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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.
