That day, like any other, he started by asking the usual question. "Do you genuinely regret what you did to me?" He was sharpening his horns with a cherry-red superheated file when he said it.
For some reason I still can't explain, I felt a surge of pity alongside the usual blast of fear and hatred when I looked at him. Somehow, I managed to feel sorry for the guy, whose existence I'd reduced to a never-ending act of vengeance against me.
And as I felt sorry for him, everything else shifted. My hatred of him turned to hatred of myself. My regret at ending up in Hell became regret for choosing my own selfish needs over his one and only life.
It just came over me. Even before I answered, I could see in his eyes that something had changed. I could see that he already knew.
"I do re
