To Change the Past

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John opened his eyes.

5:59 AM, Saturday, December 19th, 2024.

He unfastened the virtual device from his head. He ran his hand through his hair and wiped his face, both lined with slight perspiration, nothing like his earlier awakening.

Last night had been good, he was nearly level five by the time he had logged off. John rolled off the bed and flicked on the lights.

There was a sound in the kitchen. Gramps must be up. He always woke up early when he could and would eat something simple before going off to the table tennis club.

John yawned and left his room. Many players liked to sleep for another hour after logging out unless they had responsibilities early in the morning.

The teenage John was one of these players. On Saturday and Sunday, he had a part-time job at a local candy store, managed by one of Gramps' club members. Gramps had always thought it was important to get some experience in the world, even if the money was unnecessary.

Young John had never been interested in the work, and the current John shared this view. Still, he couldn't simply just leave the place without letting them know. He had worked there for a few years and still held a fond memory of the sweets shop, even if the work was ill-suited for him. John wanted to go for one last weekend before leaving the past in the past.

John entered the kitchen. "Morning."

Gramps looked up from his breakfast: a bowl of sweet cereal and a donut. "Morning. Off to work soon?"

"Some breakfast first, then yes."

"Have some cereal," Gramps said, passing over the box.

"Thank you," John said, searching for a bowl from the cupboard. He opened cabinets of glasses, plates, then finally the bowls.

"Can't remember where the dishes are?" Gramps chuckled.

"Just tired," John laughed.

"Just don't go breaking them. They're not that cheap, kind of like my plant."

"Yeah…" John mumbled, remembering his body crashing into the pot under the uncontrollable weakness. It was the visions, the feeble, unhealthy body on the streets. He hated it. "You, know, I don't think I'll have cereal."

"Huh?" Gramps was confused, John had never really cared about what he ate.

"It's not the best for you, is it?"

"I've eaten it every day for decades and I'm just fine." Gramps' constitution could be considered a scientific marvel.

"Gramps, you're special."

"So, what are you gonna eat?

"I think I'll make some eggs."

It took ten minutes and too much effort, but John eventually got his eggs, stuck to the bottom of the pan. He scraped them off and ate them under Gramps' watching eye.

He had done so in silence.

It wasn't because of the slight embarrassment, but for the same reason as last night. It seemed that when he stayed around Gramps, silence would eventually follow.

There was something stuck in John's throat and it wasn't burnt eggs. He had something to tell Gramps: the impending illness. The same had been true yesterday evening, but how do you tell someone they're going to be sick, that their passions might soon be limited to the past. Hadn't the illness indirectly caused Gramps' untimely passing in the last life? How would he react this time?

'After I shower and change,' John told himself.

But John also knew it was just cowardice, calculated procrastination. If he had the heart, he would have done so last night.

After he cleaned up, showered quickly, and dressed up, Gramps was long gone, well on his way towards the club.

John stood for a moment, watching the empty chair, and left too.

…

The snowbanks were up to the waist as the plows struggled to push through the road. Salt was applied liberally, which would wreak havoc on the already worn asphalt. The snow must have been worsened overnight.

After hopping off the monorail system, it was a brief walk through the snow-covered sidewalks to the downtown candy store. It was the morning, but the city was empty. It was Saturday; it was quiet.

Sunrise was moments away and the streetlights were the main illumination. Well, other than the huge RISE advertisements that were posted on every possible location. The bright billboards, set up during the night, depicted huge pictures of the game and a sequence of numbers: 20/12/24. That was tomorrow and that also the night of the main release.

The door was unlocked when John got there. Inside the dark windows, there was someone wiping their boots on the mat.

John entered, doing the same. "Morning,"

"Oh, good morning, John," the person said with a smile.

The candy shop had two employees that arrived during the early morning to prepare the store before the main morning shift. They had to ready store for customers by the official opening time, seven-thirty, and run it as a pair for thirty minutes.

One was obviously John, and his colleague's name was Kirsten. She was just another person with a part-time job during their university studies. But like John, she had also got a job through a contact in the table tennis club.

She had pretty, soft features: round cheeks, hazel eyes, and a silky, chocolate brown hair that ran down to the lower back. It was usually tied in a bun, but John remembered the length from a time when she adjusted it. She wore a fragrance, not strong, but always noticeable.

Overall, Kirsten was just a normal, attractive person who should have been forgotten in the wealth of time but was not.

"How was your week?" Kirsten asked politely.

"It was good." Like Gramps' question the night before, the answer was meaningless: John didn't remember anything about this week other than RISE. "And yours?"

"There's that new game that I'm excited for. Looks fun."

"Yeah, it is," John said as he turned on the lights and disappeared into the back.

"Huh?" she asked with a puzzled smile.

Then it was time to work.

Pearson's Sweets purchased candies from suppliers, while also manufacturing certain chocolates and gummies in the back. The two employees brought out the candies made by the night staff and restocked the other products, making note of the accounting and ingredient usages.

Located in downtown, on weekdays, the candy shop typically dealt with underpaid office workers during the day, passing tourists after five, and drunk couples right before closing.

However, the weekends were somehow special when the brilliant lights illuminated rows upon rows of the sucrose spectacle. Various colors and shapes jumped into the eyes of pedestrians, especially the greedy pupils of the short ones. There was something about the plastic wall paneling, the overflowing jars, and the bins with those tacky, metal spades, that invoked a feeling of adventure.

In the center of it all was Kirsten, dressed in a red and white striped uniform, skirt with frills three fingers above the knee.

The first customers were a mother with a child, running around, eyeing the sweets. John watched from behind the register as his colleague laughed and kindly helped the kid with what he wanted. He watched as her slim figure bent down to help the kid scoop in his candies.

Indeed, Kirsten had been one of John's past crushes, not the first, but the most memorable. There was something inexplicable about it: she was older, by around four years; she was nothing but respectful; never particularly suggestive, only friendly. It had been one of those things that just happened. Maybe it was the propinquity, or simply the drive of a growing boy, but it was definitely very real.

However, the current John's eyes were those considering the past: they weren't those considering a belated confession. He had someone else in his 27-year-old heart: Chelsea.

"Are you distracted?" Kirsten asked.

John had been lost in the past, not realizing until the gold and green features of her eyes were right in front of his.

"Yes?" John mumbled. "I mean no. I meant, 'yes' as in what do you need?"

Kirsten giggled, the kind that of sound that girls always made, but a rich sound that John remembered clearly. "Just a small purchase," she said, placing down several cheap bags full of the customer's candy.

"Yeah, sure."

John confirmed the transaction and Kirsten bagged the individual bags together, handing it to the kid.

"Take care, now," she said, opening the door for the two. "And be careful of any ice," she added, waving to the child as they left.

The two staff were left in the empty store. Kirsten walked into the rows, examining some of the products and waiting for more customers.

"I need to tell you something," John said suddenly. "Well, ask you something first."

Kirsten faced John with a twirl. "Yeah?" she asked expectantly.

"You never told us or wrote it on the wall. What's your favorite candy?"

That was one of the questions that Pearson requested the employees to answer on the staff wall. It was supposed to help the child patrons of the store relate or something. Considering it was unimportant, John had written something randomly, white chocolate, but Kirsten hadn't written anything at all.

"That's my secret, and it always will be," she answered with a playful smile. "But take a guess. You won't get it; it's very specific."

John had expected that answer. He had asked before and Kirsten had said the same. It hadn't been until Kirsten quit the shop that she had revealed it.

"Those assorted dark chocolate berries," John said, pointing at a nearby bin. "The ones that have a bitter exterior, but a sweet, fruity core." John had said her exact words to the best of his memory.

Kirsten gave him a look, tilting her head in curiosity. She opened her mouth then closed it, thinking. Finally, "Did-did I tell you without remembering it?" she giggled, clearly out of confusion. "Or do you just know me better than I think?"

"It's been many years."

"What, three? It's not unusual to be coworkers for many more years and still not even know each other's last names."

"Well, our time as coworkers will only be three years: I'm quitting soon."

"Oh," Kirsten said. Her expression of confusion evolved a tinge of sadness. She open and closed her mouth a few times. That was something she always did when she was confused. "May I ask why?"

"I'm moving on to pursue my passion."

"Did you get a university acceptance? That's quite early."

"No."

"Then why?" Kirsten asked, frowning.

"I'd rather not share."

"Oh… Then can I know when you are leaving?"

"Tomorrow will be the last day."

"I see."

"It's abrupt, but I wanted you to know."

The exchange was short and had quickly become impersonal.

Then the candy store was quiet, both from additional customers and from interaction between the staff.

But that was exactly how the exchange flowed when Kirsten left the shop in the past life. Her parting had been just as abrupt, a family issue. It would occur in a few months.

After John had lost Gramps, he locked himself in the game. But when he eventually came back into the real world, he kept working at the candy shop. It wasn't for the money; John never had any momentary issues. He had returned because of her and the hole in his heart.

When Kirsten had left, he had soon departed too.

John had always found her resignation odd, and not because of the one-sided affection. She was mostly through her last year of school and suddenly went home. Sure, it was a family issue, but Kirsten never came back, not to finish her degree, and never visiting the colorful candy shop again.

Like Gramps' death, John had eventually moved on. Unlike Gramps' death though, when given a chance to do it again, he didn't. Chelsea had claimed that tender position.

At eight, the rest of the candy store morning staff arrived to man the majority of the store. Pearson also arrived, and John presented his resignation.

Pearson was understanding and didn't hold John back. He didn't even cut pay because of the sudden severance even though John had insisted the money didn't matter.

And that was that.

…

John arrived at the hospital at two twenty.

His shift had ended at two in the afternoon and the hospital was only a quick transit ride away. It was a typical medical building, sort of like the one in the Gyead barracks, but bustling and more sterile.

Due to Gramps' time in the hospital, John became acquainted with the receptionist on duty. But today was a Saturday, with a different shift. However, they still let John in to meet the doctor. Thankfully, Dr, Fuller wasn't occupied at the moment.

They met in Fuller's office, where the doctor was browsing through something on his computer. John stood in the doorway and knocked on the glass panel.

The doctor looked up. "Hello, John."

"Dr. Fuller, help me with something."

"Is it about Owen?" That was Gramps' first name.

"Yes, he is going to get sick." It was at this point that John finally considered how he would explain everything to the doctor. How would a seventeen-year-old be able to diagnose a rare illness?

The doctor frowned. It was weird to have a patient's relative come in, claiming something so adamantly. "Is he? He was here on Thursday, like always. And like always, everything seemed fine."

There was no good way to prove it: John could only say it. "He's suffering from the early stages of Jenkins' disease."

This deepened Fuller's frown. A person with no medical background was claiming to recognize the subtle symptoms of early-stage Jenkins'. "Jenkins' is a very rare, age-related disease, how do you even know about that?"

How could John not know about the disease that ruined Gramps' life? "It's a disease that partially paralyses, and it's treatable, until a point. So treat him while we can."

"But how do you know that he has it? There are no exterior symptoms until the partial paralysis."

"Don't believe me? Screen him." John was realizing there was no good, persuasive way to do this.

"Look, there is a process for screening, but it isn't pleasant, and it's expensive. We don't screen unless necessary."

"It is necessary." John's tone was rising into one of anger. Hadn't Gramps died because of the lack of diagnosis and treatment? Rationally, John knew that it wasn't because of Fuller, it wasn't because of anything other than fate, but there grew a subconscious fire.

"John, listen, it's irrational. These tests carry a certain risk. There's a procedure to this and it's not worth the ri-"

"Just screen him, doc."

"But these things aren't that simple," Fuller tried to reason. "And even if we do it, we need to take our time. Bring Owen in, and we can talk again. Maybe during his next regular visit, and if the screening is determined necessary, we can make another appointment for la-"

But Gramps' sickness would reach the point of no return within two weeks. Time was not kind.

"Just fucking screen him, doctor," John interrupted, dropping a rare swear word.

The office was silent enough to hear a pin drop.

"We'll come by tomorrow morning," John added.

The door closed on the astounded Fuller.

'What kind of shameless guy does something like that?'

This was a hospital and he was a doctor! Fuller rested his face in his palm and rubbed his eyelids. It had been a conversation that lasted a minute but stressed him like it was an hour.

What would he do if the lunatic actually returned tomorrow, with Owen too? Fuller would have to refuse the screening. How could a doctor allow an unnecessary procedure that was more likely to hurt than help the patient? But he would have to deal with John again.

'Was he always like this?' Fuller thought. He hadn't seen him in a while and now he was up to these shenanigans.