I was a pretty angry kid, and I got into military history largely

Host: The night hung thick over the city, heavy with the smell of iron, rain, and memory. A half-moon hung above the old train yard, its pale light slicing through the fog like a scar across the sky. The sound of distant metal clanging echoed, hollow and rhythmic — a slow heartbeat of a world that refused to sleep.

Host: Beneath a broken lamp, Jack sat on a rusted bench, his coat collar pulled high, a flask in his hand. The smoke from his breath mingled with the faint steam that rose from the tracks. Jeeny approached from the shadows, her footsteps soft, her scarf trailing behind her like a quiet whisper of warmth against the cold.

Host: They had come here often — to this forgotten place — to talk about the things most people were too afraid to name. Tonight, the air itself seemed to hold its breath as Caleb Carr’s words echoed between them: “I was a pretty angry kid, and I got into military history largely as a way to vent my own anger. As I got older it narrowed down to a more specific focus on individual violence. I'm just trying to understand where it came from.”

Jeeny: “There’s something tragic about that, isn’t there?” she said quietly, eyes tracing the glowing tracks. “How an emotion like anger can turn into a lifetime of study. Like trying to dissect a ghost.”

Jack: “Tragic?” he muttered, taking a swig. “I’d call it honest. At least he didn’t pretend his anger wasn’t there. Most people bury it, then act surprised when it comes out wearing a uniform.”

Jeeny: “You think studying violence redeems it?”

Jack: “Not redeems. Explains. And explanation is half of peace.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, the light breathing in and out like an old man’s sigh. Jeeny’s face caught its golden pulse — fragile, thoughtful — while Jack remained half in shadow, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

Jeeny: “But understanding isn’t the same as healing, Jack. You can dissect the anatomy of war, the tactics, the casualties — but that doesn’t make you any less broken. It just gives the pain a vocabulary.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all we can ever hope for. Language. Not healing — that’s for fairy tales. You name the monster, you keep it from devouring you.”

Jeeny: “And what if naming it only feeds it?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out at the dark field, where the skeletons of abandoned train cars gleamed faintly like bones.

Jack: “You ever been so angry you thought you’d split open? I have. When I was twelve, my old man used to hit me for breathing too loud. I swore I’d never be weak again. That kind of anger — it doesn’t die. It recruits you.”

Jeeny: “I know, Jack. I’ve seen it in people I love. They build whole empires out of it — careers, beliefs, religions. But it’s still the same wound, wearing a different uniform.”

Host: A gust of wind tore through the yard, lifting a newspaper into the air like a wounded bird. It spiraled, then dropped between them. The headline, half-faded: ‘WAR HERO RETURNS HOME.’

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We glorify violence when it’s collective, but condemn it when it’s individual. Carr said he studied ‘individual violence’ — maybe that’s because nations have found ways to sanitize theirs.”

Jack: “Of course they have. They call it honor, patriotism, duty. But when a man does it alone, he’s a monster. When a flag’s behind him, he’s a hero.”

Jeeny: “And you’re okay with that hypocrisy?”

Jack: “I don’t have to be okay with it to understand it. Civilization is just organized violence with better PR.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, the kind that cuts deeper than words. Jeeny shifted, her voice trembling but steady.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’ve given up on humanity.”

Jack: “Not humanity — just its innocence. Violence isn’t the exception, Jeeny. It’s the rule. History’s just a bloodstained ledger written in prettier fonts over time.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong.”

Host: The word landed like a gunshot in the quiet.

Jeeny: “Violence isn’t the rule. Fear is. And fear can be healed. When Carr said he wanted to understand where violence came from, he wasn’t glorifying it — he was tracing it back to its birthplace: pain. The moment we forget that, we stop being human.”

Jack: “Pain doesn’t explain cruelty. Some people are just built to destroy.”

Jeeny: “No one is built to destroy. They learn it. And once they forget they learned it — that’s when it becomes dangerous.”

Host: The lamp buzzed again, fighting the wind. For a moment, both of their faces appeared clearly — her soft and defiant, his hard and haunted.

Jack: “You think understanding the origin of violence can stop it?”

Jeeny: “Not stop it. But maybe slow it down. Every person who learns to listen to their anger instead of obeying it — that’s one less war waiting to happen.”

Jack: “You talk like a pacifist. The world doesn’t run on peace. It runs on leverage.”

Jeeny: “And look where leverage has brought us — oceans of blood, cities rebuilt over ashes. You think Carr was studying violence because he admired it? No, Jack. He was studying it because it terrified him — because he saw himself in it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes his honesty admirable. At least he didn’t pretend he was above the rage. He looked it in the eye.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the only way to end it.”

Host: The train yard fell silent, save for the distant rumble of a freight line somewhere beyond the fog. The moonlight brushed the rusted metal, turning it to pale gold.

Jeeny: “Anger isn’t evil, Jack. It’s a signal — that something matters too much to stay quiet. But if it isn’t understood, it becomes violence. The moment we stop asking ‘where it came from,’ we let it rule us.”

Jack: “You’re saying violence begins the moment we stop trying to understand ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every act of cruelty is a confession — that someone didn’t know how to bear their own pain.”

Host: Jack’s hand fell to his side. The flask slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull metallic thud. His eyes met hers, and for the first time that night, they softened — not with defeat, but with recognition.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I like Carr. He didn’t hide from the monster. He tried to map it.”

Jeeny: “And in doing so, he reminded the rest of us that the monster’s not out there, Jack. It’s in here.” She tapped her chest lightly. “It’s always been in here.”

Host: The fog began to thin, revealing the faint glow of the city beyond — distant, trembling, alive.

Jack: “So what do we do with it, Jeeny? The monster, I mean.”

Jeeny: “You don’t slay it. You learn its language. Because the more you understand it, the less it needs to scream.”

Host: He nodded slowly, the cold air fogging his breath.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in peace, you talk like a soldier.”

Jeeny: “Maybe peace needs soldiers too. Just not the kind who carry guns.”

Host: The lamp flickered one final time, then died. Darkness fell, soft and complete. But their voices lingered — steady, unafraid.

Host: Beyond the tracks, the dawn was beginning to rise — faint, amber, and trembling with promise. The city exhaled. Somewhere deep in its heart, a train began to move again, its wheels grinding forward through the dark — carrying with it the echo of two souls who had, for one night, learned to name the monster inside.