Chapter 2
Ikeep running. Everyone with me has been taken down. The gunshots increase. Suddenly, I’m on the ground. I feel a sharp pain in my left leg, and I turn to look at it. A bullet has dug into my femur. It bleeds profusely. I groan as the bandits close in, their machetes gleaming in the dappled sunlight. It’s the same dream, the same nightmare that has haunted my nights for years.
I wake up, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. The nightmares always leave me breathless and disoriented. It takes a few seconds for reality to settle in, for me to remember where I am. I’m in Japan, in a small, sparsely furnished apartment that I’ve rented for a few months. It’s a far cry from the war-torn countries I used to navigate as a Navy SEAL.
I sit up on the edge of the bed, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. My room is plain, almost sterile, with white walls and minimal furniture. There’s a small window that lets in a feeble ray of morning light. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of my dreams.
As I stand up, I feel the stiffness in my body, a constant reminder of the injuries I sustained during my time in the military. My left leg, where the bullet struck in my dream, still aches sometimes, even though the wound has long since healed.
I walk to the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot a welcome sensation. Splashing cold water on my face, I look at my reflection in the mirror. The face that stares back at me is weathered, marked by the experiences of a lifetime. Once a man with a green face, always a man with a green face. There are scars, both physical and emotional, that I carry with me.
I run a hand through my shortly cropped hair, attempting to regain my composure. These nightmares are a part of my reality now, a side effect of the things I’ve seen and done. I can’t escape them, no matter how far I travel.
As I get dressed, I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s early, and the city outside is still waking up. I have no particular plans for the day, no job to rush to, no mission to complete. It’s a strange feeling, this freedom. I left the military to find a new purpose, but sometimes, the emptiness of civilian life is overwhelming. Like I had learned during training, the only easy day was yesterday.
I make my way to the small kitchenette and prepare a simple breakfast—eggs and toast. It’s a routine I’ve established for myself, a way to give structure to my days. But even as I eat, my mind drifts back to the nightmare.
I wonder if I’ll ever truly escape the past, if I’ll ever find peace. The scars run deep, both seen and unseen. But for now, I have this quiet apartment in Nakano-ku, Tokyo, a temporary respite from the chaos of my former life.
I finish my meal and clean up the dishes, then head back to my room. There’s a sense of restlessness in me, a need to do something, anything, to distract myself from the memories that linger.
I reach for my phone and start scrolling through the news, a habit I’ve developed to stay connected to the world. But today, the headlines are filled with stories of conflict and turmoil, reminders of the life I left behind.
I push the memories away. They’re the ghosts of my past, ones I can never escape. I don’t want to see the news again. The world outside these walls is filled with chaos, a constant reminder of the darkness that still lurks.
Instead, I decide to focus on something more grounding. Gardening has always been my escape, my sanctuary. I slip on a worn pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt before heading back downstairs to grab some gardening tools.
As I step into the backyard, the familiar scent of earth and fresh blooms fill my nostrils. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a warm glow over the neatly arranged rows of flowers and vegetables. The act of tending to these plants, nurturing them, brings me a sense of peace I can’t find anywhere else.
I start with the roses, carefully pruning away dead branches and inspecting for signs of disease. The thorns don’t bother me; I’ve faced much worse in my past. Each snip of the pruning shears feels like a release, a small victory over the chaos that still lingers in my mind.
From the corner of my eye, I notice movement in the neighboring yard. The neighbors on the other side are busy moving things into a moving truck. They’re a friendly couple, both foreigners like me, drawn to this neighborhood by its mix of English-speaking Japanese and other expats.
I put down my pruning shears and walk over to the fence that separates our yards. “Hey,” I call out.
The woman, a tall, blonde woman in her thirties, turns to look at me, wiping sweat from her brow. “Oh, hi there, Derrick,” she says, smiling. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
I nod, returning the smile. “It sure is. What’s going on? Are you guys moving out?”
She sighs, her smile fading slightly. “Yeah, we are. It’s a tough decision, but we’ve been offered a great job opportunity back in the States, so we’re packing up and leaving.”
I glance at their house, which has been a part of the neighborhood for as long as I can remember. “It won’t be the same without you guys here.”
She nods, her expression wistful. “We’ll miss it here too. We’ve made some wonderful memories.”
We chat for a while longer, and I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia as I watch them prepare to leave. It’s a reminder of how quickly things can change, how life can take unexpected turns.
As I return to my gardening, my thoughts drift back to my own past. I remember when I was much younger, back in South Carolina. My father used to force myself and my younger sister, Emily, to join him in the garden. He believed it was a way to instill discipline and responsibility in us.
He’d practically forced us to do everything—math, music, art, science. He’d whip us sometimes and give us grave punishments if we didn’t meet his impossibly high standards. Those memories are etched into my mind, vivid scenes of my childhood.
I remember one day, as Emily and I struggled to plant seeds in the dry soil, the sun beating down on us, he snapped. He’d been abusive to us, even to our mother, for as long as I could remember. He’d spank and beat her anytime she said anything to defend us. She was always afraid of him, powerless to save us from his wrath.
All of this left a mark on me, shaping who I am today. I vowed never to have anything to do with my father or his money. After high school, I applied to join the U.S. Navy SEALs. I left South Carolina, leaving behind the abuse and trauma, and I never looked back.
Now, I stand in my garden, a world away from the past I’ve tried to escape. The flowers sway in the gentle breeze, and I take a deep breath, grateful for the peace I’ve found in this little corner of Japan.
But despite the distance and the years that have passed, I still don’t know whatever has become of my family. All that’s left are memories and unanswered questions that continue to haunt me.
With each day, I try to bury the ghosts of my past, finding solace in the simple act of nurturing life in my garden. It’s my therapy, my way of healing, and my hope for a better future, free from the murk that still lingers.
Done in the garden, I walk over to the hose to rinse my tools. Then I pack them up and head to the kitchen. I clean my hands and walk over to my computer system on a small table in the dining room. There are some emails I should have sent. So, I sit to type them quickly.
With the final email sent, I shut down my computer and lean back in my chair. The house feels quiet, almost serene. Having lived in Tokyo for a little over a year, it is easy, switching into running my online real estate agency and business consultancy for foreigners here in Japan. It is a life I can control, a life free from the cacophony of memories that cling to me like a stubborn shadow.
I stretch my legs and peer out of the window, gazing at the neatly trimmed garden I have just cultivated. Gardening has become a therapy of sorts, a way to clear my mind of this darkness that still occasionally plagues my thoughts. The rhythmic sound of cicadas fills the air, a quintessential Japanese summer soundtrack.
As I relax, my phone buzzes on the wooden table beside me. The screen displays several notifications, mostly from prospective clients eager to engage in real estate deals. My business has been rewarding, offering support and assistance to foreigners looking to establish themselves in Japan. It doesn’t consume too much of my energy, allowing me time to reflect and adjust to my new life.
I scroll through the messages, some filled with excitement about potential investments, while others are cautious with a series of inquiries. While I am going through the texts and mails, my screen lights up with a call. The caller’s name is Mr. Tanaka, a Japanese businessman whom I have consulted for previously. He has requested my services once again, but this time, it is for a venture located in the United States, in Tennessee to be precise.
I answer the call, and Mr. Tanaka’s voice resonates through the phone. His English is almost fluent, the result of the few years he’s spent studying and working in the States.
“Derrick, it’s good to hear from you again. I hope I’m not disturbing your day?” he says in his characteristic polite manner.
I assure him that he isn’t. We exchange pleasantries and inquire about each other’s well-being before he gets to the purpose of his call. Mr. Tanaka has expanded his business to Nashville, Tennessee, and he requires my expertise in setting up and managing his new venture. I listen carefully as he explains the details of his business venture and his vision for the future.
“We have acquired a piece of land for our new office building, and I believe your experience will be invaluable in ensuring a successful launch,” Mr. Tanaka says.
It sounds like an exciting opportunity, and I appreciate his trust in my abilities. Over the next week, I rearrange my schedule, adjourning my appointments and notifying my clients of my temporary absence. My destination is set: Nashville, Tennessee.
The days roll over swiftly. I pack a few essentials, mainly business attire and some personal belongings. The process feels routine, but the anticipation of returning to the United States stirs up mixed emotions. I book a one-way ticket to Nashville and, with a backpack slung over my shoulder, head for the airport.
The flight is long and boring. I pull out a book I had brought along and begin to read. It seems boring too. I close my eyes and then force myself to nap. Soon, my eyes open, as the pilot speaks to the passengers, informing us about landing. I look outside the window, watching the plane descend toward the Nashville International Airport, as a wave of nostalgia washes over me. I haven’t set foot in my home country for years, and returning now brings back memories, more painful than pleasant. The anticipation of the new business venture keeps me focused, but I can’t help but wonder what has become of my family in my absence.
I remember when I’d left. I did it without turning back. I channeled all of how I felt into my Navy SEAL training.
Now, as the plane touches down and the cabin crew announces our arrival, a mix of excitement and trepidation course through my insides. The possibility of something happening is high. But all I’d do is what I’ve come for. And I’d return in one piece. Or would I?