A story for University. Enjoy.

I’ve always wondered if one person can exist solely for the purpose of another? When I met my wife it was like that, we exited only for each other’s pleasure. The rest of the world faded away when we were together and we were oblivious to it. Her name was Elizabeth and she was my salvation. For all the agony I may have faced in solitude, she saved me from myself.
The day appeared as any other to me, I was a young man with the world at my feet, why would I notice the majesty of the day. I was walking through the park on my way to work when I first saw her. It was as if the suns rays followed her across the park, I of course took no notice of this, and it is only in reflection I can record it so eloquently. She was beautiful even I could see that. As I approached the road she was right beside me, my mind was so focused on this beauty by my side that I failed to notice the lights change on the street and I stepped out into the oncoming traffic. She grabbed my hand and pulled me back to safety. My saviour, how could I not fall in love with her? She was still holding my hand, I couldn’t speak, and thankfully she mistook this for shock. She led me over to a nearby café and sat me down at a table. It was only then that she released her hold on me. She told me to stay there and I, like a little lost puppy obeyed. I watched her as she walked up to the counter and bought me a drink. I find that in my life beauty is contained in mystery, the more I know of something the more I loose interest, but this was not the case with Elizabeth. I never went to work that day. We talked for hours, she was trying to relax me and I was trying to attract her.
Looking back it was a beautiful day. We were married in the spring the next year, there was another beautiful day, but one I wont bore you with.
When I was a child I used to get up early on Sunday mornings, I’d walk the streets and blow a whistle. I’d watch as people ran out of their houses in their pyjamas to buy a newspaper, only to discover that no one was there. This morbid take on life stayed with me into my adulthood. Elizabeth soon became aware of my odd habit of shardenfreude; she had caught me topping off saltshakers with chilli powder. I assumed she would look down on this, hence the reason I kept it hidden from her, but she loved me even more for my bad habits. She never contributed to my nasty pranks; instead she took me to the park where we first met. We sat down under a widely branched tree and just watched people. This we did quite often and although at first I thought it boring, I soon found myself looking forward to these outings. I even let her catch me pranking from time to time in order for her to suggest them. When we sat under that tree, and it was always the same tree, Elizabeth would ask me about the people we saw. ‘Imagine you know them, everything about them. Tell me everything.’ The lives we made up for these people, originally my tales were absurd or dull, but gradually these people evolved in my head to be fascinating individuals. Elizabeth seemed to focus on the children, and I could tell she wanted one although she never brought the subject up.
Elizabeth was an artist, her paintings may never hang in any gallery, but they are worth more to me than gold. I would watch her paint for hours and even though I know my watching disturbed her immensely, she never once complained. She had two showings of her works in the time we were together; I being the loving husband attended both. At the first showing the critics were harsh, one in particular made my Elizabeth cry. Elizabeth took her paintings home and started to put her paints away. I had to stop her, save her as she had saved me. I asked her to paint me a picture, it was the only time I had ever asked her to paint me anything. The look on her face when I asked her was almost unbearable, but I was certain I was doing the right thing. I still remember the exact wording, ‘Elizabeth darling, before you pack up your paints forever would you paint me just one thing?’ She of course replied, ‘Anything.’ ‘I want you to paint me a portrait of that horrid critic. I want him to look as real and as happy as possible.’ You could have heard a pin drop after I had finished that sentence. She painted it and the thoughts going through her head about me must have been astounding, just as astounding as my actual request. While she was painting I spent much of my free time organising a new showing of her works, I picked out what paintings to display and I made sure all the same people were invited. When the painting was finished Elizabeth presented it to me, she had done a beautiful job, I asked her if I could name it and this honour she allowed me. Then I told her about the showing where I would unveil it. She was so mad at me, ‘another showing? I don’t need to be humiliated again, what were you thinking?’ The money had been paid so she went along with it. She was very good to me, even when her sense of self worth was at stake.
The night itself was just what I pictured it to be, the critic went round to each painting and attacked it verbally to every onlooker. His pompous manner and arrogance in his craft were his defining characteristics, he thrust his opinion onto his listeners and they had no choice but to concede to his opinion. The moment for the unveiling of the show centrepiece came. I took the stage and began my speech; luckily it was videotaped so I can repeat it to you verbatim. ‘My friends, I have gathered you here to behold my wife’s wonderful creative ability.’ I motioned to my wife, she stood smiling at the side of the crowd near the front, but I knew she was a bundle of nerves. ‘I chose the works displayed here and I entitled the showing, “Destruction of Creativity.” This main work I am about to unveil does not stand alone, it stands with you. You are part of the work, just as you are part of life, everything interacts and I’ll explain how after the unveiling. I was given the honour of naming this piece painted by my beautiful wife, I call it The Rotten Apple.’ I lifted the veil, the critic stood ready to pass a judgement he had already decided, but on seeing it he was speechless. I had earlier coated the paint in kerosene and now lighting a match I threw it onto the painting. The effect was spectacular, the audience gasped, one woman shrieked, and my wife stood in shock. I had positioned a fire extinguisher nearby and it was the critic that reached for it to put out ‘The Rotten Apple,’ the fire was soon out. ‘What are you doing man? You’re burning a work of art.’ I stepped back up beside the painting to address the people, ‘people, now the painting is complete. One rotten apple can spoil the opinion of an entire room, but you take that rotten apple away or heal it and you are able to think for yourselves once more.’ The show was a remarkable success, many paintings were sold, the critic wrote a great review of my wife’s bold artistic statement and he even bought the badly singed ‘Rotten Apple,’ hopefully it will remind him not to pass judgement so quickly in the future. Elizabeth glowed that night and her paints polluted our lounge room for long after that event.

It was a cold day in November one year when Elizabeth died. I’ll never forget that day, I wish I could have loved her more, I wish I had told her more what she had meant to me and I wish I could have saved her. We never saw it coming. She got out of bed like any other day and made us both some breakfast. Around midday she complained of a headache, I told her to go and lie down. Who pays any attention to a headache? They tell me she passed out. I just thought she had gone to sleep. It was not until I went to wake her that I discovered the awful truth. I called an ambulance but it was too late, she was gone. Gone. The most wonderful thing in my whole world and I never even said goodbye. The doctor said there was nothing anyone could have done even if they had known, it was a brain tuma, he started to explain it all to me, but I couldn’t listen, I was thinking about Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth. How would know what killed her help me? I would never see her again, never touch her skin, and never hear her soft and gentle voice. How cruel was the world that it would let me find something so magical and then take it away and expect me to go on?
I meandered round in a daze for so long, ignoring life because there was nothing in it that interested me. I slept on the couch, the smell of Elizabeth’s paints still hung in the lounge air. The more I tried to grasp her memory, the more she slipped from my mind. Months past before I could bring myself to go back into the bedroom, our bedroom. The last place I had seen my Elizabeth, even at the funeral I had insisted on a closed coffin. I wanted to remember her full of life, anything less would be an insult to her, but looking at the bed all I could see was her cold, lifeless body. I lunged at the bed and tore the covers off, ripping them to pieces with my hands. I heard something drop from between the bed sheets to the floor; I bent down and there on the floor lay a diary. I did not know Elizabeth had kept a diary, I had never seen it before. I took the book to our tree in the park, it seemed to me the perfect place, our place. As I read the diary Elizabeth returned to me, her thoughts, her pleasures, her life. In those words I found my first sense of happiness since I had lost her, I had always known that she made me happy, but now I knew that I made her happy as well, even with my foolish pranks.
The last page written on was dated the day she died, reading it my eyes filled with tears, tears that poured down my face, tears that I could not wipe away for fear that her spirit would think I was ashamed. It was as if she had known what was about to pass. Under our tree where she showed me the world, I read the last paragraph, her last words. ‘He will always amaze me. One my darling will read this, one day I will show it to him, we will both be smiling, and when we walk together we will be like one, two minds and one heart. Should he be forced to walk alone I will whisper on the wind, “Don’t just exist my Gabriel, live.” As I read the last line the wind picked up and blew the leaves around me, I was crying, but I was smiling too.