Vengeance is the act of turning anger in on yourself. On the

Host: The night pressed close against the windows, heavy with the sound of distant sirens and the low hum of the city that never slept. A dim lamp flickered over the small apartment, its tired light settling across walls filled with books, photographs, and one half-empty bottle of red wine.

Outside, rain slid down the glass like threads of memory. Inside, silence filled the air like smoke.

Jack sat at the table, his fingers stained with ink, his eyes red-rimmed but defiant. Across from him, Jeeny watched — her posture calm, her expression soft but unyielding. The tension between them was not loud; it was the kind that hummed just beneath the skin, quiet but electric.

Jeeny: “Jane Goldman once said, ‘Vengeance is the act of turning anger in on yourself. On the surface it may be directed at someone else, but it is a surefire recipe for arresting emotional recovery.’”

Jack: lets out a small, bitter laugh. “That’s poetic. And naive.”

Jeeny: “Is it?”

Jack: “Of course. She’s assuming people want recovery. Some people just want justice.”

Jeeny: “Justice or revenge?”

Jack: leans back, eyes narrowing. “You say it like they’re different.”

Jeeny: “They are. One heals. The other infects.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the edge of Jack’s jawline, hard as carved stone. His hand tightened around his glass, the wine trembling within it. Jeeny’s voice was quiet, but each word landed like a note struck deliberately on an old piano.

Jack: “You know, people who’ve never been betrayed always talk about forgiveness like it’s therapy. But when someone rips your life apart — when they take something you can’t get back — forgiveness isn’t noble. It’s absurd.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her tone low, steady. “And vengeance makes it better?”

Jack: “It makes it even.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes it endless.”

Host: The rain intensified, a percussion of drops striking the roof in uneven rhythm. Jeeny stood and walked to the window, the faint city lights reflecting in her eyes. Jack followed her with his gaze, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and defiance.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that story of the Montagues and Capulets? Two families drowning in revenge. Generations lost — until their children died, and only then did they understand how useless their hatred was.”

Jack: “You’re quoting Romeo and Juliet to me now?” He half-smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “That’s literature, Jeeny. Not life. In life, people don’t stop killing because they find poetry in death. They stop because they run out of strength.”

Jeeny: turns, her voice sharp now. “Then what are you running on, Jack? Strength? Or spite?”

Jack: snaps back. “Spite is all I have left.”

Host: The words hung in the air, jagged and real. The room seemed to flinch, as if the walls themselves could feel the weight of his confession. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice didn’t.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what she meant. Vengeance doesn’t heal you — it feeds you just enough to keep you alive in the dark. It convinces you you’re still fighting, when you’re really just bleeding slower.”

Jack: quietly, almost whispering. “You talk like you’ve never wanted to make someone pay.”

Jeeny: “I have. God, I have.” Her eyes glisten. “When my father died, and the drunk driver walked free — I wanted to tear the world apart. I wanted him to feel what I felt. But one day, I realized I wasn’t punishing him. I was keeping my father dead, over and over again, in my own mind.”

Jack: looks down, silent for a moment. “So you just… let go?”

Jeeny: “I let go of holding the knife to my own throat.”

Host: The rain slowed, its rhythm softening into something almost like a lullaby. Jack’s fingers loosened around his glass. He looked up — not at her, but through her, into the empty space where memory still hurt.

Jack: “You make it sound like revenge is a choice. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s the only language pain speaks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But languages can be learned, Jack. So can silence.”

Jack: bitter laugh. “You think silence heals?”

Jeeny: “No. But it doesn’t destroy you either. That’s a start.”

Host: A single tear cut down Jeeny’s cheek, catching the faint light. Jack saw it, and for the first time that night, his own eyes faltered — not from guilt, but from the sheer exhaustion of carrying too much rage for too long.

Jack: “You think Goldman was right — that vengeance turns inward.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because hate always finds its way home.”

Jack: “Then what do you do with it?”

Jeeny: “You transform it. Into words. Into art. Into something that gives the pain a place to go besides your own chest.”

Jack: “That’s easy for people like you to say.”

Jeeny: “People like me?”

Jack: “People who still believe in redemption.”

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice trembling but sure. “Belief isn’t naïve, Jack. It’s survival. The moment you stop believing that the world can be better — even by one choice — you’ve already lost.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly in the background, the sound crisp and absolute. Jack rubbed his temples, eyes shut, as if fighting a war inside his own head. Jeeny stood a few steps away, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting — not for surrender, but for understanding.

Jack: whispers, almost to himself. “Then what about justice?”

Jeeny: “Justice is balance. Vengeance is appetite. One ends when peace begins; the other never ends at all.”

Jack: “And what if peace never comes?”

Jeeny: looks out the window again. “Then you create it. Even if it’s only inside yourself.”

Host: A faint light from a passing car brushed across their faces — two tired souls, both scarred differently, both searching for the same release. The city noise faded into a distant hum. The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving behind the echo of water dripping from rooftops — like the sound of time exhaling.

Jack: “You know, I used to think revenge made me strong. It made me feel alive.”

Jeeny: “It does. But only for a moment. Like a flame that burns the hand holding it.”

Jack: “Then what makes you strong?”

Jeeny: “Choosing not to pick up the fire in the first place.”

Host: The lamp buzzed softly, its light flickering once before steadying. Jack sat back, his expression shifting — not peaceful, not yet, but less defiant. The lines on his face softened.

Jeeny sat opposite him again, folding her hands around her cup of untouched tea, the steam long gone but the warmth still lingering between them.

Jeeny: “You can spend your life chasing ghosts, Jack. Or you can build something new with the ashes. That’s all forgiveness really is — not forgetting, but reclaiming what’s left of you.”

Jack: after a long pause. “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But neither is revenge. And only one gives you a future.”

Host: Outside, the clouds broke, and a faint silver moonlight bled through the thinning veil. The city gleamed wet and clean — scarred, but alive. Jack stood, moved to the window, and pressed his palm against the cool glass. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quietly — almost like a confession — he spoke.

Jack: “Maybe vengeance isn’t about the other person at all. Maybe it’s about trying to feel something again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there are better ways to remember you’re still alive.”

Jack: turns slightly, a faint, fragile smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll have to teach me.”

Jeeny: “No.” She smiles softly. “You’ll have to want to learn.”

Host: The moonlight spilled over them now, soft and silver, pooling across the floor like forgiveness taking shape. The city exhaled in the distance — endless, wounded, awake.

Inside, the last trace of anger slipped quietly from the room, leaving behind something gentler, almost sacred — the kind of silence that doesn’t punish, but begins to heal.