Scars and Friendship: A Story of an Unbroken Spirit
Me and Lisa are sitting on her balcony on the 15th floor of a new-build apartment in the outskirts of Manchester. She moved here with her dad and gran four years ago. Her dad’s a solicitor for a construction firm that built this place, so they got a flat with this big balcony just for her—something he could easily afford. It’s all kitted out: heated floors, radiators, walls covered in textured tiles, nice to touch. Lisa’s obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. There are five aquariums in the flat—one in every room, plus this one on the balcony.
This one’s corner-shaped, with soft lighting and a fancy filtration system I don’t get, but Lisa could talk about for hours. Inside, there’s a ceramic castle with arches and towers. The fish glide in and out of the windows like guardians of an underwater kingdom. Four bright orange ones, whose names I keep forgetting, and an odd one out—a bronze pleco she calls the tank cleaner.
Lisa knows everything about her fish. She’s active on aquarium forums, writes articles for hobbyist sites, and people respect her there. Same with her plants. Since moving here, her place has turned into a jungle—ivy trails from the ceiling, violets in hanging pots, mini spruce trees and bonsai on the shelves.
We’re sitting in this green oasis, looking through the massive window at the River Mersey, rooftops, and a park in the distance. Down below, the motorway hums, heading toward Liverpool and Warrington. Lisa’s telling me about a berry-picking trip with her dad, how they drove their 4×4 deep into the countryside, where no one else could go. Came back with buckets full, then spent three days with her gran making jam.
“Shame Dad’s never home now. Works even on weekends. Weather’s brilliant, but the rain’s coming soon, and we won’t get out again. Anna, let’s try taking photos one more time?” She looks at me, pleading.
I sigh. We go to her room—just as green and cosy as the balcony. She sits in front of a DIY white backdrop. I snap a few shots, then we try editing them on her laptop. She needs them for paperwork, but it feels impossible.
They’re not turning out right. Maybe I’m a rubbish photographer, or maybe it’s something else.
“Lisa, stop overthinking it. There’s a photo studio downstairs—I’ll go sort it.”
Reluctantly, she agrees. She 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 young guy, bored behind the counter. I explain we need ID photos but want them taken upstairs, on the 15th floor.
“That’ll cost—”
“Doesn’t matter how much. We need them today, urgent.”
We go up. He freezes in front of the aquarium, mesmerised by the fish. I fidget.
“Listen… try not to focus on… Her face is badly scarred. That’s why she didn’t come down. Please.”
“No worries. Client pays, rest isn’t my business.”
I call Lisa. She shuffles out, cocooned in the blanket, silently sitting in front of the backdrop. The photographer adjusts his camera, glancing curiously at her.
“Ready. Lower the blanket.”
Slowly, she pulls it down, straightens up. His face pales. Shock flashes in his eyes.
“Bloody hell—” slips out.
“Take the photos,” Lisa says flatly.
He clicks away fast, and I usher him out.
“Sister?”
“No, best mate. She’s incredible. Strong.”
“Believe you. 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 kid.”
I hand him cash. He waves it off.
“Come back in an hour. They’ll be ready.”
Back to Lisa. She’s on the balcony again, blanket around her, shoulders shaking—crying. I hug her, stroke her hair, rock her like a child.
“It’s okay, Lisa. This’ll pass too. Look, the leaves in the park are golden. Want me to grab your favourite maple ones? Or ice cream? Fancy a treat?”
“There’s ice cream in the freezer, Anna. Have some… I don’t want any.”
Ten years ago, I walked down a hospital corridor in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, porters smiled at me—I knew them all.
An older nurse was at the desk.
“Anna, how long you been home? Four months? Back for more patching up?”
“Yeah, Margaret. Hope it’s the last time.”
“We’ll see. First ward’s under renovation, cramped here. Even the kids’ bay’s packed.”
I peeked in. Ten cots instead of six, all full.
“There’s space in Bay 12. Fancy it?”
“Semi-private? Definitely!”
Margaret sighed, gave a crooked smile.
“Come on. There’s a girl in there—Lisa Harper. Your age. Just… takes getting used to. She got burned too. Badly.”
“Big deal. Seen worse.”
Bay 12 was almost luxury. En-suite, fridge, two proper beds. Could even fit a telly.
I walked in. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure sat, shrouded head to toe in a blanket. The nurse turned on the light, helped me unpack. The girl stayed silent, eyes just visible under the fabric.
“Lisa, this is Anna. She’s lovely—come out.”
The nurse tugged the blanket. I froze.
Lisa had no face. No hair, no ears, just nose holes, lips barely there. Her neck was braced with foam. No cheeks—just scars, like mine on my back and legs. But mine were hidden. Hers weren’t.
Her eyes—huge, dark brown—looked alien on that ruined face.
I pulled myself together, stepped closer.
“Hi, nice to meet you. Fancy being friends?”
Lisa’s voice was muffled, her speech slurred. Hard to get used to. But she blew me away—spoke fluent French, wrote kids’ stories, knew art inside out.
By evening, I barely noticed her appearance. Five years in hospitals numbed me to it. Lisa was special. Few survive burns that bad.
Her dad visited—short, kind eyes like hers. We sat on her bed, watched telly. He got choked up seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first outside doctors to treat her like a person.
Lisa’s story wrecked me. She was six when their holiday cottage caught fire. She was there with her mum, little brother, and gran. Dad worked weekdays, visited weekends. The fire started at night. He arrived at dawn to smouldering ruins. Nothing left. Of his family, just Lisa. She’d slept by the door, woke to flames. Tried running, but a beam crushed her. A neighbour dragged her out, burning himself.
No bodies to bury. Heat left no bones. Her dad scooped ash, buried it in the graveyard. Seeing his daughter, he nearly lost it—but held on for her.
My op was scheduled for Tuesday—skin grafts. Lisa had hers already, fixing her neck and face. We had two days. We talked non-stop. Lisa spoke like she feared I’d vanish. I learned she was acing school ahead of me, soon graduating. Her mind, her hunger to learn and connect, stunned me. Besides her face, her hands and chest were damaged, but she still pottered with plants and fish tanks.
My parents visited. Met Lisa’s dad, talked long in the hall. Mum cried. Dad shook his hand hard. Lisa glowed—first friend she’d ever had.
Tuesday, they wheeled me to theatre. Lisa, wrapped in a scarf, left the bay for the first time to see me to the lift.
“Come back quick, I’ll be waiting…”
“Be back by evening, don’t worry,” I smiled.
No fear. I lay on the table, familiar doctors joking, inserting IVs.
“Sleep time, Anna. Count down,” the anaesthetist said.
I was out by six.
Then—sharp, sudden wakefulness. Distant yells. My body felt alien, heavy, like sinking in mud. I fought upward, gasping. Almost broke free—then something slammed me back. Blinding pain shot through my spine. I tried to scream. Nothing. Darkness.
I woke a day later in ICU. My heart had stopped. They brought me back.
They took me to Lisa. She walked beside the gurney, silent. I turned to the wall, drowning in grief. Didn’t want to eat, speak, think.
“Why, God? Why leave me here? No pain there…” I whispered.
Lisa silently stroked my hair with her scarred hand.
“Lisa, I almost left… Why bring me back? Who needs us?”
“It’s okay, Anna… This’”…Dad brought your favourite raspberry ripple—the nurse said you can have some, want a bite?”
