Page 114 of Infamous
I stare at him. The words don’t land right away. They hang there, floating above me like smoke.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, too softly. “You won’t be able to carry children.”
The world goes silent. Utterly, violently silent. There is no air. No sound. No pulse. Just the hollow echo of that sentence.
You won’t be able to carry children.
Something breaks loose inside me. My hands fly to my stomach before I even realize I’m moving. It’s bandaged, swollen, alien. I dig my fingers into the sheets, shaking my head. “No. No, you’re wrong.”
“Nadia -”
“No!” I scream it this time, the sound scraping out of my throat raw and feral. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
The nurse steps forward, but I throw my arm out, knocking over a tray. Instruments scatter, clattering to the floor. “Don’t touch me!”
The doctor sighs. “You’re experiencing withdrawal symptoms and shock. We can adjust your medication -”
“Get out!” My voice splinters, breaks, rises again. “Get the fuck out!”
They do. Because the kind of grief in this room can’t be treated with morphine.
When they’re gone, the silence rushes back in - thick, suffocating. I curl forward, pressing my hands to my face. Hot tears spill through my fingers.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I did this to getfree.To get away from the man who locked me in that house and fed me drugs, stealing my power. I thought if I bled on my own terms, it meant I still owned something of myself.
But now all I’ve done is ruin what was left. My body. My future.
I shake with sobs until my ribs ache. My mind won’t stop replaying it - the blade, the heat, the moment the pain became relief. I thought I was taking control back.
But it was never control — it was self-destruction dressed as survival. I’m still here, breathing, alive, but the part of me that could ever carry a life is gone.
The door creaks open.
I don’t have to look to know it’s him. Jude doesn’t make noise when he moves. The air just shifts, changes temperature, like it’s remembering it belongs to him.
“Nadia,” he says quietly.
I can’t look at him. I can’t let him see what’s left of me.
He steps closer. “What happened?”
I laugh - a dry, bitter sound that feels like it was born in hell. I shake my head. “I killed the part of me that could’ve ever been a mother.”
He stops moving. The words hit him the way they hit me - clean through.
“Don’t,” he whispers, voice breaking. “What did the doctor say?”
“I’ll never have children, Jude.” I finally look up, my face streaked with tears. “I destroyed myself trying to get away. And for what? I can’t undo what’s been done. I can’t fix what I broke.”
He takes another step forward, but I shake my head violently. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me like that. I can’t -”
He freezes. And then, softer: “You survived. That’s all that matters.”
“I didn’t survive,” I whisper. “I just lost slower.”
The silence after that is unbearable.
He stays at the foot of the bed, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes burning.
