Scars and Friendship: A Story of an Unbroken Spirit
Me and Lizzie are sitting on her balcony on the 15th floor of a new-build in the outskirts of Manchester. She moved here four years ago with her dad and nan. Her dad’s a lawyer at a construction firm that built this place. They picked this flat because of the big balcony—just for Lizzie, so she could live out her passion. Her dad could afford it. The balcony’s heated—warmer floors, radiators, walls covered in textured tiles that feel nice to touch. Lizzie’s obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. There’s five aquariums in the flat—one in every room and this one out here.
This tank’s a corner one, with soft lighting and a fancy filtration system I don’t get, but Lizzie could talk about for hours. Inside, there’s a ceramic castle with arches and little towers. The fish swim out of its windows like underwater palace guards. Four bright orange ones, whose names I always forget, and this odd one out—a catfish Lizzie calls her bronze plecostomus. He’s the tank’s cleaner, the little janitor.
Lizzie knows everything about her fish. She’s active on aquarium forums, writes articles for pet sites—people respect her there. She’s just as mad about plants. Since moving here, her rooms have turned into blooming jungles. Ivy winds up the balcony rail, hanging baskets full of violets, tiny potted conifers and bonsai trees.
We’re sitting in this green oasis, looking through the huge window at the River Mersey, rooftops, and a park in the distance. Down to the right, the motorway hums, leading toward Warrington and Chester. Lizzie’s telling me about a berry-picking trip with her dad. They drove their SUV so deep into the countryside, no one else had bothered going. Came back with baskets full, spent three days making jam with her nan.
“Shame Dad’s hardly home anymore. Works even weekends. Weather’s brilliant now, but rain’s coming soon, and we won’t get out again. Annie, let’s try photos for my ID again?” Lizzie’s pleading.
I sigh. We go to her room—just as green and cosy as the balcony. She sits in front of a homemade white backdrop. I snap a few, then we try editing them on her laptop. She needs them for paperwork, but it feels impossible.
The photos just don’t work. Maybe I’m rubbish at this, or maybe it’s something else.
“Liz, stop overthinking it. There’s a studio downstairs—I’ll run, sort it out.”
She agrees reluctantly. Curls up in the balcony chair, wrapped in a blanket, turning toward the window.
I grab the keys and dash down. The photographer’s a bloke, bored behind the counter. I explain—ID photos, but we need them done upstairs, 15th floor.
“That’ll cost—”
“Doesn’t matter. Need them today, urgent.”
We go up. He freezes at the balcony aquarium, fascinated by the fish. I hesitate.
“Look… just try not to… She’s got scars, bad ones. That’s why she didn’t come down.”
“No worries. Client pays, rest ain’t my business.”
I call Lizzie. She shuffles in, cocooned in the blanket, silent as she sits in front of the backdrop. The photographer adjusts his camera, glancing at her curiously.
“Ready. Lose the blanket.”
Slowly, she pulls it off, straightens up. His face pales. Shock flashes in his eyes.
“Christ—” slips out.
“Take the photos,” Lizzie says flatly.
He clicks fast. I walk him out.
“Sister?”
“No. Best mate. She’s incredible… tough.”
“Believe it. But next time, warn a bloke properly.”
“I did—”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Bloody hell… Poor kid.”
I hand him cash. He waves it off—
“Come back in an hour. Sorted.”
I return to Lizzie. She’s back on the balcony, blanket around her, shoulders shaking—crying. I hug her, stroke her hair, rock her like a kid.
“It’s alright, Liz. Everything passes, this will too. Look, the park leaves are proper yellow now. Want me to grab your favourite sycamore leaves? Or ice cream? Fancy a blowout?”
“There’s ice cream in the freezer, Annie. Have it… Not hungry.”
Ten years ago, I walked down a familiar hospital corridor in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, porters smiled—I knew them all.
An older nurse was at the desk—
“Annie, how long you been home? Four months? Back for more stitching?”
“Yeah, Margie. Hope it’s the last time.”
“We’ll see… First ward’s under renovation, packed here. Even the kids’ wing’s crammed.”
I peeked in. Ten beds instead of six, all full.
“Bed 12’s free. Fancy it?”
“Semi-private? Course!”
Margie sighed, gave a crooked smile.
“Come on. There’s a lass there, Lizzie Dawson. Your age. Just… takes getting used to. Burn scars. Bad ones.”
“Big deal. Seen worse.”
Room 12 was near-luxury. Shower, loo, mini fridge, two beds. Even space for a telly.
I walked in. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket. Margie turned the light on, helped me unpack. The girl stayed silent, watching from under the covers. Just eyes.
“Lizzie, this is Annie. She’s sound, come out.”
Margie tugged the blanket. I froze. Lizzie had no face. No hair, no ears, just nose holes, barely-there lips. Her neck was braced with foam. No cheeks—just scars, like mine on my back and legs. But mine hide under clothes. Hers didn’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—looked alien on that wrecked face.
I pulled it together, walked over—
“Hey, nice to meet you. Friends?”
Lizzie’s voice was muffled, hard to understand. Getting used to it took effort. But she blew me away—spoke French, wrote kids’ stories, knew art inside out.
By evening, I hardly noticed her face. Five years in hospitals numbed me. Lizzie was different. With burns like hers, most don’t make it.
Her dad visited—short, kind eyes like Lizzie’s. We sat on her bed, watched telly. He got choked up seeing us together. Later, I found out—I was the first to talk to her like a normal person, besides doctors.
Lizzie’s story shattered hearts. She was six when their holiday home caught fire. She was there with her mum, little brother, nan. Dad worked weekdays, visited weekends. Fire started at night. He was due back in the morning—found smouldering ruins. Nothing left of the house. Of his family, just Lizzie. She’d slept by the door, woke to flames. Tried running, but a beam fell on her. A neighbour pulled her out, burnt himself.
Nothing to bury. Heat left no bones. Her dad scooped ash, buried it. Seeing his daughter nearly broke him, but for her, he held on.
My op was Tuesday—skin grafts. Lizzie’d already had hers—neck and face work. We had two days. We talked non-stop. Lizzie spoke like she feared I’d vanish. I learnt she was acing school, ahead of me. Her mind, her hunger to learn, stunned me. Besides her face, her hands and chest were damaged, but she handled plants and fish tanks like a pro.
My parents visited. Met Lizzie’s dad, talked in the corridor forever. Mum cried, Dad shook his hand hard. Lizzie glowed—first friend she’d ever had.
Tuesday, they took me to theatre. Lizzie, wrapped in a scarf, left the room for the first time, walked me to the lift.
“Come back quick, yeah?”
“Be back by evening, don’t worry,” I smiled.
No fear. On the table, familiar doctors joked, set up IVs.
“Sleep time, Annie. Count,” the anaesthetist said.
I was out by six.
Then—sudden wakefulness. Sharp. Hearing shouts like they were distant. My body felt foreign, heavy, like sinking in mud. I fought upward, like drowning. Nearly broke free—then something slammed me back. Burning pain tore through me. Wanted to scream—couldn’t. Blacked out.
Woke a day later in ICU. Heart stopped mid-op. They brought me back.
They wheeled me to Lizzie’s room. She walked beside the trolley, silent. I turned to the wall, drowning in gloom. Didn’t want food, talk, thought.
“Why, God? Why’d I stay? No pain there…” I whispered.
Lizzie just stroked my hair with her twisted hand.
“Liz,We sat there in the quiet, her scarred hand in mine, knowing some things hurt too deep for words but not too deep for sharing.
