Unhappenings Read Free Page A

I had evidently already known for some time, but those shifts always took place outside my own frame of reference. In this sense, while my life was hideously inconsistent, it appeared, even to me, to be in perfect continuity.
    This phenomenon, among others, pushed me further and further toward my studies of time travel theory. It was, at least at that time, the only plausible avenue of explanation. As disorienting—and occasionally devastating—as these disturbances were for me personally, their nature fascinated me. Was the fact I could never perceive the changes directly a property of the event, or of my own consciousness? Were the occurrences random, or were the patterns I sometimes seemed to observe indicative of some underlying structure?
    Of one thing alone I was absolutely certain: no one but me ever shared this experience.
    Part of that certainty came from presumption, bordering on conceit. The ways in which my life was routinely tortured and gutted were so personal it was virtually impossible for me to conceal the effects they had on me. My family, my friends, my professors, and often total strangers made frequent remarks that I seemed off. Which, indeed, I was. So, if my own pain was that obvious to everyone I encountered, another’s pain for similar reasons would have to be obvious to me. I looked for it everywhere I went. Every human contact included a quest for signs of this trauma. No one ever had it. No one ever even understood it.
    Another part of that certainty came from arduous research. As a boy, I was naturally inclined to ask my friends, from time to time, if they had ever seen signs such as I had. It was always easy enough to do with subtlety. Never broach the subject in the presence of more than one other person. Only discuss it with individuals who could be trusted completely. Describe the phenomenon as some queer variation of déjà vu. I learned to ask the questions in ways that prevented me from being seen as insane, but I never found the answers I so eagerly sought.
    And yes, part of that certainty came from exploring the possibility it was, in fact, madness. I scoured the literature on abnormal psychology, hunting for some sign I had an identifiable disorder. I did find some cases of perceptual disconnection that approximated what I felt, and I did occasionally take on those labels to see how well they would fit my mind. Always, however, there were too many other indicators that persuaded me that I did not have these particular disorders. Some other aspect of my psyche was too functional to comfortably fit whatever diagnosis I chose to explore. So, either I was the only person to be experiencing these retroactive life changes, or I was the only person with this particular mental illness. Either way, I was unique.
    I did, of course, go down this road of investigation with the aid of psychotherapy. However, on more than one occasion, I found myself showing up for an appointment with a psychologist who had never heard of me. In other aspects of my life, that sort of awkward moment was a familiar embarrassment; in this context it represented a risk that might have broader consequences. On the third try, I gave up.
    So, I firmly established the fact this undoing and redoing of my personal history was an experience linked solely to me.
    I was, of course, quite mistaken. Obvious now in hindsight. Whatever hindsight even means anymore.



ne day, halfway through my second year at MIT, something unhappened to me twice. Or, perhaps more accurately, two completely different things unhappened simultaneously. They effectively neutralized each other, and I would not even have been aware of them if I hadn’t almost been arrested for one of them.
    I was in the library when the police came for me. Sitting alone, as always, and engrossed in my reading, I honestly didn’t see or hear them until I heard one of them speak my name.
    “Nigel Walden?” A loner by choice, I wasn’t used to being sought out, much