I don't like to hold on to anger. It eats you up alive.

Host: The night was thick with humidity, a slow, suffocating warmth that clung to the air like unshed emotion. The streetlights buzzed above the empty park, their amber glow bleeding across the benches and the wet pavement. A faint mist rose from the ground, blurring the world into shades of gray and gold.

Jack sat on a weathered bench, a half-empty bottle of whiskey resting by his foot. His hands were folded, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on nothing. Jeeny walked slowly toward him, the heels of her boots clicking softly in the damp silence.

Jeeny: “Teresa Giudice once said, ‘I don’t like to hold on to anger. It eats you up alive.’”
(she pauses, studying him) “You look like someone who’s been holding on too long.”

Jack: (a low laugh, bitter as smoke) “Anger’s the only thing that keeps me standing some days.”

Host: The crickets had gone silent, as if even the night held its breath between them. Jeeny sat down beside him, her hands folded in her lap.

Jeeny: “You think anger keeps you alive, Jack. But it just keeps you from living.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but naive. Anger is life—it’s proof you still feel something. You take it away, what’s left? A polite corpse who forgives everyone and forgets why he ever fought?”

Host: The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth. Jeeny watched him carefully, her eyes steady, reflecting the streetlight like dark, still water.

Jeeny: “Anger’s a match, Jack. It burns bright—but it burns you. You mistake heat for strength.”

Jack: “And what would you have me do? Just let go? Forgive people who don’t deserve it? Forget what they did?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can stop letting them live inside you. That’s what Teresa meant—anger doesn’t punish the guilty; it consumes the wounded.”

Host: The rain began—soft, hesitant, almost kind. It tapped the metal of the bench, dripped from the branches, slid down Jack’s sleeve like cold memory.

Jack: “You ever lost something that can’t be forgiven, Jeeny? Something that doesn’t fade?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes.”

Jack: “Then how can you talk about letting go?”

Jeeny: “Because I learned that holding on doesn’t keep the past alive—it just kills the present. Anger gives you the illusion of control, but it’s a leash tied to your own throat.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, his fingers trembling. His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with the effort of restraint.

Jack: “You make it sound simple. But some things—some people—they don’t deserve peace.”

Jeeny: “And you do? You think you’re punishing them by staying angry? You’re just doing their job for them.”

Jack: “So forgiveness is freedom?”

Jeeny: “No. Release is. Forgiveness is a gift. Release is survival.”

Host: The rain intensified, the drops now splashing off the bench like sparks from an invisible fire. Jack looked up, letting the water strike his face, washing through the lines carved by exhaustion.

Jack: “You ever feel like anger gives you identity? Like without it, you’d just... disappear?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because pain gives shape to silence. But once you’ve lived inside that fire long enough, you start mistaking the ashes for home.”

Jack: “Maybe home’s the only place left when everything else is gone.”

Jeeny: (leans closer) “No, Jack. Home is what you build after you walk out of the fire.”

Host: A car passed on the distant road, its headlights slicing through the mist for a heartbeat before vanishing again. The park fell back into its muted darkness, broken only by the whisper of rain and the slow rhythm of breathing.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that old Zen story about the monk and the scorpion?”

Jack: “No.”

Jeeny: “A monk saw a scorpion drowning and tried to save it, but it stung him. He tried again—and it stung him again. Someone watching asked, ‘Why keep helping it?’ The monk said, ‘Because it is the scorpion’s nature to sting—but it is my nature to save.’”

Jack: “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means your anger doesn’t define you, even if pain does. You can choose to act from something deeper.”

Jack: “You think compassion’s stronger than rage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because rage reacts. Compassion decides.”

Host: The rain slowed, easing into a gentle drizzle. The sky above them was still bruised, but lighter now—like a wound beginning to heal. Jack picked up the bottle, looked at it, then set it down again, untouched.

Jack: “You know... I used to think anger kept me human. Made me fight. Made me real.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think now?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “I think it made me small.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, and for the first time that night, she smiled—not the easy kind, but the one born of quiet empathy.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to outgrow it. To stop letting the ghosts dictate the temperature of your soul.”

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

Jeeny: “No. But I’ve made peace with myself. And that’s harder.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, its light now steady. The rain had stopped completely, leaving behind the smell of wet soil and something new—renewal. The park glistened under the soft halo of the streetlights.

Jack stood, his coat dripping, his eyes lifted toward the faint silver streaks of dawn breaking through the clouds.

Jack: “Maybe letting go isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s the only way to make space for something else.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger eats you alive—but release feeds your soul.”

Host: Jack nodded, slow but sure. His shoulders seemed lighter, the weight of unspoken grudges beginning to loosen. He looked down at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, there was something like peace in his expression.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny... I think I’m ready to stop being eaten.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then maybe it’s time to start being alive.”

Host: The first birds began to sing in the distance, their notes threading through the quiet like fragile strands of dawn. The pavement still shimmered, reflecting the lamplight and the faint blush of morning.

As Jack and Jeeny walked away from the bench, their footsteps left shallow prints in the wet ground—marks that would soon fade, but for now, they were proof of movement, of release.

And as the sun rose, timid but steady, the park seemed to breathe again. The anger of the night had passed, and what remained was something softer—an empty space waiting to be filled with gentler things.