Nick Dunne:

The Night Of

Discipline is something Amy never lacked. When she told me that she was going to kill herself as a final nail in the coffin, I didn't doubt it for a second.

It's because of that discipline that when It happened, it felt so unnatural. I wasn't like a hero from one of the movies Noelle had given us to watch. (Bitch had so many. Honestly, there hadn't been a week without her unwanted visit at least once. At least Amy suffered too. She had dug herself in this hole herself, after basically telling the whole world that Noelle was her best friend.

She at least still felt guilty for believing I had murdered my wife. Although nowadays the intent was there more than ever. )

Still, it happened. Amy simply told me her water broke. No yelling or crying, or hysteric dramatics. She just told me after walking down the stairs. I jumped from the couch, newspaper forgotten, and grabbed the bags that Noelle had forced us to get.

Shoved them in the car.

Gently, shoved her in the car.

Rode off.

We got to the hospital and I was asked if I wanted to come in. It was one of those things that the old Nick, (or is it real Nick?) would have not done. A part of me didn't want to. I didn't want to associate the first memories of my son to be with her.

We were still pretending though.

Pretending is all we had left.

I had pretended I wasn't afraid of my wife, I had pretended that I was ashamed and didn't want to look guilty and thus lied about my credit cards, I pretended that I was afraid of how it looked like being found with everything in the shed, and I was afraid that I would go to jail since I was the only suspect yet no body had been found. Rhonda backed me up, and to be honest most of police didn't even care anymore. The case was done, and the less they saw of me or Amy (even if it's in my own mind I refuse to call her my wife) the better.

"Sir, would you like to come in with your wife?"

I looked up and nodded. Of course I nodded.

What kind of husband isn't there for his wife? In our household, a dead one.

I was excited to finally meet my son. I wouldn't be like my father, but I was also afraid. Go was right when she said I would explode. It had only been nine months and I was ready to explode. Sometimes I would go stay with her for a day or two, to get away from her. She allowed it. I was a dancing monkey.

Then it happened.

The monitors beeped. The screens flashed red. Inexperienced nurses panicked, while the veterans took charge. A doctor pushed me out.

There was a complication and I perked up. The doctor assumed it was worry and it took every fiber in my body to not make the same mistakes. I did it though. I had learned. As much as I hate Amy, she did teach me a lesson. So my face was tight, a little stoic, but my eyebrows knitted in concern.

At the very least, I didn't smile.

When they asked me whose life should I save, Amy's or our baby's, I had to restrain myself from yelling out, Him.

I pretended to mull it over. I paced, and paced.

The doctor told me I had to hurry.

I couldn't be too fast though; my decision had to be sincere.

"His."