**Scars and Friendship: A Story of an Unbroken Spirit**
Sitting with Lucy on her fifteenth-floor balcony in a newly built apartment on the outskirts of Manchester, I watch as the evening light fades. She moved here with her father and grandmother four years ago—her dad, a solicitor for the construction company that built this very block. They chose this flat for its spacious balcony, fitted with underfloor heating and sleek tiled walls, perfect for Lucy’s obsession. The place is a green sanctuary, lush with houseplants and dotted with aquariums—one in every room, including this balcony.
The corner tank glows softly, its filtration system a mystery to me but a subject Lucy could lecture on for hours. Inside, a ceramic castle stands, its arched windows home to darting fish—four vibrant orange ones (whose names I can never recall) and a bronze pleco, dutifully cleaning the glass like an underwater custodian.
Lucy knows everything about her fish. She writes for aquarium forums, respected in that world, just as she is with her plants. Since moving here, her flat has become a jungle—ivy climbs the walls, violets spill from hanging baskets, and tiny bonsai trees sit in neat pots.
We lounge in this green haven, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the River Irwell, the distant rooftops, and the park beyond. Below us hums the motorway leading to Stockport and Oldham. Lucy tells me about foraging for blackberries with her dad, driving their Land Rover deep into the countryside where no one else ventured. They spent days afterwards making jam with her grandmother.
“Dad’s barely home now,” she sighs. “Works even weekends. Perfect weather, and soon it’ll rain for days. Fancy trying another photo?” Her eyes plead.
I exhale. We move to her bedroom, just as green and cosy as the balcony. Lucy sits before the makeshift white backdrop. I snap a few shots, then we attempt edits on her laptop. She needs passport photos, but it’s hopeless.
“Lucy, stop overthinking it. There’s a studio downstairs—let me sort it.”
Reluctantly, she agrees, retreating to the balcony chair, swathed in a throw, facing the window.
I grab the keys and hurry down. The photographer, a bored bloke at the counter, perks up when I explain we need photos—but upstairs.
“That’ll cost extra—”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s urgent.”
Back upstairs, he freezes at the sight of the aquarium, mesmerised. I hesitate.
“Listen… try not to stare. Her face—it’s why we didn’t come to the studio. Please.”
“No worries. Client pays, not my business.”
I call Lucy. She emerges, wrapped tight in the throw, silent as she sits before the backdrop. The photographer adjusts his camera, curiosity flickering in his glance.
“Done. Drop the throw.”
She lets the fabric fall. His face pales; shock flashes in his eyes.
“Bloody hell—”
“Just take the photo,” Lucy mutters.
He clicks rapidly, and I usher him out.
“Your sister?”
“Best friend. She’s incredible. Strong.”
“Believe you. But next time, warn me properly.”
“I did.”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Christ… Poor thing.”
I hand him cash. He waves it off.
“Come back in an hour. They’ll be ready.”
I return to Lucy. She’s back on the balcony, shoulders trembling under the throw. I pull her close, rocking her gently.
“It’s alright, Luce. This’ll pass too. Look—the park leaves are golden. Want me to grab your favourite sycamore ones? Or ice cream? We’ll feast.”
“Fridge has ice cream, Em. Help yourself… Not hungry.”
Ten years ago, I walked the sterile halls of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Nurses and doctors nodded as I passed—I knew them all.
At the station, an older nurse smiled.
“Emma, home four months? Back for more?”
“Hopefully the last time.”
“Let’s see where to put you… Paediatric ward’s packed. Even squeezed in extra cots.”
I peeked in. Crowded.
“There’s space in Bay 12. Fancy it?”
“Side room? Absolutely.”
She sighed. “Come on. Good girl there—Lucy Hartley. Your age. But… takes getting used to. Burns. Bad ones.”
“Burns? Seen worse.”
Bay 12 was near-luxury—en-suite, two beds, even a mini-fridge.
I entered. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure sat cocooned in a blanket. The nurse turned on the light. The girl didn’t move, just watched from within her shroud.
“Lucy, this is Emma. Be nice, come out.”
The nurse tugged the blanket. I froze.
Lucy had no face. No hair, no ears. Just scar tissue, a breathing hole for a nose, lips barely there. Her neck was braced by foam. Her cheeks—ridged, ruined, like my back and legs. But mine were hidden. Hers wasn’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—seemed lost in the wreckage.
I steadied myself. “Hi. Let’s be friends?”
Her voice was muffled, slurred. But she was brilliant—fluent in French, wrote children’s stories, knew art. By evening, I barely noticed her scars. Five years in hospitals had numbed me.
Her dad arrived—quiet, kind-eyed. We all sat watching telly. He nearly cried seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first to treat Lucy as an equal.
Her story shattered me.
At six, a fire ripped through their holiday cottage. Mum, little brother, grandma—gone. Dad, away for work, returned to ashes. A neighbour dragged Lucy out, burned himself.
Nothing remained to bury.
Tuesday, I went for skin grafts. Lucy had already had hers—neck and face rebuilt. For two days, we talked nonstop. She was years ahead in school, desperate for company.
My parents met her dad in the corridor. Mum wept. Dad gripped his hand. Lucy glowed—finally, a friend.
In theatre, anaesthesia dragged me under.
Then—pain. Voices shouting. My body numb, heavy. I fought towards consciousness, only to be plunged back. Agony tore through me before darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke in ICU a day later. My heart had stopped. They brought me back.
Lucy waited by my bed as they wheeled me in. I turned to the wall, hollow.
“Why, God? Why stay? There’s no pain there…”
Lucy stroked my hair with her scarred hand.
“Em, I nearly went… Who needs us like this?”
“Hush. Dad brought ice cream. Raspberry. Nurse says you can have some. Want it?”
“No. You have it.”
She hugged me clumsily, her head resting against mine. We didn’t speak. I slept, peaceful at last.
At the studio, the photographer handed over a stack of prints—extra, all sizes.
“So you’re sorted for a while. No more hassle.” Decent bloke.
Lucy tucked them away unopened. We returned to the balcony. The city sparkled below, the fish peering from their castle. Silent. Warm.
We’ve never needed words to understand each other. Some things, silence says best.
