Beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming

Host: The storm had been building all afternoon. By nightfall, the sky cracked with lightning, and the rain came down in sheets — relentless, punishing, electric. The warehouse at the edge of the pier rattled under its weight, its rusted roof catching the sound like a great metallic drum.

Inside, Jack stood beneath a single hanging lightbulb, its glow weak and trembling. His shadow swayed against the wall, jagged and restless — the shape of a man pacing between calm and collapse.

Jeeny was there too, sitting on a stack of wooden crates, her coat damp, her hands clasped around a chipped mug of tea. She watched him in silence, the way one watches a fuse, uncertain of how much time remains before it burns out.

On the wall behind them, scrawled in faded chalk — a quote someone had written years ago and no one had dared erase:

"Beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury." — Francis Quarles

The lightbulb flickered, as if the words themselves were a warning the room could feel.

Jeeny: (softly) That quote always scared me. The quiet ones — they’re the ones you never see coming.

Jack: (stops pacing) You think I’m one of those?

Jeeny: (measured) I think you’ve been patient too long.

Jack: (grins without warmth) Patience. That’s what everyone calls it — until it snaps. Then it’s “rage,” or “madness,” or “trouble.”

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe because patience and silence look the same — until one starts burning under the other.

Host: The rain hammered harder. Water seeped through the cracks in the roof, dripping onto the concrete floor in a slow, steady rhythm — a clock counting down to something inevitable.

Jack: (low voice) You ever hold something in so long you forget what your voice sounds like when you finally let it out?

Jeeny: (quietly) Yes. And when I did, it scared me.

Jack: (nods) That’s what this feels like. Every word I swallowed turned into something sharp inside. And now it’s cutting to get out.

Jeeny: (carefully) You can let it out without breaking things, Jack.

Jack: (turns to her) Can I? Tell me how. Tell me how you pour a hurricane through a straw.

Jeeny: (meets his gaze) You don’t. You find a place wide enough for it.

Host: A crash of thunder split the air, shaking dust loose from the rafters. The bulb swayed, and for a moment the room flashed white, revealing the streaks of anger and ache across Jack’s face — a man haunted not by fury, but by the years he’d spent pretending it wasn’t there.

Jeeny: (softly) Francis Quarles wrote that line like a warning, not to the world — but to men like you. The ones who confuse patience with suppression.

Jack: (bitterly) So I should’ve exploded sooner, huh? Saved everyone the suspense?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. But you should’ve spoken before your silence turned into a weapon.

Jack: (sarcastic) Spoken to who? The ones who never listened?

Jeeny: (firmly) Spoken for yourself. Listening to your own anger isn’t the same as being ruled by it.

Jack: (quietly) It’s too late for that.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s never too late — until you make it someone else’s problem.

Host: The rain eased for a moment, as if the storm itself were catching its breath. The warehouse air smelled of salt, metal, and old pain. Jack’s shoulders trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the pressure of holding something that had outgrown him.

Jack: (after a pause) You know, I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be like him. My father. He’d yell, break things, scare the hell out of everyone. I thought if I kept quiet — if I stayed calm — I’d never become him.

Jeeny: (softly) But you did — just on the inside.

Jack: (looks at her sharply) That’s cruel.

Jeeny: (gently) It’s true. You built your anger a home instead of a grave. You fed it patience, and it grew teeth.

Jack: (exhales, pacing again) So what now? You want me to just forgive? To let it die in me?

Jeeny: (standing) No. I want you to face it. Look at it. Understand it. That’s how you stop it from turning into fury.

Jack: (murmurs) Abused patience turns to fury.

Jeeny: (nods) That’s the warning. Fury’s not born overnight — it’s brewed. You’ve been its distiller.

Host: The wind howled through the broken windows, carrying the rain in sideways. A thin trail of water crawled toward Jack’s boots, tracing the floor like a river finding its destination.

Jack: (softly) I thought patience was strength.

Jeeny: (sighs) It is — until it becomes silence used against yourself.

Jack: (quietly) So I was patient for everyone but me.

Jeeny: (nods) And now your soul wants its turn to speak.

Jack: (leans against the wall) You ever feel like you’ve been calm for so long, you wouldn’t recognize yourself if you screamed?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Then maybe it’s time to find out what your real voice sounds like.

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers — there was something wild there now, but not dangerous. It was grief disguised as rage, exhaustion wearing the mask of control.

He took a breath. And another.

When he finally spoke, his voice broke — not from volume, but from release.

Jack: (hoarse) I hate that I let them take so much from me. My time, my peace, my… self. I kept waiting for fairness that never came.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the cruel part of patience — it makes you believe justice has a timetable.

Jack: (quietly) So what am I supposed to do with all this anger now?

Jeeny: (steps closer) Use it. Don’t let it use you. Let it build something — not break something.

Jack: (bitter laugh) Easy words for someone who’s not burning.

Jeeny: (softly) No, Jack. I’ve burned too. I just learned that fire makes more than ashes. It can forge, too.

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated them both — two figures standing in the dim, each shadow bending toward the other, both tethered by the shared understanding that fury, once freed, cannot be returned to innocence.

Jeeny: (gently) You’re not dangerous, Jack. You’re overdue.

Jack: (sighs) Overdue?

Jeeny: For peace. For release. For finally letting the world see that patience doesn’t mean permission.

Jack: (looks at her) And what about forgiveness?

Jeeny: (quietly) Forgiveness is the rain after the fire. It doesn’t erase the burn — it helps the ground grow again.

Jack: (glances at the wall) “Abused patience turns to fury.” Maybe I’ve been patient with the wrong people.

Jeeny: (nodding) Then start with the right one — yourself.

Host: The storm outside began to fade, the thunder growing distant, the rain softening to a whisper. Jack’s breathing slowed, his face no longer strained but raw — the calm that comes after everything breaks and nothing explodes.

He stepped toward the mirror on the wall — cracked, old — and looked at himself. For the first time, he didn’t see a man holding it all together. He saw a man learning to stop holding at all.

Jeeny: (softly) There. That’s what control really looks like.

Jack: (quietly) Letting go?

Jeeny: (smiling) No. Choosing what not to carry anymore.

Host: The lightbulb above them flickered one last time, then steadied — its glow now warm, unwavering. The storm had moved on, leaving the air clean and still.

Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny followed him to the door.

Outside, the street glistened, reflecting the remnants of the storm — puddles catching the faint shimmer of lightning that lingered far away.

They stepped out into the night.

Host (closing):
The warehouse stood silent behind them, the quote on its wall dim now but unforgotten:

"Beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury."

And as they walked, the words found their echo in the quiet:

Patience is holy until it is weaponized.
Silence is strength until it becomes a cage.
Even calm men have storms — and sometimes, release is the only way home.