Scars and Friendship: A Tale of an Unbroken Spirit
Lizzy and I sit on her balcony, fifteen floors up in a new-build on the outskirts of Manchester. She moved here four years ago with her father and grandmother. Her father is a solicitor for the construction firm that built this block. They chose this flat for its spacious balcony—just for Lizzy, so she could indulge her passion. Her father could afford it. The balcony is insulated, with underfloor heating, radiators, and walls lined with textured tiles, smooth to the touch. Lizzy is obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. There are five aquariums in the flat—one in every room, and this one here, on the balcony.
This tank is corner-shaped, softly lit, with a filtration system so complex I wouldn’t know where to begin, though Lizzy could talk about it for hours. Inside swims a ceramic castle with arches and turrets. The fish dart from its windows like sentinels of an underwater kingdom—four bright orange ones whose names I can never remember, and one unusual catfish Lizzy calls a bronze pleco. He’s the tank’s janitor, keeping everything clean.
Lizzy knows everything about her fish. She’s active on aquarist forums, writes articles for enthusiasts’ websites, and is respected there. She’s just as passionate about plants. After moving here, her rooms turned into jungles of greenery. Ivy winds along the balcony rail, hanging baskets spill with violets, and tiny potted firs and bonsai trees stand proudly.
We sit in this little oasis, gazing through the wide window at the River Mersey, rooftops, and a distant park. Below us, the hum of the motorway to Liverpool and Warrington drifts up. Lizzy tells me about a trip with her father to pick berries. They drove so deep into the countryside, only their 4×4 could manage the tracks. They filled their baskets, then spent three days with her grandmother making jam.
“Shame Dad’s hardly home now. Even works weekends. Gorgeous weather, but soon the rains will come, and we’ll be stuck inside. Annie, let’s try the photos again?” Lizzy looks at me pleadingly.
I sigh. We go to her room—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 them for documents, but it feels impossible.
They never turn out right. Maybe my photography’s awful—or maybe it’s something else.
“Liz, stop fussing. There’s a studio downstairs. I’ll go sort it.”
She nods reluctantly, curling into the balcony chair, wrapped in a blanket, turning to 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 they’ll be taken upstairs, on the fifteenth floor.
“That’ll cost—”
“I don’t care what it costs. We need them today.”
Back upstairs, the photographer freezes at the balcony aquarium, mesmerised by the fish. I hesitate.
“Look… try not to focus too much on… She’s had an accident. That’s why she didn’t come down. Please.”
“Not my business. Client pays, I shoot.”
I call Lizzy. She shuffles out, cocooned in the blanket, silent as she sits before the backdrop. The photographer adjusts his camera, sneaking glances at her.
“Ready. Drop the blanket.”
Slowly, she lowers it, straightens up. His face pales; shock flashes in his eyes.
“Bloody hell—” he blurts.
“Just take the photo,” Lizzy says flatly.
He clicks the shutter rapidly, and I usher him out.
“Your sister?”
“No. Best friend. She’s incredible. Strong.”
“I believe you. But next time—warn me.”
“I did warn you.”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Christ. Poor thing.”
I hold out the money. He waves it away.
“Come back in an hour. They’ll be ready.”
Lizzy’s back on the balcony, blanket around her, shoulders shaking. I hold her, stroke her hair, rock her like a child.
“It’s all right, Liz. This too shall pass. Look—the park’s all golden. Want me to fetch your favourite maple leaves? Or ice cream? Fancy a treat?”
“Ice cream’s in the freezer, Annie. You have it. I don’t want any.”
Ten years ago, I walked down a hospital corridor in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, and porters smiled as I passed—I knew them all by then.
An elderly nurse sat at the station.
“Annie, how long were you home? Four months? Back for another round?”
“Yeah, Margaret. Hope it’s the last.”
“Let’s see… First ward’s under refurbishment, we’re packed. Even the children’s bay is full.”
I peeked through the glass. Ten cots where six should be, all occupied.
“There’s space in Bay 12. Fancy it?”
“A side room? Definitely!”
Margaret sighed, smiling crookedly.
“Come on. There’s a girl there—Lizzy Carter. Your age. Just… takes getting used to. She was burned too. Badly.”
“Burned? Seen worse.”
Bay 12 was almost a luxury—shower, toilet, a tiny fridge, two proper beds. Even room for a telly.
I stepped in. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure sat shrouded in a blanket. The nurse turned on the light, helped me unpack. The girl didn’t speak, just watched from under her covering. Only her eyes were visible.
“Lizzy, this is Annie. She’s kind—come out.”
The nurse tugged the blanket. I froze.
Lizzy had no face. No hair, no ears—just holes where her nose should be, lips barely there. A foam collar held up her neck. Her cheeks were gone—just scars, like mine on my back and legs. But mine hid under clothes. Hers didn’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—seemed alien on that ruined face.
I steadied myself, stepped forward.
“Hi. Nice to meet you. Fancy being friends?”
Lizzy’s voice was muffled, her speech slurred. Getting used to it took time. But she amazed me—fluent in French, wrote children’s stories, knew art inside out.
By evening, I hardly noticed her scars. Five years in hospitals had hardened me. Lizzy was different. With burns like hers, few survived.
Her father visited—short, with kind eyes like hers. We sat on her bed, watching telly. He choked up seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first to treat Lizzy like a person, not a tragedy.
Her story shattered hearts. At six, their country cottage caught fire. She’d been there with her mum, baby brother, and grandma. Her dad worked in the city, visiting weekends. The blaze started at night. He arrived at dawn to smouldering ruins. No house left. No family—just Lizzy. She’d slept by the door, woke to flames. Tried to run, but a beam crashed down. A neighbour pulled her out, burning himself.
Nothing remained to bury. The heat left no bones. Her father scooped ashes into an urn. Seeing Lizzy, he nearly broke—but for her, he kept going.
My op was scheduled for Tuesday—skin grafts. Lizzy had already had hers, fixing her neck and face. We had two days. We talked endlessly. Lizzy spoke like she feared I’d vanish. She was studying ahead, already outpacing me in school. Her mind, her hunger to learn and connect, stunned me. Her hands and chest were scarred, yet she tended plants and fish with ease.
My parents visited. They spoke long with Lizzy’s dad in the corridor. Mum cried. Dad gripped his hand. Lizzy glowed—she’d never had a friend before.
Tuesday, they wheeled me away. Lizzy, wrapped in a scarf, left the bay for the first time, trailing me to the lift.
“Come back quick. I’ll wait.”
“Be back by evening—don’t fret,” I smiled.
No fear. On the table, familiar doctors joked as they prepped me.
“Sleep time, Annie. Count down,” said the anaesthetist.
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, like drowning. Almost broke free—then something slammed me back. Searing pain tore through me. I tried to scream—couldn’t. Darkness swallowed me.
I woke a day later in ICU. My heart had stopped. They’d brought me back.
They returned me to Lizzy’s bay. She walked beside the gurney, silent. I turned to the wall, drowning in despair. No will to eat, speak, think.
“Why,We sat there in the quiet, the city’s lights shimmering below us, two survivors bound by scars but unbroken in spirit.
