will! It's never just one drink with you! I need you to get clean if this is going to work between us."

"God Emma, I don't need to 'get clean'," the snarky sarcasm is biting and you winced, "I'm not hooked on heroin; I like to have a few drinks. As far as I can tell, you're the only one with a 'cleaning' problem here."

"Then I guess there's nothing left to say," you told him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying.

"Fine, if that's how you're going to be, I guess this was all a big mistake," Will shouted, gathering his clothes and yanking a half empty bottle of Scotch from beneath the bed before storming out of your bedroom. You jumped as you heard the front door slam behind him and you took a moment to gather your thoughts.

Once your heart rate had somewhat normalized and you had stopped shaking quite so hard you moved slowly to the front door, finally giving in to the tears that had been threatening as you bolted and chained the door. You slid to the floor, leaning back against the cold hard wood of your door and cried until there was nothing left and you felt utterly empty. Almost drunkenly you staggered to your feet and trudged into the bedroom, falling exhausted into the rumpled bed sheets.

Silently you contemplated Will's parting remarks. You know you have a problem with messes and with things being dirty but was it really a problem of the magnitude of problem drinking? Your instincts would say no but the seed of doubt had been planted nonetheless.

The sun is just starting to break the horizon and you find yourself resenting Will, not only for his own personal issues but for the depth to which he gave yours. You have always understood that you have issues but you have always managed them so that you could function. Will was a teacher, he couldn't be drinking on the job, it wasn't right.

But then, might some not argue that you shouldn't work as a guidance counsellor with so many issues of your own? Isn't it possible that if parents and students knew the extent to which you suffered from OCD, without seeking any treatment of yourself, that they may fight to oust you just as they would Will if they knew his secret?

The intricacies of the arguments playing out in your head were making it ache so you are dragging yourself from bed in search of Tylenol when your phone rings. The phone falls slips from your fingers and breaks apart on the bathroom floor when the state trooper delivers the news,

"Ma'am there's been an accident. William Shuester was driving under the influence of alcohol last night and his car was hit by a train. He's in surgery now, but your number was in his phone for emergencies. You might want to come down to Memorial, he didn't look so great going in."

Up next: first person Emma, drama, beach