A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

Host: The barbershop had closed hours ago, but the light still burned behind its dusty window. The neon sign outside blinked in tired intervals — red, then blue, then dark. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of aftershave, coffee, and memory.

A faint radio played somewhere in the back — an old blues tune drifting through the stillness like smoke.

Jack sat in the barber’s chair, his coat draped over the armrest, his reflection staring back from the mirror: older, harder, a man who’d spent years wrestling with ghosts that refused to die.

Across the room, Jeeny stood by the counter, her hair loose, her eyes soft, her hands tracing the quote written in chalk on the mirror’s lower edge — faint, but still legible:

"A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green." — Francis Bacon

The words seemed to flicker in rhythm with the neon outside, as though the light itself understood the cost of carrying grudges too long.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Keeps his own wounds green.” There’s something brutal about that, isn’t there? The way pain demands maintenance — like a ritual.

Jack: (gruffly) Pain’s honest. More honest than forgiveness.

Jeeny: (turning to him) No, Jack. Pain’s just loyal. It’ll stay as long as you feed it.

Jack: (half-smiles) So now pain’s a pet?

Jeeny: (softly) No. It’s a parasite.

Host: The neon light flickered, its glow spilling across Jack’s reflection, painting his eyes in fractured color — red when the anger rose, blue when the truth hovered near. He looked like two men at once: the one who’d been wronged, and the one who couldn’t stop rehearsing it.

Jack: (leaning forward) You ever been betrayed, Jeeny? Really betrayed? By someone who made promises with both hands and broke them with both too?

Jeeny: (gently) Everyone’s been betrayed. But not everyone builds a house there.

Jack: (scoffs) Some things you don’t get over.

Jeeny: (nods) Maybe. But you can still walk past them.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) You talk like it’s that easy.

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s not easy. It’s necessary.

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then heavier — a steady percussion against the window. It made the reflection in the glass shimmer, as if the world itself was trying to wash away what lingered.

Jack: (bitterly) Revenge isn’t just about hurting someone. It’s about making sure they remember they hurt you first.

Jeeny: (softly) And in doing that, you make sure you never forget it either.

Jack: (shrugs) Maybe remembering’s the only thing that keeps me sharp.

Jeeny: (steps closer) Sharp? Or bleeding?

Jack: (quietly) Both.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s the point, Jack. Revenge doesn’t cauterize the wound — it keeps it open, so you can keep proving to yourself you’re still alive.

Host: The radio crackled, the singer’s voice fading into static, leaving behind the faint hum of the electric lights. Jack’s hands tightened on the armrest. His knuckles whitened.

Jeeny: (softly) How long’s it been?

Jack: (without looking at her) Seven years.

Jeeny: (sighs) That’s a long time to be wounded.

Jack: (bitterly) It’s not a wound. It’s memory.

Jeeny: (shaking her head) No. Memory doesn’t rot. Hate does.

Jack: (grins faintly) You always were poetic when you pitied me.

Jeeny: (quietly) I don’t pity you, Jack. I mourn you. The part of you that never healed because you kept the pain polished.

Host: A flash of lightning cut through the window, the brief glare illuminating the room in stark white. For an instant, the mirror reflected both their faces — hers, patient and pained; his, rigid, haunted.

Jeeny: (after a long pause) What would you even do if you got your revenge?

Jack: (dryly) Sleep better.

Jeeny: (softly) You think vengeance is anesthesia, but it’s surgery without recovery.

Jack: (frowning) That sounds like something you’d write in a journal.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Maybe. Or maybe I just know that when you focus on revenge, you let the person who hurt you keep living rent-free in your head.

Jack: (bitterly) So I just forgive and forget?

Jeeny: No. You remember. But you stop rehearsing the pain.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound like forgiveness is easy.

Jeeny: (shaking her head) Forgiveness isn’t release. It’s rebellion. You stop letting them own your thoughts. That’s what Bacon meant — revenge keeps the wound green because you keep watering it.

Host: The rain outside had slowed, the rhythm easing. The light from the neon sign shifted again, washing their reflections in blue now, calmer, quieter.

Jack: (sighs, staring at his reflection) You ever notice how easy it is to confuse healing with forgetting? I don’t want to forget what happened.

Jeeny: You don’t have to. You just have to stop reliving it.

Jack: (softly) It’s hard.

Jeeny: (gentle) Healing always is. Hate’s the shortcut — it gives you purpose when you’ve lost your peace.

Jack: (after a pause) And when the peace never comes?

Jeeny: Then you build it yourself. Out of mercy. Out of memory. Out of what’s left when you finally stop chasing what broke you.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its hands marking the hour like a heartbeat returning to calm. Jack’s breathing slowed, his reflection no longer scowling — just tired, human.

Jeeny: (softly) What did you lose, Jack? Really lose?

Jack: (after a long pause) Trust.

Jeeny: (nodding) And that’s something you can rebuild. But not while you’re holding a knife.

Jack: (looks up at her) And what about justice?

Jeeny: (quietly) Justice restores balance. Revenge just tips the scale the other way.

Jack: (half-smiling) You always did have a way of making destruction sound immature.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) That’s because it is. It’s the easiest thing in the world to destroy. Creation’s harder — forgiveness, empathy, peace. That’s grown-up work.

Host: The rain stopped, leaving a wet shimmer across the window glass. The neon sign outside went dark, leaving only the soft glow from the mirror’s reflection — their faces framed by words older than both of them, still whispering their truth through time.

Jack: (quietly) You ever wonder why revenge feels so good to imagine but so empty when you get close to it?

Jeeny: (nodding) Because imagination’s clean. Real vengeance is messy. It doesn’t heal you; it makes you match the thing you hate.

Jack: (after a moment) Maybe that’s why it never ends.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly. You can’t burn someone else without smelling like smoke.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You’ve been saving that one.

Jeeny: (grinning) Maybe.

Host: Jack stood slowly, running a hand through his hair. The mirror caught him once more, but this time, there was something different — the tension had loosened. The edge had dulled. The reflection didn’t look angry anymore. Just unfinished.

He turned toward Jeeny.

Jack: (softly) You think it’s too late to stop studying revenge?

Jeeny: (smiling) It’s never too late to graduate.

Jack: (chuckles) From anger?

Jeeny: From bondage.

Host: She crossed to the mirror, wiping at the fogged glass with her sleeve. The quote grew clearer, brighter, as the condensation vanished — the words standing sharp against the glass now:

"A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green."

Jack looked at it for a long moment, then at himself.

The mirror reflected two figures now — one learning to let go, and one learning to begin again.

Host (closing):
Outside, the rain clouds parted, revealing a thin silver edge of moonlight across the wet streets. The barbershop light went out, leaving only the reflection of the quote glowing faintly in memory.

And as Jack and Jeeny stepped into the quiet night, the world around them seemed to whisper the truth Bacon had left behind:

Revenge does not heal the wound.
It only teaches you to live inside it.

Forgiveness, though fragile,
is the first scar that proves you’ve begun to heal.