He is standing in the lobby, waving his hands furiously as he argues with the manager. Spit is flying from his lips as he shouts obscenities at the manager and my colleagues.

He is an elderly man with the most puzzling demeanor imaginable. He has a stern face and a good posture, but at the same time he seems to be just one inch from falling apart like broken glass. Which is maybe why I feel sorry for him.

"I will take him", I say, and after repeating it a few times to get through the mans shouting and his impaired hearing, the message gets through to him and he calms down. It is a good thing that his hearing is not better, as I swear some of my coworkers let out a very indiscrete sigh of relief when they hear that I will be the one to massage the man.

After his blood pressure seems to have returned to normal levels and the burgundy color from his cheeks has faded a bit, I lead him down the hall to the door with my name on it.

The man mutters a "thank you" and gives me a slight nod as I ask him to undress and lay down on the massage bed. As I see his skin now revealed, a wave of panic rushes through me.

For a man his age he is really fit. No flapping skin, no beer belly, not one excess gram of fat. But his skin is scarred. No, scarred is an understatement. It looks like some sadistic madman has tried to carve a topographical map in his skin with a knife. I try to focus on looking him in the eyes, but he must have noticed my brief, panicked expression, as his eyes quickly dodge mine and he proceeds to lie down on the bed.

As I pour the massage oil on his back, I desperately try to find a way to get out of this situation. Our parlor usually has a strict no scars policy that has been enforced since my former coworker Laila got admitted to a mental hospital after massaging a young man recently returned from Afghanistan.

"Why did I absolutely have to pity this old guy?", I think to myself. But it is too late to turn back, without him causing an even larger scene than he did in the lobby. I breathe deep into my lungs, and put my hands on his shoulders.

Shouting. Smoke. Extreme panic is all around me, accompanied by explosions so loud that I am sure they will destroy my hearing any moment now. I catch glimpses of faces around me, all twisted with hate and fear. For a second I recognize a face unlike the rest, projecting all its hate and fear towards me. I feel a searing pain in my shoulder as I fall to the ground trembling, and..

I am back at the massage parlor. Though it felt like an eternity, my mind cannot have been gone for more than a few seconds. The man does not seem to have noticed anything odd at least.

Part terrified and part intrigued, I slide my hands down and start massaging his upper back. This time I feel my stomach turn as reality fades and is replaced with absolute darkness.

But there is a light in the distance, and it is coming closer. Slowly, as what seems to be a group of men carrying torches come nearer, I start to become aware of my surroundings. I am in a wooden cage, and around me are several others like it. In each cage I see people wearing the same uniform as me.

While I have been examining my surroundings, the torchbearers are now so close that I can see them. They are short of stature, and their eyes are narrow. They speak together in a language I cannot decipher, but I hear the phrase "Viet-Cong" , which must mean that they are Vietnamese.

They pry open the door to my cage, and even though I am already bound by rope, two men step forward and force me to lie face down on the dirty, bug-ridden floor of the cage.

I twist my head to try and see what is going on behind me, but even though the grip of the two men is too strong for me to move much, the metallic sound of a blade drawn tells me what is about to happen.

The third man leans in over me so close that I can smell his foul breath. He starts talking to me, seemingly very agitated, and finishes his sentence with the only english words I have heard them utter so far: "white devil".

As he retracts his head I think for a brief moment that I am safe. That it was nothing but scare tactics. Then I feel the knife enter my back, and this time I do not return to the massage parlor immediately. I get to endure the entire torture session.

My vision is blurred with tears as I find myself on my knees, on the floor of my massage room. My coworkers are all standing in the door looking perplexed. Apparently I have let out several loud screams, urging them all to come and rescue me.

The elderly man is standing by the door, putting on his shirt. He looks down at me, and while I expect some words of comfort to come from his mouth, the thing he says is perhaps more haunting than any of the monstrosities I have lived through him.

"Maybe now you see what your people did to me, to good, honest Americans!". He spits in my face and storms out of the room, leaving people scattered left and right to avoid any physical contact with him.

As I slowly get up from my knees, I start to realize just how blinded by hatred one can become, desperately trying to execute revenge on anyone remotely resembling your former enemy.

So blind that you do not see the signs outside, stating that this is in fact a Japanese massage parlor.