I am a danger to myself if I get angry.

Host: The night was black glass — still, heavy, and cold enough to make breath look like confession.
An old train station sat on the outskirts of the city, long abandoned, its benches warped, its lights flickering in lonely rhythm.
Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other on a wooden bench, the hollow wind moving through broken windows.
The sound of a passing train, far in the distance, came like a heartbeat fading — distant, rhythmic, alive, then gone.

Jeeny’s eyes caught the faint moonlight, her expression calm, but her fingers trembling slightly.
Jack was leaning forward, his hands clasped, grey eyes fixed on the floor. His silhouette looked both strong and fragile, like a bridge built over itself.

Jeeny: “Oriana Fallaci once said, ‘I am a danger to myself if I get angry.’”

Jack: (low laugh) “I get that. Too well. When I get angry, I don’t just break things, Jeeny. I break myself.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the hall, stirring dust and old newspapers, making the silence shiver.

Jeeny: “Then why do you keep letting it in?”

Jack: “Because sometimes it’s the only thing that reminds me I’m alive. Anger... it’s like a spark in a room full of darkness. For a second, you see everything clearly — but when the light fades, all that’s left is the smoke.”

Jeeny: “That’s not clarity, Jack. That’s addiction. The illusion of control. Fallaci wasn’t talking about danger to others — she was talking about what anger does inside.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but every word had edges, like glass shaped by truth. Jack looked up, eyes sharp, but tired.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been there — like you’ve never felt it boil. The kind that starts in your chest, then takes over your hands, your mouth, your mind. Until the person you are — the one you’ve been trying to protect — just vanishes.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve felt it. The kind of rage that feels like truth, until you realize it’s grief wearing armor. The kind that tells you you’re strong, when really you’re just drowning slower.”

Host: The station clock, long stopped, reflected faintly in the window — frozen hands, marking some long-forgotten hour of impact.

Jack: “You ever hurt someone because of it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not with fists. With words. I once said something to my mother in anger — something cruel, something that stayed. She died before I could apologize.”

Host: The air tightened — fragile, charged, as though even the shadows were listening.

Jack: “So that’s why you’re always so calm. You’re not peaceful, Jeeny — you’re afraid of what happens when you’re not.”

Jeeny: (a faint smile) “Maybe. Maybe we both are. You just let the anger out. I lock mine in.”

Host: The moonlight shifted, falling across her face, turning one side gold, the other in shadow. Jack’s eyes followed, like a man recognizing his own reflection in another’s fear.

Jack: “When I was twenty, I put my hand through a mirror after a fight. Didn’t even remember doing it. Just the sound — like breaking ice — and then the blood. I looked down and thought, ‘So this is me. This is what I do when I’m real.’”

Jeeny: “And what did you see?”

Jack: “Not me. Just... pieces. A face I didn’t know. I used to think I was a good man — just one with a temper. But that night, I realized it wasn’t anger that made me dangerous. It was the way I justified it.”

Host: The wind howled through the cracks in the roof, a sound both ancient and restless, like the echo of a thousand unspoken apologies.

Jeeny: “That’s what Fallaci meant. Anger doesn’t always strike outward. Sometimes it turns inward, eats the walls of the soul, one bite at a time. You end up being the wound and the knife both.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve made peace with it.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped calling it power. Anger isn’t power, Jack. It’s fear’s disguise. It makes us feel invincible, right up until it breaks what we were trying to defend.”

Host: He stood, paced, the echo of his boots bouncing off stone and memory. The station walls seemed to listen, bearing witness to something raw — two people learning the shape of their own violence.

Jack: “I used to think if I got angry enough, I could fix everything. Fear, injustice, all of it. Like if I raged hard enough, the world would have to listen. But all I ever did was make more noise.”

Jeeny: “You can’t fight the world when you’re still fighting yourself. That’s what anger does — it turns every mirror into an enemy.”

Host: The train in the distance screamed again — long, lonely, fading. The sound of something leaving, or maybe something remembered.

Jack: “You think anyone can ever really stop? You think someone like me can live without anger?”

Jeeny: “Not without it. But you can live beyond it. Anger isn’t the enemy — it’s a messenger. It’s trying to tell you where it hurts.”

Jack: “So what do I do when it shows up?”

Jeeny: “You don’t shout it down. You listen. You ask it what it’s protecting. And then — you thank it, and let it go.”

Host: His eyes softened, the storm in them slipping into something quieter, like fog after rain. He sat back down, his voice a whisper.

Jack: “I used to think I was only dangerous to others. But I think Fallaci was right — it’s me I’ve been hurting all along.”

Jeeny: “You can’t build peace by waging war on yourself. At some point, you have to stop punishing the fire for being warm.”

Host: The moonlight shifted again, now spilling across the floor, silvering the tracks that led out into darkness.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what anger really is. A compass pointing toward the wound.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the map is only useful if you have the courage to follow it.”

Host: A long silence. The kind that doesn’t separate people — it binds them.

Jack: “You think there’s still hope for people like me?”

Jeeny: “There’s always hope for anyone who can still ask that question.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back slowly — the station empty, ghost-lit, the tracks stretching into the distance like veins of possibility.
The wind rose, carrying the sound of their breathing, the pulse of something new — not forgiveness, not yet, but understanding.

Host: And as the scene faded, it became clear — anger, when turned inward, becomes self-destruction;
but when seen clearly, it becomes a teacher —
showing us that the greatest danger isn’t the fire itself,
but the refusal to learn what it was trying to burn away.