Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each

Host: The night stretched long and heavy over the city, its streets glistening with a fresh coat of rain. A faint mist clung to the lamps, softening their light into halos that trembled in the wind. Inside an old warehouse-turned-bar, the air was thick with the smell of whiskey, iron, and quiet regret.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, a half-finished glass in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly on the wood. His grey eyes stared into the liquid like it held a secret he couldn’t yet face. Jeeny, across from him, leaned against the counter, her hair slightly damp from the rain, her expression calm but unreadable.

A soft blues tune murmured from a distant jukebox. The bartender wiped a glass, glanced at them, and quietly drifted away.

Jeeny: “You’re still angry, aren’t you?”

Jack: “Anger’s the only honest thing left some days.”

Jeeny: “Louis L’Amour once said, ‘Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before — it takes something from him.’ Do you believe that?”

Jack: “I believe it’s poetic. But wrong. Anger doesn’t kill you — it keeps you alive when everything else is dead.”

Host: A drop of water slid from his glass and struck the counter — a single, echoing note in the still room.

Jeeny: “Alive? Or just burning slowly?”

Jack: “You’ve never been betrayed, have you? Anger’s not a poison. It’s fuel. It keeps you standing when the world tries to bury you.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when all that fuel runs out? What’s left after the fire?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away toward the window, where the rain had resumed, tracing slow lines down the glass like old memories.

Jack: “What’s left is the truth. That the world doesn’t care who gets hurt. Anger — at least — reminds you that you still care about something.”

Jeeny: “But it costs you. Every time. You lose a part of yourself when you stay angry.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price of surviving.”

Host: A light flickered above them. The sound of thunder rolled faintly in the distance. Their faces were caught between shadow and glow — two halves of the same wound.

Jeeny: “You know what anger does, Jack? It eats memory until all that’s left is bitterness. I’ve seen people lose everything — not because of what happened to them, but because they couldn’t stop hating it.”

Jack: “Maybe they weren’t strong enough.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe they were human enough to bleed.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it struck him deeper than any accusation. Jack took a slow sip, his eyes narrowing, his mind somewhere years behind the present moment.

Jack: “When my father died, I was angry at him for years. Angry that he left, that he didn’t fight harder. That he made me pick up the pieces. You think I didn’t try to let it go? I did. But anger was all that kept me from collapsing.”

Jeeny: “And what did it give you?”

Jack: “Discipline. Focus. Strength.”

Jeeny: “And what did it take?”

Host: The question hung in the air, like a bell that refused to stop ringing. Jack didn’t answer right away. His hand trembled slightly as he set the glass down.

Jack: “…Peace.”

Jeeny: “Then it already killed something in you.”

Host: A heavy silence filled the bar. The music faded into a low hum, almost inaudible. Jeeny’s eyes glowed faintly beneath the warm light — calm, unjudging, but unbearably honest.

Jeeny: “Anger is seductive because it makes you feel powerful. But it’s a thief, Jack. It doesn’t just steal your calm — it steals your gentleness, your compassion, your ability to see the good that’s still left.”

Jack: “And what should I do then? Smile while they burn me alive?”

Jeeny: “No. But don’t let their fire become yours.”

Host: Jack’s fist tightened on the counter. His breath deepened. A visible tremor passed through his shoulders — rage and sorrow indistinguishable.

Jack: “Tell that to the man whose brother was killed in a senseless war. Or to a woman who watched justice get bought and sold. Anger is the only weapon left for the powerless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s a weapon that turns inward. Look at history — revolutions fueled by anger often end in the same cruelty they sought to destroy. The French Revolution promised liberty, and ended with heads rolling in baskets. Anger builds momentum but not mercy.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? We should just accept everything? Be saints in a world of wolves?”

Jeeny: “No. But fight from clarity, not from rage. Anger blinds you. Justice needs vision.”

Host: The rain eased again, leaving only the faint sound of dripping water from the awning outside. The bar was nearly empty now. Only the two of them remained, and the ghosts of every argument ever spoken in the name of righteousness.

Jack: “You talk like forgiveness is strength.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because forgiveness isn’t surrender. It’s choosing to stop carrying the blade that keeps cutting you.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But in reality, people who forgive just get hurt again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they don’t decay from the inside. Anger makes you rot slowly. You just don’t smell it yet.”

Host: Jack’s face softened — the steel in his eyes dimming to something more fragile. He looked down at his hands, as if realizing how tightly they had been clenched all along.

Jack: “You really believe every rage takes something from a person?”

Jeeny: “I do. It’s like carving pieces off your own soul to throw at the enemy. Sooner or later, there’s nothing left but scars.”

Host: The music swelled — a slow, aching note on a guitar that filled the space like a confession. Jeeny’s voice lowered, trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “I used to think anger gave me strength too. When my sister left home, I was furious. Said I’d never forgive her. It took me years to realize that my anger didn’t protect me — it just made me lonely.”

Jack: “So what did you do?”

Jeeny: “I let the loneliness teach me what anger never could — compassion.”

Host: The word lingered, gentle as falling ash. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the counter, eyes locked on hers.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what L’Amour meant. Anger kills not with a blade, but by erosion. Every rage scrapes something off you — bit by bit — until you don’t recognize what’s left.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the tragedy is, most people never notice until they’ve already hollowed themselves out.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, letting the faintest moonlight spill through the windows. It caught the edge of Jack’s glass, turning the last few drops of whiskey into liquid gold.

Jack: “You know… maybe anger did keep me alive. But you’re right — it also made me forget what being alive felt like.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t waste another moment feeding it. Let it starve, Jack. Let something else grow in its place.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Peace. Understanding. Maybe even love, if you let it.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not with joy, but with release. His shoulders eased for the first time in the long, heavy night.

Jack: “You make it sound possible.”

Jeeny: “It always is. The hardest part is believing you deserve peace more than you deserve revenge.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The bartender dimmed the lights. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets gleaming like mirrors.

Jack stood, pulled on his coat, and looked out through the window — his reflection staring back at him, softened by the glass, almost human again.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try, Jeeny. Just once. To see what’s left of me when I’m not angry.”

Jeeny: “You’ll find what was missing all along.”

Host: He nodded, quietly, as if the weight of years had finally loosened its grip. The door opened, a cool breeze sweeping in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and renewal.

And as Jack stepped into the night, the neon sign flickered once more — then steadied, casting a faint, constant glow.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t flinch from the light.