By Eric Anders, with and against ChatGPT
Act II, Scene 1: The Shadow of Trauma
(Lights come up dimly, revealing the psychoanalyst’s consulting room. The shadows are pronounced, the ticking of the clock persistent, marking time as if drawing the past closer to the present. Freud remains seated, his expression calm but attentive. Jefferson stands, his pacing more deliberate, his agitation mounting. Two of the screens are dark, and one is filled with an AI rendering of Thomas at 14.)
SIGMUND
(Tilting his head slightly, his tone probing but measured)
Tell me, Thomas. What were you at fourteen?
THOMAS
(Halts mid-step, his face hardening)
Fourteen? I was… a boy, of course. Almost a man. No, forced to be a man. I had no choice.
SIGMUND
A boy approaching the cusp of manhood and yet forced into the shadow of true manhood when you lost your father. Peter Jefferson—an ambitious man, a powerful figure in your world—suddenly gone. What did that loss demand of you?
THOMAS
(Stiffening)
It demanded everything. I became the master of the household, the steward of my family’s fortunes. I could not mourn like a child. There was no space for it.
SIGMUND
(Nodding slightly)
Precisely. There was no space. So where, Thomas, did your grief go? Grief unspoken does not vanish. It burrows deep into the mind, becoming part of the unconscious—the archive of what cannot be faced. Where did your fear go? The fear you had of not being enough to continue your father’s world of his estate? Grief and fear always go together, and both burrow deep.
THOMAS
(Pacing, his voice tightening)
You speak as if I am a broken man. I mastered the fear! I built Monticello! I carried my father’s legacy forward!
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward)
You carried it, yes. But at what cost? The unconscious does not remain silent, Thomas. The grief, guilt, fear, and loss—they shape us, whether we acknowledge them or not. Your relentless pursuit of control, your need for mastery—was it not born from this? A boy of fourteen, struggling to step into his father’s large boots, his father's big world, would seek mastery over it to make it his own. Even the system you upheld—enslaving others to secure your family’s survival—was that not a response to the chaos you feared?
THOMAS
(Clenching his fists, his voice rising)
I mastered my grief! I wrote the Declaration of Independence!
SIGMUND
(Calmly, almost gently)
You mastered it, yes. But did you bury it by mastering it? Grief unspoken does not vanish, Thomas. It burrows deep, shaping the soul in unseen ways.
(Pause)
Tell me—when did you first witness the cruelty of slavery?
THOMAS
(Freezing, his voice dropping to a near whisper)
I was a boy… perhaps nine or ten. I saw a man whipped. A young man, not much older than I was at the time. I can still hear his screams. I know that he carried those scars his whole life.
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his voice pressing but calm)
And what did you feel, Thomas? Were you scarred, too? Psychologically?
THOMAS
(Turning away, his shoulders trembling)
I wanted it to stop. I wanted to make it stop. I was disgusted by the cruelty. But I… I had no power.
SIGMUND
(Quietly)
No power, then. But later?
THOMAS
(After a long pause, turning back, his face dark with shame)
To attain mastery, I… I had to silence that want. I desired it to stop, but I had to silence that desire. The world demanded it of me. I knew the young slave would bear countless scars from the cruelty inflicted upon him over the years—a cruelty that would persist, unrelenting, with no reprieve. And, yes, witnessing this cruelty as a boy, with no power to stop it, with only a strong desire to stop it, probably left scars on my own spirit or what you call "psychology." But I was forced to silence this desire, to silence the pain of witnessing this cruelty. It had to be silenced to survive and maintain the legacy of my father.
SIGMUND
(Unrelenting, his voice steady but piercing)
Silence it! Yes, Thomas. You silenced it in the most thorough way: by embracing the cruelty. You made it your tool. You silenced your desire for morality and embraced the legacy of your father's world, the cruelty of slavery.
THOMAS
(Turning sharply, his voice taut with anger)
You presume to know me, Professor, to unravel the threads of a life you cannot comprehend. Cruelty was not my desire!
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, unflinching)
Not at first, no. But it became so much your means that it was hard to differentiate between your means and your desires. You desired something very related to the cruelty, didn’t you? Mastery. To control the world that had once seemed way beyond the grasp of your boy’s hands.
THOMAS
(Snarling, pacing again with uneven steps)
You speak as if I reveled in it! As if I sought out their suffering! Their suffering disgusted me! I saw far too much of it! I bore the burden of a broken world—a world I did not create!
SIGMUND
(Softly, though his words land like blows)
You saw so much of it and yet were blind to it at the same time. How can you reconcile these mutually exclusive truths: enlightened yet blind? You embraced the cruelty because it gave you what you wanted even more than making the cruelty go away: mastery. At 14, your father died, and you became “the master.”
(Thomas stops pacing, his back to Freud, his posture rigid, but his hands tremble at his sides. The room falls silent except for the ticking of the clock, which seems louder now, echoing with the weight of unspoken truths.)
SIGMUND
(His voice gentle but unrelenting)
And did you ever see cruelty to slave women? Were they ever whipped?
THOMAS
(Through gritted teeth)
You know they were.
SIGMUND
And did you see it? Did you condone it?
THOMAS
(Still through gritted teeth)
What else could I do? Our economy at the time relied on the obedience of slaves. I had no choice. I had no power to change this.
SIGMUND
(After a beat, his voice still gentle but unrelenting)
Didn’t you? Didn't you at least have a choice? Doesn’t being the master of one’s world require choice? Require agency? Didn’t you have the freedom of choice that comes with wealth and position?
THOMAS
(Pausing, his voice defensive, his tone laced with frustration)
Choice? You speak as if I lived in a world of clean divides, where freedom was unburdened by the weight of history. But the truth is far more brutal. My wealth, my position—they were not shields against the demands of the system I inherited. They were its chains. To abandon the estate would have meant ruin—for my family, for those dependent on me, for the legacy my father left in my hands. Abandoning the estate would have put my slaves in the hands of masters far more cruel than I. Freedom, you say? Tell me, Sigmund, what freedom lies in being ensnared by necessity?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his voice sharp with precision)
You are a man of the Enlightenment, Thomas, a champion of reason and liberty. You wrote that all men are created equal and endowed with inalienable rights. The Enlightenment subject, the Enlightenment conception of the human, is one of agency, is it not? The power to choose, to act in accordance with reason and morality? And yet, when it came to the cruelty inflicted upon your slaves, you claim no choice—only necessity. How do you reconcile that? Did your principles abandon you, or did you abandon them?
THOMAS
(Stopping mid-stride, visibly tense)
You simplify what is complex. I inherited a system, Professor. A system older than my own nation. Without control, without order, the estate would collapse. The survival of my family, my legacy—it demanded difficult choices. My slaves were better off under my care. The choice was not between good and evil, but between chaos and stability.
SIGMUND
(Softly, almost sorrowfully)
And was there no other way? Did your reason, your philosophy, offer no alternatives? Or did fear blind you to what choice truly demanded?
THOMAS
(Looking away, his voice faltering)
Perhaps… perhaps fear did play a role. But do not speak as if the world offers simple answers. Philosophy is one thing. Survival is another.
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his gaze steady)
Thomas, we have spoken before about my colleague Erich Fromm’s Escape from Freedom. Do you recall? I told you then that freedom is not merely the power to act but the ability to bear its weight—to choose the good over the evil, even when the choice is fraught with fear and uncertainty. You extol freedom in your writings, yet your actions suggest you were unprepared for the very freedom you proclaimed. Were you prepared, you would not have sought to escape it by binding yourself to the system of slavery.
THOMAS
(Pacing, his voice defensive)
I sought no escape from freedom! I was bound by necessity. Do you think I did not struggle with my conscience? Do you think I did not recognize the evil? Survival demanded my choices—family, land, debts, legacy. These were not burdens I chose but burdens I inherited.
SIGMUND
(With a sharp edge, pressing)
Ah, but survival for whom, Thomas? For what? Was it survival, or was it the preservation of an elite status—a system that ensured your place above others? You inherited power and privilege, and with them came the freedom to choose. But instead of using that freedom to dismantle the system, you fortified it, becoming its servant, not its master. Your image now graces the currency of this new United States—a country that takes far more pride in its economic might, as the richest nation in the world, than it does in the democracy you helped secure. Americans today choose wealth and status over freedom and democracy. Did you make the same choice? Is your true legacy that you established this American tradition?
THOMAS
(Stopping, his voice faltering)
You oversimplify. I was just a boy when I was forced to choose, thrust into responsibility, into a world of impossible demands.
SIGMUND
(Softly, almost pitying)
A world of violent mastery that stripped freedom from millions. A world you sought to preserve, not destroy. The same freedom so many flee from today. Look to those in today's America who yearn for a return to some idealized past—a so-called “great” America. They imagine it as stable, prosperous, and orderly, but it was built on supremacy. For them, survival means clinging to that vision, to a hierarchy that flatters their superiority, whether real or imagined. For them, greatness is defined not by freedom or democracy, but by wealth and power.
THOMAS
(Turning away, his voice quieter)
Is it possible that seeing "survival" as maintaining one's economic status is a basic human drive? And you think I could have undone slavery and all the cruelty that went with it? That a single man could destroy such a system? What choice did I have, really? What freedom?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, firm but calm)
Freedom demands the courage to try. Instead, you chose comfort—comfort dressed as necessity, survival at the cost of others’ humanity. And those who yearn for that “great” past today make the same choice. They choose the comfort of their fantasies of the past while ignorant of their country's history, so they choose the buffoon who promises to respect their fantasies and their ignorance. They interpret the buffoon's lies as a promise of power and wealth. They escape freedom by choosing to maintain status through control over justice--and fear over courage.
(Thomas remains still, his head bowed, the weight of Freud’s words pressing upon him. The candle flickers, casting long shadows that seem to loom over both men.)
THOMAS
(Pacing, his voice defensive)
I cannot be held accountable for the elitist insanity that has taken over my country. It is more foreign to me now than Indochina or Mesopotamia was to me when I was alive. I sought to give them freedom, not this obsession with gaudy wealth and hollow status. I certainly sought no escape from freedom! I was bound by necessity. It would have been deeply shameful for the estate my father left in my care to fail because I chose a purer, more idealistic path.
(He pauses, turning toward Sigmund, his voice rising slightly, a hint of desperation cutting through his defiance.)
Do you think I did not struggle with my conscience? Do you think I did not recognize the evil? Life is not a blank canvas where we may paint our ideals unblemished. It is a web of entanglements—family, land, debts. Choices were made for me as much as by me.
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward slightly, his voice incisive)
And yet, Thomas, look at what those choices have wrought in your country’s present. That elitist fantasy—the dream of gaudy wealth and grotesquely violent power—has seeped into the hearts of the poor, even those who claim to follow a Jesus who scorned the rich and exalted the humble. The wealthy cling to their status; that much is expected. But it is the poor who embrace this vision most fervently, as though wealth and domination hold the key to their salvation.
THOMAS
(Frowning, his pacing slowing)
The poor? But they are the ones who should value freedom the most. They are the ones who gain the most from democracy.
SIGMUND
(Nodding, his tone sharp)
Precisely. And yet they are the ones most susceptible to this radically false fantasy. The promise of the con man—the glittering vision of wealth, power, and superiority—binds them. They don’t yearn for true freedom, Thomas. What they want is to climb above others, to dominate, to escape their struggles by entering the imagined realm of wealth and status.
THOMAS
(Turning to face Sigmund, his voice quieter but still defensive)
And you think I created this? That I taught them to prefer wealth and status over freedom and democracy? You argue that this is my legacy?
SIGMUND
(Pausing briefly, his gaze piercing)
You didn’t create it, but you embodied it. Your so-called "survival" wasn’t just about family or debts—it was tied to maintaining an elite status. And now your image graces the currency of a nation that values wealth and power above the democracy you claimed to secure. Americans today take more pride in their economic might than in the freedoms you once proclaimed.
THOMAS
(Shaking his head, his voice trembling)
Is it so wrong to see survival as maintaining one’s status? Isn’t that a basic human drive? And you think I could have undone slavery, upended the system, and all the cruelty that came with it? That a single man could destroy such a world? What choice did I have, really? What freedom?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his tone unrelenting)
Ah, but that is the point. When you refuse the responsibility that freedom demands, you become a servant to circumstance, a pawn to the system you inherited. A pawn is not a master, Thomas—it is the opposite.
THOMAS
(Stopping, his voice faltering)
You cannot understand the pressures I faced. A young man, fourteen, inheriting a world crumbling under the weight of my father’s debts. It was not about freedom—it was about survival.
SIGMUND
(Pausing, studying Thomas intently before continuing, his tone deliberate)
Survival. Yes. But survival of what? For whom? Democracy demands responsibility, action, accountability. These things, Thomas, your poor countrymen now flee, just as they flee freedom itself. Instead, they find a vicarious power—through the military might of their country, through dramatizations of power in violent sports, war movies, and simplistic and distorting stories of righteous vengeance.
THOMAS
(Interrupting, his brow furrowed)
And you think this vicarious power is their substitute for freedom?
SIGMUND
(Cutting in, firmly)
Yes. These spectacles feed their longing for control while demanding nothing of them. They imagine themselves powerful by association, while remaining complicit in their own disempowerment. It is not power, Thomas. It is submission—a submission that fortifies the very hierarchies that oppress them.
(He leans back slightly, his tone softening yet still incisive.)
This is no longer about survival or even comfort. It is a deeply ingrained fantasy, sold to them by those who thrive on their desperation. They yearn not for equality or democracy, but for a dream of power that allows them to dominate and escape the humiliation of their poverty.
THOMAS
(Quietly, almost to himself)
A dream of domination.
SIGMUND
(Sharply)
Yes. And isn’t that the same justification you used? That survival demanded your complicity? That failure would be shameful, even as others bore the weight of your so-called success? Tell me, Thomas—do you see the con now, or is it too painful to admit?
(Pause, Thomas in pain)
THOMAS
(Looking back at Sigmund, his tone suddenly defiant)
You speak as if I had no humanity. I did not revel in cruelty! I was not blind to suffering.
SIGMUND
(Calming slightly, yet with precision)
Then let us speak of one person. Sally. Did you ever need to control her with violence?
THOMAS
(Freezing, his face stricken)
No. Never. Sally… she… she was different.
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his voice now softer, almost sorrowful)
Different? Or was Sally a glimpse of what your world could have been without domination—a freedom untainted by fear, unburdened by control? You spared her the violence you rationalized as necessary for others. Did you not see in her the fragility of the very power you wielded?
THOMAS
(Averting his eyes, his voice breaking)
I… I cannot answer that.
SIGMUND
(Pausing, his voice heavy with melancholy)
Perhaps you can, Thomas. But to do so would mean confronting the truth that domination, no matter how rationalized, consumes not only those who endure it but also those who enforce it. Friedrich Nietzsche, a German philosopher 12 years older than myself, warned of this shadow—the transformation of the master into the prisoner of their own cruelty. The chains one places on others inevitably bind the soul of the one who wields them.
(Sigmund pauses, his tone softening further, almost pleading.)
If you could spare her, why not others? Was she not proof that the system you upheld was not built on necessity but on the refusal to imagine a world beyond it? A world aligned with care, not control; with resistance to domination, not its perpetuation.
THOMAS
(Turning slightly, his voice quieter but trembling)
You speak as though I could have undone centuries of cruelty with a single gesture. Do you think that a man—just one man—could dismantle such a system?
SIGMUND
(Sitting back slightly, his voice heavy)
One man cannot undo the past, Thomas. But one man can refuse to fortify it. And have you forgotten? You were that man once. You stood against King George, against a system of oppression that had endured for centuries. You wrote words that toppled monarchies, that inspired revolution. You proved that one man, armed with the courage to imagine something better, can tear down what others thought unshakable. You had the courage the courage to be truly free then.
(He leans forward, his tone softening, almost sorrowful.)
Sally was not the exception—she was the possibility. To see her as different was to recognize what freedom could be, had you dared to choose it for all. Perhaps, Thomas, the freedom you denied to others was the freedom you feared most for yourself.
(The candle flickers as silence falls over the room. Thomas remains still, his gaze distant, as if grappling with a truth too large to hold. Sigmund watches him closely, the weight of the moment hanging between them.)
SIGMUND
(Finally, his voice low but cutting)
Perhaps, Thomas, it is not that you cannot answer. It is that you dare not. To do so would require the freedom you once fought for but have spent your life running from.
(Thomas says nothing, his head dropping slightly as the stage fades to darkness.)
End Scene
Act II, Scene 2: The Plague of Enlightenment
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room. A heavy atmosphere pervades the room, with dim lighting emphasizing the weight of the dialogue. Freud puts a record on a record player and plays a faint melody—something solemn and haunting, like a funeral dirge, but just audible enough to intrude into the silence.
(Lights up. Thomas Jefferson is pacing the room, his movements sharp and restless. Freud sits in his chair, still and watchful, a notebook resting on his lap. Jefferson stops at the desk, where a quill and inkwell sit untouched, and stares down at them as if the sight alone is unbearable. The music stops.)
THOMAS
(Almost to himself, his voice shaking)
There was a time when I believed in the purity of reason, you know. That a man could tame the chaos of his own mind, of his world, through discipline and sheer force of will.
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his voice steady)
And you sought that kind of mastery—not only over your world but over yourself. Yet such mastery demands a price.
THOMAS
(Turning sharply to face Freud, his tone defensive)
I paid it. Every coin. Every compromise. The ideals—they required it. The Enlightenment, the Republic, all of it—it demanded that I…
(His voice falters, and he looks away. Freud rises slowly and steps toward him, speaking softly but with precision.)
SIGMUND
(Quietly, with a piercing calm)
And in mastering the cruelty, by embodying it, you became its servant. The boy who wanted to make the cruelty disappear gave himself to it entirely. It was no longer the cruelty of others, Thomas—it became your cruelty.
(Jefferson collapses onto the fainting couch, his face buried in his hands. Freud returns to his chair, watching as Jefferson struggles to compose himself. When Jefferson finally looks up, his face is pale, his voice a broken whisper.)
THOMAS
But what was I to do? To give up mastery was to give up everything.
(The faint tick-tock of an unseen clock becomes audible as the gramophone falls silent.)
SIGMUND
(To himself almost at first, but sharp)
To give up everything… or to give up yourself. And so you chose. You gave up the boy who was disgusted by cruelty and became the man who embodied it. You forced others to bear the weight of this cruelty, cloaked in the rationalization of “duty” or even “care.” You weren’t aware of making this choice—it was all unconscious. The rationalization of cruelty as necessity kept the silence of the choice, the silence of the violence, away from your awareness. The man of the Enlightenment was blind and deaf.
(The room falls silent, the ticking clock loud and insistent. Jefferson’s breathing is shallow, his shoulders slumped. Freud’s gaze remains steady, as if waiting for Jefferson to confront the truth he has buried so deeply.)
SIGMUND
I called this silencing “repression,” and the archive where these unwanted truths are stored, “the unconscious.” A realm within the mind where truths are buried, repressed but not erased. This silencing shapes our actions and our being in ways we do not perceive, often against our conscious intentions. This was my contribution to understanding—my discovery, in a way—what I had hoped would one day become a science.
THOMAS
(Nods thoughtfully, crossing his arms)
I can see why such a discovery would be significant. And yet, Herr Freud, how does this unconscious fit within the framework of reason, of progress, of the human subject I spent my life championing?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his tone sharpening)
Ah, now you ask a crucial question. The unconscious does not fit, Thomas. My work on the unconscious was not a continuation of your Enlightenment ideals—it was a critique of them.
THOMAS
(Surprised, his voice rising slightly)
A critique? Of liberty? Of reason?
SIGMUND
Of reason as the center of the human subject—yes. That was your Enlightenment dream, was it not? To envision humanity as rational, autonomous, capable of mastering the world through progress?
THOMAS
(Nods slightly, his posture straightening, though his tone carries a hint of defensiveness.)
Yes, and was that not an honorable dream? To free humanity from ignorance, to guide it toward liberty and self-determination?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward, his tone incisive but calm.)
It was a bold dream, but also a fragile one. You and your fellow thinkers replaced one foundation—the divine—with another: Reason. You enthroned it as the ultimate authority, the guiding principle of humanity. But Reason, like God, can become an idol—absolute, unquestionable, and blind to its limitations. And when it becomes an idol, it is always violent.
THOMAS
(His hands grip the edge of the couch, his voice sharp with disbelief.)
Violent? Reason is the foundation of liberty and justice! It’s what separates us from savagery!
SIGMUND
(Fixing him with a steady gaze.)
Liberty, justice, progress—those were its promises. But Reason, when made an idol, does not elevate without exacting a price. It seeks mastery, control. The Enlightenment spoke of freedom, yet it was steeped in domination—over nature, over others, over all that resisted its order.
THOMAS
(Leaning forward, his voice rising in frustration.)
You would turn understanding itself into tyranny? Is striving to bring order to chaos inherently violent?
SIGMUND
(Nods slightly, his voice quieter but piercing.)
When order is imposed without recognizing that disorder is not a failure to be corrected but the essential nature of the Real and of Nature itself, it becomes violence. The Real—the ungraspable, chaotic foundation of existence—and Nature, in its untamed and boundless state, are inherently disordered. They resist human fantasies of control, refusing to conform to the neat frameworks we attempt to impose upon them. Reason, then, is always a human fantasy of human order—a projection of our desire for mastery over what cannot be mastered.
THOMAS
(Frowning, leaning slightly forward.)
And yet, what alternative is there? Are we to abandon Reason altogether, to let chaos reign unchecked? Surely you’re not advocating for an embrace of disorder.
SIGMUND
(His gaze sharpens, his voice firm.)
No, Thomas. I am not condemning Reason entirely. I am condemning the fantasy of Reason as infallible, as capable of taming the Real and Nature without consequence. Nietzsche would argue that your Reason was never pure, never innocent. Beneath its ideals of liberty and progress lay the will to power—the unrelenting drive to mold the world, to subdue the chaos of the Real, to force Nature into submission, and to shape existence into conformity with your vision.
THOMAS
(His tone hardens, a flicker of defiance.)
The will to power? That sounds like a justification for nihilism, for abandoning the very foundations of civilization. Are you saying that every attempt to impose order is inherently corrupt?
SIGMUND
(Leaning forward now, his tone steady but charged.)
Not inherently corrupt, but inherently dangerous. The will to power drives us to create meaning, to build systems, to seek mastery. But it also blinds us. It blinds us to the costs of our impositions, to the violence done in the name of order.
THOMAS
(Leaning back, arms crossed, his voice skeptical.)
Violence? You use the term so easily. What of the progress we’ve made? The Republic, democracy, the advancements of civilization? Are these too mere violence disguised as virtue?
SIGMUND
(Holds his gaze, unflinching.)
Progress is not without merit, but neither is it without cost. And therein lies the violence: in refusing to accept that the Real and Nature are not failures to be ordered but realities that defy and exceed Reason itself. Every imposition of order upon this disorder is an act of suppression, a denial of the very essence of what is.
THOMAS
(His voice drops, measured but defensive.)
And yet, without that suppression, there is no civilization. No laws, no justice—just an endless abyss.
SIGMUND
(Softens slightly, though his tone remains incisive.)
An endless abyss that you feared, yes. But your fear led to a dream of mastery that was not free of contradiction. Your Enlightenment dream of Reason promised freedom, yet it relied upon violence—demanding mastery, subjugation, and control over a world that resists such fantasies at every turn.
THOMAS
(Pauses, his tone darkening.)
And you call that violent?
SIGMUND
(Leaning back, his gaze unwavering.)
Violent in its pursuit of mastery. Think of what Reason demanded: categorization, subjugation, the reduction of people to objects, of lives to numbers. Even slavery, Thomas, was justified by Reason—a cold calculation in the name of economy, civilization, and necessity.
(Thomas stiffens slightly, his jaw tightening. The room falls silent, the faint ticking of the clock filling the space as Freud’s words settle heavily between them.)
THOMAS
(His face pales, his voice defensive but wavering.)
Slavery was a contradiction, I admit that. But it was not something we could resolve overnight. It was tied to survival.
SIGMUND
(His tone hardens, cutting through the justification.)
Survival, again? Was it necessary? Or rationalized? Your Reason turned cruelty into inevitability. It measured suffering in profit margins and justified the unjustifiable. Slavery was not a failure of your Reason—it was its fulfillment.
(Thomas looks away, visibly shaken. Freud continues, his voice softer but relentless.)
SIGMUND
Nietzsche saw this clearly: Reason is never neutral. It is always an instrument of the will to power, shaping the world in its image. And what image did your Reason create? A Republic of ideals built on the backs of slaves. A dream of freedom shadowed by the violence of mastery.
THOMAS
(His voice trembles, a mix of anger and guilt.)
You reduce everything to power and violence. Is there no room for virtue, for higher ideals?
SIGMUND
(His tone reflective but firm.)
Virtue and ideals are not immune to the will to power. They, too, can be twisted into tools of domination. Your Reason promised freedom but demanded control, and in its pursuit of mastery, it blinded you to its own violence.
THOMAS
(Frowning, his voice sharpening.)
The will to power. Is this not just a cynical reduction of all human striving to base instinct? Can nothing be noble? Can nothing transcend self-interest?
SIGMUND
(Shakes his head slightly, his expression thoughtful.)
The will to power is not mere self-interest. It is the drive to create meaning, to impose order, to shape the chaos of existence into something comprehensible. This drive is not inherently base—it is what allows humanity to build, to imagine, to innovate. But it also carries a darker side. Even your vision of liberty and progress was shaped by this force.
THOMAS
(Leaning forward slightly, his tone challenging.)
How can you claim that liberty—an ideal rooted in justice and equality—stems from the will to dominate? Does that not distort its essence entirely?
SIGMUND
(Meets his gaze directly, his tone unwavering.)
Not entirely, but it complicates it. When you and your compatriots declared independence, you spoke of freedom and self-determination, but those lofty ideals were shaped by more practical concerns. The drive for liberty was also a drive for control—not only over your own destinies but over the systems that sustained your wealth.
THOMAS
(Frowning, his voice sharpening.)
You oversimplify. Independence was about freeing ourselves from tyranny, from the oppressive hand of monarchy.
SIGMUND
(Leaning slightly forward, his voice growing more insistent.)
Was it? Or was it about replacing one form of control with another? You sought freedom from Britain’s taxes, its regulations, its restrictions on trade, all of which limited your ability to profit from the colonies. Many of you—wealthy landowners, merchants, and planters—had as much interest in protecting your economic power as in safeguarding abstract ideals of liberty.
THOMAS
(Pauses, visibly unsettled, his voice softening.)
The colonies needed independence to thrive. Our economic survival depended on it.
SIGMUND
(Nods slowly.)
Economic survival, yes—but more than that: economic expansion. Who benefited most from this independence, Thomas? A class of men who relied on systems of exploitation to maintain their wealth. Many of you owned slaves. Your vision of liberty was built on their labor, sustained by their subjugation.
THOMAS
(Sits back, his expression clouded.)
Slavery… slavery was a contradiction, I admit. But it was not the foundation of our ideals.
SIGMUND
(Fixing him with an unyielding gaze.)
Was it not? The freedom you sought from Britain was the freedom to grow richer, to expand plantations and markets, to exploit land and labor without interference. Slavery wasn’t an incidental contradiction—it was central to the economy you fought to preserve. Even your calls for equality and justice served to reinforce control, ensuring that the social order protected your power.
THOMAS
(Leaning forward, his voice rising slightly in frustration.)
Are you saying we had no higher purpose? That liberty meant nothing beyond self-interest?
SIGMUND
(Softens slightly, his tone reflective but firm.)
Not nothing. Liberty was a vision, but it was also a fantasy—one shaped by the constraints of its time. Your Reason, your ideals, masked the contradictions of your actions. You spoke of freedom while enslaving others, of equality while building hierarchies, of justice while rationalizing cruelty.
THOMAS
(Quietly, almost to himself.)
We believed in progress, in the possibility of creating something better.
SIGMUND
(Leans back, his voice steady.)
You believed in progress, but progress that served your interests. That vision demanded mastery—over land, over nature, over people. And in your pursuit of mastery, you were blinded to the violence it required. The Republic you built was not free of contradictions, Thomas. It was born from them.
THOMAS
(His voice lowers, conflicted.)
You would call me a hypocrite?
SIGMUND
(Softening slightly, though his tone remains firm.)
A man shaped by his time, bound by its contradictions. Your Enlightenment ideals promised freedom through Reason, yet they demanded mastery over land, over nature, over people. You envisioned liberty while ignoring the forces—social, cultural, and psychological—that shaped and constrained it.
THOMAS
(Pauses, his tone softening.)
And you believe this vision birthed Romanticism?
SIGMUND
(Nods slowly.)
Yes. Romanticism was born from the silences of the Enlightenment. Where you prized reason, it revealed the irrational. Where you sought autonomy, it exposed interdependence. It named the contradictions your ideals could not resolve, but it could not resolve them either.
THOMAS
(Looking away, his voice contemplative.)
Then liberty, as I understood it, was flawed from the start.
SIGMUND
(Leaning back, his voice heavy with meaning.)
Your understanding was flawed—unfinished. Romanticism was a fever, an unconscious rebellion against your Reason. But in its shadows, the contradictions of liberty remain unresolved, shaping your nation’s culture and politics.
(A faint movement in the shadows catches Jefferson’s eye. He turns, startled, as SALLY HEMINGS steps into the light. Her expression is resolute, her presence commanding. Freud watches her calmly, saying nothing.)
THOMAS
(Softer, almost to himself.)
Sally…
SALLY
(Stepping closer, her gaze steady but doubtful.)
Thomas?
(Jefferson freezes, staring at her. Her presence unnerves him, pulling at the frayed edges of his composure. Her eyes narrow, as though seeing someone unfamiliar.)
THOMAS
(Softer, almost to himself.)
Yes, Sally…It's Thomas.
SALLY
(Quietly, almost a murmur to herself.)
The Thomas I knew would not bend. Would not give in and would not allow another to control the discussion in such a way.
(Jefferson flinches, his voice faltering.)
THOMAS
(Defensively.)
I… I am the Thomas you knew. I…
(The lights flicker slightly, and his movements become erratic. For a moment, his form seems unstable, as though something beneath the surface is breaking through. Sally watches, her expression shifting to unease.)
SIGMUND
(Quietly, his gaze fixed on Jefferson.)
The cracks are beginning to show.
(Jefferson stumbles, his form flickering again. The ticking clock grows louder, almost deafening, as the room darkens further.)
(Lights fade. End scene.)
Act II, Scene 3: The Disease of Silence
Setting: The stage already features Sally, who has been present since Scene 2, standing near center stage. The projection screens frame the space: the central screen displays Monticello, a symbol of Jefferson’s legacy. On the left screen, the image of a bound enslaved woman being whipped; on the right, a depiction of Jefferson as a boy of 14. Freud stands to one side, observant but unobtrusive. Jefferson is seated stiffly on a couch, his movements mechanical and defensive, visibly unsettled by Sally's presence. The atmosphere is tense, layered with historical weight.
Sound Cue: The ticking of an unseen clock is accompanied by faint, overlapping whispers—historical voices murmuring words of liberty, cries of anguish, and chants of protest.
Lights up.
SALLY
(Steady and sorrowful, her posture upright but gentle)
Before you speak of liberty, Thomas, look at me. Truly look at me. I am not a ghost, not a memory, not a footnote. I am the truth you buried, the life you silenced.
THOMAS
(defensive)
Sally... Why are you here? How... how can you be here?
SALLY
(Softly, though her eyes remain unwavering)
Thomas, I have always been here. In the fields of Monticello. In the archives, in the whispers, in the bloodlines you tried to control. You speak of liberty as though it were a gift, as though it could be written into being. But for me, it was a lie. A lie you told yourself as much as you told the world.
SIGMUND
(Quietly, observing Sally with intensity)
She is but one voice you silenced, Herr Jefferson. One voice among millions. What does that do to a soul? To the soul of a nation?
SALLY
(Stepping closer to Jefferson, her voice tinged with sorrow)
It poisons it, Thomas. It festers. The silence spreads until it consumes everything, leaving only shadows. But I am not here to talk in abstractions. I am here to speak about what you did to me. Do you remember the first time you came to my bed? How old was I?
THOMAS
(His voice faltering, defensive)
I... I cannot recall.
SALLY
(Speaking with quiet pain)
Can’t you recall? Or do you refuse to remember? I was fourteen, Thomas. A child—the same age you were when your father died. Like you, my childhood was torn away. Fate tore it from you. But for me, it was you. You tore it from me. You forced me when I was a child and a slave. A child cannot give consent, and neither can a slave. If a female is forced to have sex as a child or as a slave, it is rape, Thomas. Without consent, being forced into sex is being raped. You can call it "care" or "love," but an enlightened man of 44 does not love a child of fourteen that way. That is not love. No. It was domination. It was rape.
THOMAS
(Visibly shaken, his voice trembling)
I... I cared for you. I gave you freedom...
SALLY
(Looking at him with deep sorrow)
Freedom? Not even after I bore your children. You gave our children freedom but not me. After you claimed my body as your own? Thomas, you know what you did to me. You must name it.
SIGMUND
(Looking at Jefferson, his tone clinical but piercing)
Herr Jefferson, Sally asks you to confront the truth. Can you name what you did? Or will you retreat again into silence?
THOMAS
(Glitching, his voice fragmented and broken)
I... I cannot...
SALLY
(Stepping forward, her voice filled with quiet pain)
Then I will name it for you. You violated me, Thomas. You violated the dignity of our children. And you did this while speaking of liberty. Do you see the contradiction in your soul? Your wife and I had the same father and different mothers. My mother was a slave and your father-in-law raped her and, by doing son, he violated my mother's dignity and mine. The institution of slavery bred this kind of sexual violence and you adopted this time dishonored tradition as your own but convinced yourself that you were not like the others because you believed and wrote about liberty. You consider yourself one of the primary authors of liberty, but you are one of the primary authors of silence, Thomas. You are a racist, and a rapist, and you silenced more than just my voice. When you wrote your hypocracies about liberty and equality while enslaving 600 souls and raping me at 14, you silenced more than my voice, more than the 600 voices of those you enslaved--you silenced all of those who came after us who would have a voice except for the corruptions of the American soul, corruptions you helped author, you fathered. A Founding Father, indeed.
SIGMUND
(Turning toward Jefferson, his tone probing)
And this silence, as Sally so eloquently said, it is not just personal. It has metastasized. Do you see how the soul of a nation reflects the soul of its author? You authored liberty, but for whom? Sally’s body was your republic, conquered and controlled. Her silence was the cost of your freedom.
SIGMUND
(Looking out into the audience, his expression now both solemn and fierce)
And this is the disease of silence. It is not merely the absence of words but the violence within their absence. It is a repression so profound that it breeds contradiction upon contradiction until reason itself is weaponized—liberty for some, servitude for others. Enlightenment, Herr Jefferson, but at what cost?
THOMAS
(Glitching further, his voice now distorted, fragments of his words overlapping)
Enlightenment… Reason… Liberty… Will to… power… freedom… escape from freedom ... escape…
SALLY
(Interrupting, her voice cutting through his distortion)
What is happening to him? Escape from freedom, Thomas? That’s what you authored. A republic built on the flight from responsibility. You spoke of reason while wielding violence. You spoke of equality while enshrining dominance. Every word you wrote was a fortress of silence for the truths you refused to face.
SIGMUND
(Approaching Jefferson with a sharp, incisive tone)
You buried the truth in repression, Herr Jefferson. And repression has a price. It does not vanish—it returns. In the gaps between your words, in the shadows of your monuments, it festers. And now, here it is: breaking through your carefully constructed self.
(The ticking clock grows louder, more erratic. Jefferson’s movements become increasingly robotic, his face twitching as though his body is rebelling against him.)
THOMAS
(Frantically, his words now fragmenting into disconnected syllables)
I… I… am… free—free… dom… I am… truth… liberty… I am…
SALLY
(Coldly, her voice unwavering)
You are silence, Thomas. You are the disease itself.
(The stage lights flicker as the projection on the central screen begins to fracture. Monticello shimmers and cracks like glass. The screens on either side shift rapidly through images: enslaved people in chains, indigenous children in boarding schools, lynch mobs, civil rights protests, and modern scenes of police brutality. The weight of history bears down on the stage.)
SIGMUND
(Turning to the audience, his voice rising as though delivering a closing argument)
And what becomes of a nation whose foundation is silence? It consumes itself. The Will to Power masquerades as liberty, Enlightenment becomes a justification for domination, and Romanticism becomes nostalgia for an imagined innocence that never existed. A nation cannot escape its repressed past. It will haunt every word, every law, every promise.
SALLY
(Stepping forward, her eyes piercing Jefferson as he convulses under the weight of her gaze)
You cannot author liberty for some while enslaving others. You cannot write equality while raping a child. You cannot speak of reason while wielding violence. Your words are monuments to hypocrisy, Thomas. And like your Monticello, they will crumble.
(The central screen fully shatters, revealing a blank void behind it. The left and right screens fade to black. The sound of whispers crescendos, overlapping with Jefferson’s glitching voice, until both fall silent. A pause, heavy and profound.)
Sound Cue: The ticking clock stops.
Lights fade to black.
End of Act II, Scene 3.
Lights fade. End Act II.
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