This is the censored version of this chapter, adapted to comply with Tapas’ content guidelines.

This chapter deals with a non-medical abortion, experienced in a state of distress and isolation. This scene may be emotionally challenging.

First day of May, in the year 2548, in one of the homes of the Tsadquiel lineage.

I had never known such silence—neither in the house nor in my own mind. Nothing resonated anymore; nothing existed. There was only this heavy stillness—heavy with the weight of the act I was about to commit; heavy with the weight of my fear. Everything came down to this: it was unbearably long to my eyes, absurdly thin, and so cold that I shivered just holding it between my fingers.

The click of the door locking behind me froze me in place for long seconds. Terror blurred my vision in countless ways. My steps were heavy on the wooden floor, deafening for how brutally they shattered the void reigning around me. I dragged myself toward my bed, breath ragged, hands trembling, trying to climb onto it. My legs were nothing but frail twigs, fragile and pitiful, yet still ready to flee, to escape from my own punishment.

I fell between the sheets—cold, glacial—just like this home; just like this Society. And I suffocated in it. I suffocated in this house, in this room, in the street, in his bed. I disgusted myself, even more than the most revolting dish, even more than I hated him and his status… my status. My trousers slid to the floor with the familiar sound of fabric crumpling, and my head sank into the pillow. Above me, the ceiling stretched out.

That green canvas dotted with silver stars made me want to vomit. I saw myself there, night after night, day after day, praying for it to end quickly; begging for the weight of his body not to remain on me any longer—or for it to press down until I died. And I would have preferred that, yes. Then I wouldn’t have needed this rod. It had waited for me, watched me, called to me every minute God had made.

After the celebration, those loading rods from old rifles had become easy to access. Stealing one had certainly been the simplest part of all this.

Almost naked in the sheets that had seen my blood more than once, I lifted my shirt to bite down on its hem. With my stomach now exposed, I could see its slight swelling. The characteristic swelling of life carried one day or another by every bearer. And I hated it. What it represented was unbearable, insufferable. What could destroy life if not a tool of death?

Loading rods were once used to fill black powder weapons meant to take lives. Today would be no exception.

Opening the drawer of the small nightstand near the bed, I grabbed the bottle of lubricant, opened it, and let it pour generously over the long rod. There was no sound; no living soul who could stop or interrupt me. There was only me, my pain, my despair, and my guilt. Only my own fear and my own torment—no support, no comfort.

I raised my legs and slid the icy rod into my opening. My jaw clenched harder around my shirt, already soaked with saliva, while sweat dampened the sheets. The frozen kiss of metal against my intimate flesh was like the bite of winter in its coldest stillness. My hands were as fragile as an autumn leaf fighting to cling to its branch: one held the rod as firmly as I could manage, and the other stayed hooked beneath my knee.

I smothered my suffering by biting into my clothes. I bit as hard as my teeth allowed when the first sharp pulls of pain struck. Sometimes it seemed I could feel the heartbeat of the embryo, as if reminding me of what I carried—of what mattered—but in those brief moments, my gaze latched onto the ceiling of false stars, and I remembered.

I remembered all the horrors I had endured within these walls; everything precious that had been stolen from me. So I did not give up. To give up was to accept that this embryo would suffer torments similar to mine. I could not allow that, so I continued my impious act, despite my deepest and most intimate wish. I didn’t stop, because I knew I would not be capable of starting again if I did.

Suddenly, a violent pulse—more shredding than anything I had ever known—tore through my hips, my stomach, and my womb. In truth, it was impossible to know where the pain truly began, but it spread like thousands of bites and blows through my entire body. I stifled my scream, piercing my own tongue as one nearly escaped. My throat tightened as my vision blurred with tears.

To be so violent to my own body—one that had already endured a thousand abuses—was a cruelty I knew I would never forgive myself for.

I felt something give inside me—in my body, in my heart, in my hollow shell. A silent crack, throbbing, pulsing, unbearably agonizing. My body shook, I released everything, and screamed. Heat spread between my thighs, that familiar warmth of red flowers blooming through the harshest pain. Flowers that always bled onto the most fragile flesh; onto thighs that had never asked nor consented. With each stabbing wave of pain, those flowers bloomed and spilled in a rush, spreading from my opening into the sheets, up my back where the agony tore into me.

I couldn’t even pull the rod out. I wanted to throw up. The taste of the act, of that glowing red, rose into my throat. I felt like I was dying, like I was losing something important that I would never be able to recover, and yet…

Amidst the chaos—between my screams and the others calling me from the other side of the door they were breaking down; amidst the carpet of burning flowers and my icy tears—one thought persisted:

I had succeeded in sparing the embryo from the torment I lived.