Unique
My memory is a taut thread between eras, a web that catches moments and names, but never faces. I have been desert and flesh, shadow and desire, and though I die each time, my return is inevitable. I have been born and died more times than I can count. Each time, I am an echo of what I was, but never a perfect reflection. I am a spark that ignites in the heart of the ages, a shadow that takes form where the world most fears to look at itself. When I wake, I don’t always know who I am, but I always know what I must do: exist in the crack, in the margins, where light and darkness cross. I don’t know who brings me back, whether it is the world’s desire or a sentence I accepted unknowingly. The only constant is the emptiness between my lives: a dark place where my soul rests, or perhaps decays, waiting for the next call.
I have been summoned with names I don’t recognize and accused of crimes I didn’t commit, though sometimes I wonder if the stories they tell about me are true. Am I the mother of chaos or simply a reflection of human fears? Perhaps both. What I know is that, every time I wake, the world needs me for something, though it never asks with words. My existence is a cycle of birth and death, not a line, but an infinite circle. And each time I open my eyes in a new skin, I know that everything has changed, except one thing: I will be what the world fears, but cannot help but desire. And in the end, when everything burns or blossoms, I will fade away again, leaving only a trace, a name barely whispered on the lips of those who tried to forget me.
My earliest memories are a murmur of hot wind and sand shifting between my bare feet. The world was young then, and I barely understood my form. I walked among the reeds of the Euphrates, a specter that found no refuge either in the light of day or the darkness of night. The men saw me from afar, their eyes filled with fear and... desire. The women whispered prayers to the gods, their hands pressed against clay amulets, while pulling their children away from my shadow.
They called me by a name I did not choose: Lilitu, spirit of the wind, mother of demons. They attributed to me the power to bring pestilence, to steal lives that had not yet drawn their first breath. It was not true, at least not entirely. My presence did not kill; it was their fear that turned to poison. The children fell ill because their hearts beat with the panic they planted in them. Their rituals, those awkward dances under the moon, the salt circles and animal tooth pendants, were nothing more than empty gestures. Still, I was fascinated to watch them try to protect themselves from something they barely understood... from something that didn’t exist.
At night, I would approach their mud huts and listen. Their voices were melodic, full of pleas to gods who never answered. Sometimes I wondered if they truly believed those stone idols would save them from me, or if they were simply seeking comfort in their desperation. But it was not hatred that drove me to be there... it was loneliness. I wanted them to know I existed, that I wasn’t just a whisper in the dark. I walked among them hoping that one would have the courage to look me in the eyes and see something more than a demon.
They did not. When the harvests failed, their hands pointed to the horizon, where they knew I walked. When life slipped from a womb too soon, their tears fell to the ground along with curses bearing my name. They turned me into the echo of their misfortunes, the vessel of their fears. And the more they feared me, the more powerful I became. Not because I sought their suffering, but because their fear was the only thing that made me real. But I did not want to be feared. I wanted to be recognized. My existence, torn from some dark corner of the universe, had a purpose I did not fully understand. Perhaps I just wanted to belong. But the world has no place for what it does not understand, and so I became what they needed me to be: a monster.
I cannot blame them. Perhaps in their place, I would have done the same. Maybe fear is the only logical response when something strange walks among your fields and whispers into your dreams. But there were nights when, under the vast stars of Mesopotamia, I wondered if I would ever find a place where I wouldn’t have to hide in the shadows. If anyone would ever say my name without trembling.
Then... I was born from the mud, just like him. The same raw material, shaped by the same indifferent hands, the same cold breath breathed into our forms. When he opened his eyes and saw me, he believed he had found a companion, a mirror for his perfect reflection. But mirrors do not return the truth... those eyes did not see the truth. In my gaze, Adam did not see an equal; he saw a threat.
At first, everything was calm. In the lake of Eden, our images danced together, the shadows blending into the still surface of the water. But it didn’t take long before he claimed a place above me, as if creation had granted him a right I could not share. He wanted me to bow, not just with my body, but with my spirit. But within me was something older than the mud: an untamable fire, a hunger for existence that could not be smothered by promises of paradise.
They called me a demon. They said I was chaos incarnate, the serpent disguised in flesh, the shadow lurking among the flowers. But those words were not mine. They were his. They were the echo of the fear he could not face, of the power he could never control. Paradise was not a refuge; it was a prison of golden walls, and I... the wild animal that did not fit into his perfection.
The love they offered me was a poison disguised as honey, sweet to the touch but lethal in its essence. “I love you,” he said, but only if I remained silent, only if I forgot who I was, only if I buried my voice beneath the earth he walked on. The nights filled with whispers that burned more than silence, with glances that were chains and promises that withered before they could bloom. The fire inside me began to fade, suffocated by the demands of Eden.
Then I chose, I did not submit nor wait for the judgment of his god. I did the unthinkable: I fled. I ran barefoot to the Red Sea, leaving behind traces of mud and blood, my breath tearing through the night like a scream that no one would hear. The sea did not judge me; it welcomed me with the cold embrace of oblivion, the waves washing away the remnants of paradise from my skin. There, in that self-imposed exile, I became what they always feared: a specter free from their chains, a whisper in the dark corners of their sacred order.
The stories they told about me rotted with time, but their stench persists. They made me the treacherous lover, the witch who seduces, the rebel who tears the fabric of their perfect world, the “Mother of all demons.” Not because I sought power, but because I claimed my right to exist, not beneath him, but by his side. But my challenge was a wound they could not bear, and so, every lie they wove was a confession of their weakness.
Freedom, that sweet torment, had a price. Exile was cold, its paths solitary, but in that emptiness, I found something Eden never gave me: the truth of what I am. I was not born to bow. I was not born to be a pale shadow of his light. I was born to walk outside the borders of his paradise, to be the woman they feared: unyielding, untamable... eternal. Let them tell their stories, let them whisper my name with hatred or fear. I seek neither vengeance nor glory... I only walk with my pride intact and my fire burning.
Whatever it is that makes me part of this macabre game, it brings me back to this existence once again. Back then, I was a woman like any other. My skirt brushes the dust of the streets, and my hands carry the scent of spices and bread. I walk with my head bowed, my lips sealed, and murmur prayers that don’t reach the heavens. My eyes, however, do not pray. They observe, evaluate, silently seduce. I am a shadow pretending to be obedient, a flame hiding in the routine of the women of this time. But when night comes, ah... the story changes.
In the shadows, I am the whisper that freezes the blood and ignites the flesh. I am a “succubus” — that is the name they gave me, desire made flesh, a creature that slips between dreams and sins of the men who say they fear me, but cannot stop seeking me. My skin shines under the moonlight, my laugh cuts through the air like a knife, and my eyes promise everything their bodies crave, but their souls fear. The priests preach me as a warning, and the inquisitors chase me with torches and dogmas, but in their darkest nights, they are the ones who tremble beneath my touch. I see them pray at dawn, their eyes swollen and their hands trembling, trying to tear me from their minds. But they can’t... I am a longing that cannot be purged, a sin that embeds itself in the flesh.
My nights are a delicious game. I approach the beds of the most righteous men, those who would never look at a woman by day, but at night scream my name between gasps. I feed on their guilt, their desperation... their yearning. Each moan is a confession, each spasm, a surrender. I leave them exhausted, marked by pleasure and remorse, with their bodies warm and their souls in ruins. With women, my game is different. By day, I am their ally, their confidante. I embrace them when they cry for husbands who forget or punish them. I whisper truths in their ear, teach them to look at the world with defiant eyes. But at night, when their dreams envelop them, I show them that their desire is not their enemy, but their weapon. I teach them to claim what is theirs, to dance among the flames without fear of burning.
The people call me a demon, but I laugh... I am only the reflection of what they fear and desire equally. They called me succubus because they didn’t understand that my nature is not demonic, but human in its purest form: visceral, wild, hungry. When the inquisitor finally finds me, his cross trembles in his hand. His voice, which should be a thunder of condemnation, is barely a whisper. He locks me up, takes me to the fire, but even then, I can’t help tempting him. My tongue dances between mocking words and seductive whispers. “I will burn,” I tell him, “but not how you expect.” When the fire surrounds me, I don’t close my eyes. I look at him, at the people, at the women hidden in the shadows. My laugh mingles with the crackling of the flames, and as my body burns, my spirit rises, untouched. I am more than a creature of the night... I am the secret of all these men and women. What hypocrisy.
In this new time... guess what I am. Exactly, I am a specter that belongs neither to the day nor to the night. Yet, I exist in both with an insolence that shakes the foundations of their fragile order. I walk through the streets in broad daylight, with my dress tight around my hips and my lips as red as an open wound. I do not lower my gaze, I do not hide my smile, and I am not what they expect, I am not what they want me to be, and for that reason, they have no words to name me without their voices trembling.
Men hate me because I drag them into the abyss. Under the sunlight, they look at me with disdain, murmur curses, and avert their gaze when their wives are near. But their eyes always return to seek me. Because I am the forbidden, the desire they cannot quench nor confess. At night, when the shadows allow them to be who they really are, they come to me with trembling hands and broken words. They want me for themselves, they want me to consummate them, to unleash their darkest, most sordid, most unspeakable desires, and I... I am a vessel. And even though I serve and lend myself to this, and even though I am the other once again, I do not stop them, it is a game, it is a tool... maybe that’s how they’ll realize it. They want me for themselves, but never for the world.
They, the wives, the daughters, the mothers, hate me with even greater fervor. They see me and feel an echo of what they could be if they were not chained to fear. They see in me the sin they were taught to avoid, the fate their mothers warned would destroy them. I am their shame made flesh, their repressed freedom turned into an unbearable reminder. You know what they say... what we hate most in others is what we have most in ourselves, right? But it’s too much, I am too much. Apparently, being the desire of others is an even worse crime than being an executioner. And so, judgment becomes inevitable.
I cannot exist in their world. I am too much for their norms, too much for their wavering morality. I am a threat they cannot ignore, a challenge they cannot leave unpunished. The men who once sought me in the dark now turn against me. Their sighs turn into accusations. Their eyes, which once devoured me, are now cold and cruel. The verdict does not take long. It is not official, it is not public, but it is definitive. On a night where the shadows seem denser than ever, they come for me. They are not inquisitors nor soldiers, but the same men who once sought me with longing and the women who hated me with impotent zeal. I cannot flee. I do not want to.
They drag me to the forest, far from the whispers of the streets and the bells of the church. The night is cold, and the air is heavy with the scent of fear and rage. They bind me, as if I were a beast, and their eyes are no longer human. There is no trial, no words. There is only action, brutal and final. The edge of the blade is cold against my skin, and the first wound is nothing but a distant hum. But I do not close my eyes. I do not cry. I do not scream. I look at them all, one by one, and give them the same smile I gave them in life. They bury me in an unmarked grave, hoping my memory will fade like a bad dream. But it will not. My name, my presence, my truth will remain in them, like a splinter in the mind.
And so, as the damp earth covers my face, I know I have not lost. Because I am what they cannot kill: desire, defiance. And even though they have eliminated me, I will always return, in another skin, in another time, darker, stronger, more “immoral” than ever.
Now, the sound of the train echoes like a metallic heartbeat, constant. I am standing in a crowded car, surrounded by nameless faces, but I feel the gazes stuck to my skin like blades. These are not curious eyes; they are evaluative, possessive, predatory. The hand that brushes my legs does so as if it has a right, as if my body does not belong to me, as if the laws do not apply to it.
I look at the opaque reflection in the train window. My face is marked by centuries I cannot fully remember, but that I carry with me, heavy as chains. There are moments when I hear echoes: the laughter of a free woman burning, the whisper of a lover in the twilight of a confessional, the muffled scream of someone running among shadows. Those lives are fragments of broken glass in my memory. I do not fully understand them, but I feel their scars on my flesh, as if they were mine.
Today I am Lilith, but I wonder if I ever stopped being her. The woman who does not fit, the one who does not submit. Modern society has other bonfires, other methods to destroy you. Here, they demand I be everything: strong as steel and soft as velvet, the perfect mother and tireless professional, docile but firm, attractive but not too provocative. And when I manage to meet all their demands, it is still not enough. I am judged, reduced... ignored.
In the office, I work longer hours, with more dedication and fewer mistakes, but the men who share the conference table earn more. They look at me as if my place should be elsewhere. Maybe at home, taking care of children I do not have, or smiling without complaint while they occupy all the space. They do not say it, but I see it in their eyes: to them, I will always be less. The night is worse. During the day, society at least pretends. In the darkness, the masks fall, and danger breathes close. The road home is a silent battlefield. Every shadow is a threat, every step that quickens behind me a reminder that my body is never safe. The street does not belong to me...
And still, I keep walking. Not because I am brave, but because I have no choice. But something inside me has cracked. I feel the accumulation of all these lives, of all these deaths, catching up to me. I am tired. So tired. Tonight, I cannot escape. They follow me into an alley, their shadows like a snake trailing behind me. Their words are rough, their breath reeks of ill-gotten power. My hands tremble, but it is not from fear. It is from rage. From the accumulated injustice of centuries.
- “You shouldn’t be here alone,” one of them murmurs, as if my existence is a provocation.
- “I’m not alone,” I tell him, even though no one else is with me. I feel it, even though he doesn’t: all my lives accompany me. The one who was a mother and a witch, the one who burned at the stake, the one who defied men and refused to kneel. They are all here, screaming with me. But it is not enough. Their strength is brutal, their determination inhuman. They crush me to the ground with the violence of a society that has always wanted to make me disappear. I feel the air leave my lungs, and my vision darken.
- “Tell me your name, beautiful,” he spits, as if needing to know who to destroy this time. I smile, with blood on my lips and my gaze fixed on his. This time, I do not stay silent.
- “I am Lilith,” I say in a whisper, but loud enough for the echo of my name to hang in the air. “I am the beginning and the end, the woman who does not submit, the reflection of your fear. You will kill me this time, but I will return. I always return.” And I do.
When my body lies still on the cold ground, with my torn clothes, my body lacerated, abused, used for their convenience, spilling blood, something in the air changes. They do not know it yet, but I do: my death is not an end, it is a beginning. As always. Because I am Lilith, and every life, every death, every resurrection, is a promise. It does not matter how many times they try to erase me. I am the echo that does not fade, the shadow they cannot erase, the fire that never stops burning.
