Inevitability. A work of fiction.

It's strange, but I woke up knowing that I have seven days to live. Don't ask me how I know. It seems to defy all logic, and those who know me will testify that I have no time for irrational ideas. Yet, somehow, I know that my death is impending in the near future.

What should I do? That was the question I asked myself. It seems to be the kind of thing that one plays with as a thought experiment; what would you do if you knew how long you had left? Would you tell someone you loved them? Reconcile any differences? Live life to the full?

Sadly, it just doesn't seem to work that way. I feel no drama or apprehension about my impending demise. It's as if I've accepted it as something natural, something that is beyond mere human concerns. In a way it is; no matter what I do, the outcome will be the same. So what did I do? Well, the first day I did what one would expect; I tried to enjoy every moment. I phoned up friends who I hadn't spoken to for years; I went out and had an extravagant dinner. I indulged in some petty crimes; of course, I made sure not to be caught- I didn't want to die in jail, after all.

The following second and third days I spent indulging in my own personal pleasures- relaxing in the sun, finishing books I had laid to rest weeks ago.

Of course, things like this never maintain such a perfect state. The equilibriam must be restored, and every man must have his fair share of troubles up until the day he dies. In my personal case, things started to go wrong when I told the girl I had liked for the past several months that I thought I loved her. She didn't recieve it particularly well, although it could have been worse; I shall spare the details, but suffice to say following that phone call I didn't speak to her again.

The fourth day saw me enter a depressive stage. As it dawned on me the magnitude of what would be happening, I gained a sense of urgency that had been hithero unknown in me. I withdrew all my money from my bank acounts. I tried to maximise the amount of time I spent awake; but it seemed that I just grew ever more tired as the hours went by.

I can barely remember the fifth day. I spent it dosed up on beer and drugs. For a brief period they alleviated the rising sense of horror I felt, but then I succumbed to the overwhelming feelings of abject misery. For hours I stayed awake, staring at the sunset, watching it slowly drip away into the horizon like some irretrievable part of me.

On the sixth day I tried to kill myself. At first I took an overdose; all that happened was that I was rendered unconcious on the bathroom floor for half an hour. I woke up to find myself covered in vomit that my stomach had brought up. Next I attempted to stab myself. The pain was intense, and for a short while it brought me back in tune with reality. But no matter how hard I tried, the pain would subside to a dull, throbbing ache that would rise to a crescendo and then fall again. It appeared that I could not die until the appointed hour.

That night I stayed outside. I didn't feel like sleeping- my body seemed numb. A feeling of apathy had gripped my body and held it tight, preventing me from caring about anything or anyone. From inside my house the phone rang, but I let it carry on until the sharp chime had subsided. I thought of the ones I would be leaving mehind, but no sorrow could be raised. I case my mind back to the girl I thought I had loved; I realised that I had merely been caught up with my own melodrama; it had only been an infatuation, nothing more.

I felt no regret, no sadness, nothing.

Looking at the stars, I wondered whether there would ever be a time when they would be reachable, or if they would remain forever as silent taunts, promising us a world we could never have.

I returned back inside, and entered my room. Earlier I had emptied it of everything; the clear white walls helped me to focus on myself. Closing the blinds and turning off the lights, I sat there, in the corner. I sat there awaiting my death.