I’ve always believed in second chances. It's a creed I carried like a badge, telling myself that no one is beyond redemption, and that in the end, kindness would prevail. But no one warns you about the cost of being too open, too trusting. They never tell you how the serpent you nurse back to life could one day sink its fangs into your outstretched hand.
When I first met Simon, he was broken in a way that made people turn away. Most people saw a lost cause—empty eyes, crumpled clothes, and the faint smell of despair that clung to him like a second skin. But I saw potential. I saw a man beaten down by life, standing at the edge of a cliff with no one to pull him back. And against all reason, I extended my hand.
I suppose that’s where the mistake began—thinking that kindness was the answer to every question. That somehow, offering help without limits could heal a soul that wasn’t mine to fix.
I first crossed paths with him at a charity event. He was slouched against the bar, nursing a drink like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Our conversation was brief, almost forced. I was there for the cause, a fundraiser for a local shelter, and Simon… well, he was there for the free drinks. But even then, there was something about him that drew me in—maybe it was the way his eyes avoided mine, or the way he seemed like he didn’t belong. Whatever it was, I found myself intrigued, wondering what had broken him so thoroughly.
By the end of the night, he was in my orbit. We exchanged numbers, I told him about the work I did, and he seemed interested, if only for a moment. When I suggested he volunteer with us, he gave me a look that made me second-guess myself. But I was determined. I saw a flicker of something in him, something I thought could be saved.
Weeks passed, and Simon became a constant in my life. I invited him into my world, introducing him to people who could help, giving him opportunities he hadn’t earned. He started showing up at the shelter, at first just to help out, and then to talk. There were days when he would sit in the corner, watching me work, like he was trying to figure me out. I never asked him about his past—I figured, if he wanted to tell me, he would. But slowly, bits of his story leaked through the cracks.
He’d lost everything, or so he said. A career, a family, a future. He painted himself as a victim of circumstance, and I believed him. How could I not? He was charming when he wanted to be, and vulnerable in a way that made you want to protect him.
Looking back now, I see the warning signs I ignored. The inconsistencies in his stories, the way he manipulated his way into the lives of others, always playing the part of the wounded animal. But I didn’t see it then. I couldn’t. I was too busy trying to save him.
One night, after we’d spent hours talking over coffee, he said something that stuck with me. “You’re too good to me,” he muttered, eyes downcast, tracing the rim of his cup. “I don’t deserve this.”
I smiled, brushing it off like a compliment, like it was nothing more than his self-doubt speaking. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” I told him. “You just need to believe in yourself.”
But Simon wasn’t just doubting himself. He was doubting me, too. And in the coming months, I would learn that giving him a second chance came at a price I hadn’t anticipated.
The first time things went wrong, it was subtle. Little lies, told with such confidence that I almost didn’t notice them. A missed meeting, a forgotten promise—small things that, at the time, seemed like honest mistakes. But they built up. And each time, I found myself forgiving him, brushing aside my suspicions because I still believed in the man I thought I knew.
But the serpent was coiling, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The bite didn’t come all at once. It wasn’t a single betrayal, but a series of small, calculated moves. He borrowed money, promised to pay it back. He didn’t. He asked for help getting a job, swore he wouldn’t let me down. He did. And yet, every time I was on the verge of cutting him off, he would pull me back in with an apology, a promise to do better. And I believed him, because I wanted to.
It wasn’t until the night everything fell apart that I realized just how deep the venom ran. Simon had taken more than I could have ever imagined—my trust, my security, and the very things I’d built my life around. The money was one thing, but it was the betrayal of friendship that hurt the most. He had used me, manipulated me, and in the end, left me to pick up the pieces while he disappeared into the shadows.
The bite of the serpent I fed still stings. It’s a wound that hasn’t fully healed, a scar that serves as a reminder of the danger of misplaced loyalty.
And now, as I sit here, recounting the events that led me to this moment, I wonder how many others have been bitten by the serpents they tried to save.
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