Scars and Friendship: A Tale of an Unbroken Spirit
Eliza and I sat on her balcony on the fifteenth floor of a new-build apartment in the outskirts of Manchester. She had moved here four years ago with her father and grandmother. Her father, a solicitor for the construction firm that built the block, had chosen this flat specifically for its spacious balcony—walled with textured tiles, warmed by underfloor heating and radiators—so Eliza could indulge her passion. She was obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. Five aquariums filled the flat, one in every room, including this balcony.
The corner tank, softly lit with an elaborate filtration system I couldn’t begin to understand—though Eliza could talk about it for hours—held a ceramic castle with arches and turrets. Fish darted from its windows like guardians of an underwater kingdom. Four bright orange fish (whose names I could never remember) and one peculiar creature—a bronze pleco, which Eliza called the tank’s janitor.
She knew everything about her fish. Active on aquarium forums, respected for her articles, she poured the same passion into her plants. Since the move, her rooms had become lush jungles. Ivy snaked across the balcony, violets spilled from hanging baskets, miniature pines and bonsai stood in pots.
We lounged in this green haven, gazing through the wide window at the River Mersey, rooftops, and a distant park. Below, the motorway hummed, winding toward Warrington and Stockport. Eliza recounted a berry-picking trip with her father, deep into the countryside where only their Land Rover could venture. They’d returned with baskets full, spending days with her grandmother making jam.
“Shame Dad’s barely home now. Works even weekends. It’s glorious today, but rain’s coming. Emily, let’s try the photos again?” Her voice was pleading.
I sighed. We moved to her room—as green and cosy as the balcony—where she sat before a homemade white backdrop. I snapped a few shots, then we fiddled with editing on her laptop. She needed passport photos, but it felt impossible.
They never turned out right. Maybe I was a terrible photographer. Or maybe it was something else.
“Eliza, stop fussing. There’s a studio downstairs—I’ll sort it.”
Reluctantly, she agreed. Wrapped in a blanket, she curled into the balcony chair, turning toward the window.
I grabbed the keys and hurried down. The photographer, a bored young man, blinked as I explained we needed portraits—but upstairs, on the fifteenth floor.
“That’ll cost—”
“We don’t care. It’s urgent.”
Back upstairs, he froze at the sight of the balcony aquarium, mesmerised. I hesitated.
“Look… try not to focus too much on… Her face is badly scarred. That’s why she couldn’t come to the studio. Please.”
“Not my business. Client pays, that’s all.”
I called Eliza. She emerged, swaddled in the blanket like a cocoon, and sat silently before the backdrop. The photographer adjusted his camera, sneaking glances.
“Done. Lower the blanket.”
Slowly, she revealed herself. His face paled.
“Bloody hell—”
“Take the pictures,” she said flatly.
The shutter clicked rapidly. I escorted him out.
“Your sister?”
“No. My best friend. She’s incredible. Strong.”
“Believe you. But warn me next time.”
“I did.”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Christ. Poor thing.”
I offered payment. He waved it off. “Come back in an hour.”
Eliza was back on the balcony, shoulders shaking. I held her, stroked her hair, rocked her like a child.
“It’s alright, love. This too shall pass. Look—the park leaves are gold. Want me to fetch your favourite sycamore leaves? Or ice cream? A feast?”
“There’s ice cream in the freezer, Em. Eat it. I’m not hungry.”
Ten years earlier, I’d walked familiar hospital corridors in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, orderlies smiled—I greeted them all.
An older nurse at the station sighed. “Emily, home for four months? Back for more stitching?”
“Hope it’s the last time, Margaret.”
“Well, the first ward’s under refurbishment. Even the children’s ward’s crammed.”
I peeked inside. Ten cots where six should be.
“There’s space in Ward 12. Fancy it?”
“A side room? Perfect.”
Margaret smiled crookedly. “Good lass. There’s a girl there—Eliza Morton. Your age. But… she’ll take getting used to. Burned. Badly.”
“Burns? Seen worse.”
Ward 12 was near-luxury. En suite, fridge, two adjustable beds. Space for a telly.
I entered. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure shrouded in blankets. Margaret turned on the light, helped me unpack. The girl stayed silent, watching from beneath the covers. Only her eyes were visible.
“Eliza, this is Emily. She’s kind. Come out.”
Margaret tugged the blanket. I froze.
Eliza had no face. No hair, no ears. Holes where her nose should be, lips barely there. A foam collar supported her neck. Her cheeks were sheer scar tissue—like my back and legs, but mine stayed hidden. Hers couldn’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—seemed alien on that ravaged face.
I stepped forward. “Hello. Friends?”
Her voice was muffled, her speech slurred. Adjusting wasn’t easy. But she astonished me: fluent in French, wrote children’s stories, knew art inside out.
By evening, I barely noticed her scars. Five years in hospitals hardened you. Eliza was rare. Few survived burns like hers.
Her father arrived—short, kind-eyed like her. We sat on her bed, watching telly. He nearly wept seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first to treat Eliza as an equal.
Her story shattered hearts. At six, a fire tore through their holiday cottage. She’d been there with her mother, baby brother, grandmother. Her father, working weekdays, arrived to smouldering ruins. Only Eliza survived—pulled out by a neighbour, himself burned.
Nothing remained to bury. Ash filled an urn. Seeing his daughter, he nearly broke. But for her, he endured.
My op was scheduled for Tuesday—skin grafts. Eliza had already had hers, correcting neck and face contractures. We talked endlessly those two days. She spoke like she feared I’d vanish. I learned she studied at home, ahead of her year, soon to finish school. Her mind, her hunger to learn, stunned me. Though her hands and chest were scarred, she tended plants and fish deftly.
My parents visited. They spoke long with Eliza’s father in the corridor. Mum cried. Dad shook his hand fiercely. Eliza glowed—she’d never had a friend before.
On Tuesday, they wheeled me away. Eliza, wrapped in a shawl, left the ward for the first time to see me to the lift.
“Come back quick. I’ll wait.”
“By evening, promise.”
No fear. On the table, familiar doctors joked, set lines.
“Sleep time, Em. Count down,” the anaesthetist said.
I was out by six.
Then—sudden, sharp wakefulness. Distant shouts. My body foreign, sinking. I fought upward, nearly broke free—then something yanked me back. Burning pain ripped through me. I screamed soundlessly. Then—black.
I woke a day later in ICU. My heart had stopped. They’d brought me back.
Returned to Eliza, I turned to the wall, drowning in despair. No will to eat, speak, think.
“Why, God? I almost made it. No pain there…”
Eliza stroked my hair with her maimed hand.
“Em, I nearly left… Why drag me back? Who needs us?”
“Hush. This too shall pass. Dad brought raspberry ripple ice cream. Sister says you can have some. Want it?”
“No. You have it.”
Clumsily, she hugged me, pressed her head—still covered—to mine. We lay quiet. I slept, peaceful at last.
I collected the photos later. The lad had done extra—dozens, different sizes.
“Save you the trouble.” Decent bloke.
Eliza stashed them unseen. Night draped the city now, lights like stars. Fish blinked from their castle. Quiet. Warm.
We didn’t need words. Silence sufficed.
