Damnation spares no soul. None slip past the hands of the Mistress—not even me. Many suffer in isolation, their agony so great that even fire would be mercy. But for the truly evil—the butchers of innocence, the defilers of purity—there are no words to describe their torment. We do not receive that luxury.
I am not among them. My crime was obedience to the falter. Not believing in Christ. Not merely an atheist, but a worshipper—hers. Lilith, my Mistress, the Goddess of Darkness, the Whore of Hell. I spent my life calling to her, spilling blood in her name, chanting until my voice broke. I had given myself to her, without hesitation, without regret. And despite the suffering, despite the sentence I knew I was carving into my fate—there was nothing I would not have given to be here.
Every tear, every scream, every drop of blood—hers. Time did not translate here. It stretched, it folded in on itself, it dragged. Mistress had no need for clocks, no concern for the limits of mortals. Her time was precious. Not wasted on the obedient. Not wasted on me. She spent it elsewhere—lingering on Earth, watching the naïve worship her blindly, mistaking her for something gentle, something merciful. They call her the twin of Venus, forgetting that she is the sister of death. They call her the Goddess of Lust, failing to see the devourer beneath the silk. But I knew better.
I had never talked back. Never defied her. Never hesitated. Until that night. After hours spent tormented by envious souls, I faltered. She gave me a command. I hesitated. A single moment of doubt, of weakness, of humanity. That was all it took. The weight of her gaze settled over me.
No anger. No rage. Just that slow, creeping amusement—the kind that tightens around the throat like a noose. The kind that makes you realize, before a single word is spoken, that you are already ruined. Mon Premier Supplice.