Regretting forgiving

I saw her laughing hysterically on the running escalators of that overly crowded shopping mall. Everything seemed so...happy. Colourful. Only...I was that black dot in the middle.

Why did it still hurt? The last time we'd talked she'd asked for forgiveness. She was literally on her knees with her hands clasped before me. I knew she was sorry. Or at least...I thought so.

And so I said the word and left, without turning to look back as she loudly thanked me. She deserved it. I could see that thirst for relief in her deep blue eyes...for freedom. And I was more than happy to help.

And there she was now, whispering to someone. They were both looking at me. It was as if I could feel the stabs of their sharp stares. I knew what she was narrating to her friend: how she had revealed her false self to me, how she had pretended to love me, to be there at all times. Who knew it was all a little play to win a pointless bet.

"Fool him, leave him and ask for forgiveness," three tasks, three hundred dollars. And obviously, a heart of her victim.

Seeing her there, ignited that fire in me. I knew she hadn't changed a bit. And that was the time when I regretted our last conversation...regretted forgiving her...