I thought life had returned to normal. I thought all this chaos had ended. I thought it was a period in my life that had ended with Isabelle's homecoming. Well, I was wrong. Sadly and horribly and drastically wrong. And I don't mean there was so much more to come. It really wasn't much in terms of time, though at the time it felt like it. I'm stalling. I don't want to talk about it. Belle says I must, though. And I suppose it would be unfair to stop the story here without telling you the truth.
A few weeks later Dalia and I were lunching together at home on a sunny Saturday. Dalia was daydreaming about Chris, who had become a frequent visitor of ours without officially seeing Dalia. I was focusing on my bacon sandwich and not thinking of much else. There was a weak knocking at the door and Dalia got up to see who it was. I followed her curiously, wondering whether it might be Isabelle, or at least Chris. Well, it was Chris. When she opened the door, Chris practically fell onto her. Dalia gasped. He was clutching his side with a bloody hand, grinding his teeth and trying to smile. Dalia paled and whispered, "Chris...Chris, what happened?"
"Fellow shot me," Chris managed painfully. "Dunno who."
Dalia swallowed and ordered, "J, quick, call an ambulance. Oh, Chris..." She knelt by him, biting back tears. Clenching his teeth, Chris managed a smile for Dalia. "I won't—it's alright—" he muttered, "I'm not gonna last that long."
I stared in horror as he gasped for breath, holding his side tighter. Dalia choked and then gave way to a crying wreck. "Chris, please," she sobbed. Chris pulled his pained face into one last feeble grin and squeezed Dalia's hand. "Don't cry," he managed through teeth clenched in pain. "Shh, Day," he let out a previously restrained cry of pain and Dalia only sobbed harder. "Chris—" she whispered. Chris gripped her hand, still smiling weakly, and whispered, "I love you," just before his muscles, taut with pain, all relaxed. I swallowed as I watched Dalia sob into Chris's lifeless chest. It couldn't be real. He couldn't really be dead—no, this was some sort of trick. It must have been a dream. I was sure of it, and yet, deep down, I knew no dream could ever be this horrible; this real. I was too stunned to shed a tear, but later, when it was so much more real and concrete, I couldn't help sobbing as I looked upon the best friend I had ever had. Dead. He had died smiling. Smiling through the pain, smiling through the tears he had held back; smiling for Dalia.
