A dream.

It had become apparent that I was to die in one year and one day.
I wasn't sick; we just collectively, cosmically knew that this was when it would happen. At first I had forgotten, forgotten for awhile.
I live in a place without seasons, so it was difficult to notice time passing. When it had, we were all together, and I had three days remaining. Mostly I kept quiet, but I had spurts of raucous ferocity. Things were becoming intolerable. I didn't want to make a fuss, make people sad. I was afraid if I mentioned it, their faces might betray them. I was terrified they had forgotten. So I mentioned it. They were unreadable. We were at an impasse. But still, we were together, and vacationing far away. I didn't want to die at home.  Thirty pounds of lead had settled in my stomach those last two days.
The eventide of the last night had settled into a gorgeous, thick haze. We were all nestled comfortably on a wooden patio, bathed in yellow light. Little flies floated around, but never had they seemed sweeter to me. These things, that died so quickly. I asked my mother, "Do you think it's really true? About tomorrow?" And she replied without pause. "Yes." Everyone had accepted it. Everyone rested easy, no heart weighed more than a few ounces. No words of comfort fluttered my way. I was proud of their maturity, and angry that their love had provided them with it.
I remember waking up very anxious the next day, and feeling hopelessly blue. I think I began to relax, but I don't remember dying.