Scars and Friendship: A Story of an Unbroken Spirit
Emily and I sit on her balcony, fifteen floors up in a new-build apartment on the outskirts of Manchester. She moved here four years ago with her dad and nan. Her father works as a solicitor for the construction firm that built this block. They chose this flat for its spacious balcony—a luxury they could afford—so Emily could indulge her passion. The balcony is insulated, with heated flooring, radiators, and textured tiles that feel smooth underfoot. Emily is obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. There are five aquariums in the flat—one in every room, and one out here.
This one is a corner tank with soft lighting and a complicated filtration system I know nothing about, though Emily could talk for hours on the subject. Inside, a ceramic castle with arches and turrets stands like a fortress in some underwater kingdom. Four bright orange fish—whose names I always forget—and one unusual one, a bronze pleco Emily calls the tank’s janitor, dart in and out of the castle windows.
Emily knows everything about her fish. She’s active on aquarium forums, writes articles for hobbyist websites, and is respected there. Her enthusiasm extends to plants, too. Since moving here, her flat has transformed into a lush jungle. Ivy winds along the balcony rail, hanging baskets spill with violets, and potted miniature pines and bonsai trees stand in neat rows.
We sit in this green sanctuary, gazing through the towering window at the River Mersey, the rooftops below, and the distant park. To the right, the hum of the motorway leading to Warrington and Liverpool drifts up. Emily tells me about a berry-picking trip with her dad. They drove so deep into the countryside only their 4×4 could make it. They returned with baskets full, then spent three days with her nan making jam.
“Shame Dad’s barely home now. Works even weekends. The weather’s perfect, but the rains will come soon, and we’ll be stuck inside. Sophie, let’s try taking those photos again?” Emily looks at me pleadingly.
I sigh. We head to her room—just as green and cosy as the balcony. She sits in front of a homemade white backdrop. I snap a few shots, then we try editing them on her laptop. She needs passport photos, but it feels impossible.
None of them turn out right. Maybe I’m a bad photographer, or maybe it’s something else.
“Em, stop stressing. There’s a photo studio downstairs. I’ll run and sort it.”
She reluctantly agrees and curls into the balcony chair, wrapping herself in a blanket, turning toward the window.
I grab the keys and hurry down. The photographer, a young bloke, is bored behind the counter. I explain we need passport photos but want them taken upstairs.
“That’ll cost—”
“Doesn’t matter. We need them today.”
We go back up. He freezes at the sight of the aquarium, mesmerised. I fidget.
“Listen… Try not to focus on… Her face is badly scarred. That’s why she didn’t come to the studio. Please.”
“No problem. Customer pays, rest isn’t my business.”
I call Emily. She steps out, cocooned in the blanket, silent as she sits before the backdrop. The photographer adjusts his camera, glancing at her curiously.
“Ready. Lower the blanket.”
Slowly, she lets it fall, straightens. His face pales. Shock flashes in his eyes.
“Bloody hell—”
“Take the photos,” Emily says flatly.
He clicks quickly. I walk him to the door.
“Your sister?”
“No. Best friend. She’s incredible, strong—”
“Believe it. But next time, warn me first.”
“I did warn you—”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Christ… Poor thing.”
I hand him the money. He waves it off.
“Come back in an hour. They’ll be ready.”
Emily’s back on the balcony, wrapped up, shoulders shaking—crying. I hug her, stroke her hair, rock her gently.
“It’s okay, Em. Everything passes. Look, the park leaves are yellow. Want me to grab your favourite maple leaves? Or ice cream? Fancy a feast?”
“Ice cream’s in the freezer, Soph. Eat it… I don’t want any.”
Ten years ago, I walked down a familiar hospital corridor in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, porters smiled as I passed.
An older nurse at the desk looked up.
“Sophie, how long’ve you been home? Four months? Back for more patching up?”
“Yep, Margery. Hoping it’s the last time.”
“Let’s see where to put you… First ward’s under refurb, we’re packed. Even the kids’ wing has extra beds.”
I peeked through the glass. Ten cots where there should’ve been six.
“There’s space in Ward 12. Fancy it?”
“Semi-private? Course!”
Margery sighed, smiling crookedly.
“Come on. There’s a lass in there—Emily Carter. Same age as you. Just… takes getting used to. She’s burned too. Badly.”
“Burns? Seen worse.”
Ward 12 was near-luxury. En suite, fridge, two adjustable beds. Even space for a telly.
I stepped in. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure sat shrouded in a blanket. Margery turned on the light, helped me unpack. The girl stayed silent, watching from her cocoon. Only her eyes were visible.
“Emily, this is Sophie. She’s lovely, come on out.”
Margery tugged the blanket. I froze.
Emily had no face. No hair, no ears. Just nostrils where her nose should’ve been, lips barely there. A foam collar braced her neck. Her cheeks were gone—just scars, like the ones on my back and legs. But mine were hidden. Hers weren’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—looked out of place on that ruined face.
I steadied myself.
“Hi. Nice to meet you. Friends?”
Emily’s voice was muffled, her speech slurred. Hard to get used to. But she amazed me: fluent in French, wrote children’s stories, knew art inside out.
By evening, I barely noticed her scars. Five years in hospitals numbed me. Emily was special. Few survived burns like hers.
Her dad arrived—short, kind-eyed like her. We sat on her bed, watched telly. He got emotional seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first to treat her like an equal—outside doctors.
Emily’s story shattered me. She was six when their holiday cottage caught fire. She’d been there with her mum, baby brother, and nan. Her dad visited weekends. The fire started at night. He arrived at dawn to smouldering ruins. Nothing left of the house. Of his family—just Emily. She’d slept by the door, woken to flames. A burning beam fell on her as she ran. A neighbour pulled her out, burning himself.
Nothing to bury. The heat left no remains. Her dad gathered ashes, buried them. Seeing Emily, he nearly broke—but held on for her.
My op was scheduled for Tuesday—skin grafts. Emily had already had hers, fixing her neck and face. We talked non-stop those two days. She spoke like she feared I’d vanish. I learned she was studying ahead, soon to finish school. Her mind, her hunger to learn, stunned me. Her hands and chest were scarred, but she still tended plants and fish tanks.
My parents visited. They spoke with Emily’s dad in the hall. Mum cried. Dad shook his hand firmly. Emily glowed—she’d never had a friend before.
Tuesday, they wheeled me to theatre. Emily, swaddled in a scarf, left the ward for the first time to see me to the lift.
“Come back quick. I’ll wait.”
“Be back by evening, don’t worry,” I smiled.
No fear. The familiar team joked as they prepped me.
“Sleep time, Sophie. Count down,” the anaesthetist said.
I was out by six.
Then—suddenly—I was awake. Sharp, lucid. Distant shouts. My body felt alien, heavy, like sinking into earth. I fought upward, gasping—then was slammed back. White-hot pain tore through me. I tried to scream. Then—nothing.
I woke a day later in ICU. My heart had stopped. They brought me back.
They took me to Emily. She walked beside the gurney, silent. I turned to the wall, drowning in gloom. Didn’t want to eat, speak, think.
“Why, God? Why stay? There’s no pain there…” I whispered.
Emily stroked my hair with her scarred hand.
“Soph, I almost left… Why bring me back? Who needs us?”
“It’s okay… Everything passes. Dad brought ice cream. Raspberry. Sister says you can have some. Want?”
“Don’t want it. Eat it yourself.”She didn’t say anything, just held my hand tighter, and for the first time in days, I didn’t feel alone.
