Scars and Friendship: A Story of an Unbroken Spirit
Me and Lily are sitting on her balcony on the 15th floor of a new-build in the outskirts of Manchester. She moved here with her dad and nan four years ago. Her dad’s a solicitor for the construction firm that built this place. They chose this flat because of the big balcony—just for Lily, so she could indulge her passion. Her dad could afford it. The balcony’s insulated: heated floors, radiators, walls tiled with textured stone that feels nice to the touch. Lily’s obsessed with houseplants and tropical fish. There are five aquariums in the flat—one in every room, and another here on the balcony.
This one’s a corner tank, with soft lighting and a fancy filtration system I don’t understand, though Lily could talk about it for hours. Inside, there’s a ceramic castle with arches and towers. The fish swim out of its windows like little guardians of an underwater kingdom. Four bright orange fish—I always forget their names—and one unusual one, a pleco named Copper. He’s the tank’s cleaner.
Lily knows everything about her fish. She’s active on aquarium forums, writes articles for hobbyist sites, and people respect her there. She’s just as passionate about her plants. Since moving here, her rooms have turned into lush jungles. Ivy trails along the balcony, hanging baskets of violets sway, and little pots of miniature conifers and bonsai sit neatly arranged.
We’re sitting in this green oasis, staring through the huge window at the River Irwell, rooftops, and a park in the distance. Down below to the right, the hum of the motorway fades into the distance, leading toward towns like Warrington and Rochdale. Lily tells me about a trip with her dad to pick berries. They drove so far out, only their 4×4 could handle the tracks. They came back with baskets full, then spent three days making jam with her nan.
“Shame Dad’s hardly ever home now. Works even on weekends. Weather’s brilliant, but the rain’s coming soon—we won’t get out much then. Em, let’s try taking those photos again?” Lily 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 them for ID, but it feels impossible.
The pictures just aren’t working. Maybe I’m a rubbish photographer, or maybe it’s something else.
“Lil, stop overthinking it. There’s a studio downstairs—I’ll run and sort it.”
She gives in reluctantly, curling up in the balcony chair, wrapped in a throw, facing the window.
I grab the flat keys and head down. The photographer’s a bored young guy at the counter. I explain we need ID photos but want them taken upstairs.
“That’ll cost—”
“It doesn’t matter how much. We need them today.”
We go back up. The guy freezes at the sight of the aquarium, mesmerised by the fish. I hesitate.
“Look… try not to stare. My friend’s face is… damaged. That’s why we didn’t come to the studio. Please.”
“No worries. Customer pays, rest isn’t my business.”
I call Lily. She steps out, swathed in the throw like a cocoon, sits silently in front of the backdrop. The photographer fiddles with his camera, glancing at her curiously.
“Ready. Lose the throw.”
Slowly, she lets the fabric drop, straightens up. His face pales, shock flashing in his eyes.
“Bloody hell…” slips out.
“Just take them,” Lily mutters.
He clicks the shutter fast, and I walk him to the door.
“Sister?”
“No. Best mate. She’s incredible, tough as nails…”
“Believe it. But next time, warn a bloke.”
“I did warn you.”
“Yeah, but seeing it… How long’s she been like that?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Damn. Poor thing.”
I hold out the cash. He waves it off.
“Come back in an hour—prints’ll be ready.”
Back to Lily. She’s on the balcony again, shaking under the throw—crying. I hug her, stroke her hair, rock her like a child.
“It’s alright, Lil. This too shall pass. Look—the park leaves are all gold. Want me to fetch your favourite sycamore ones? Or ice cream? Let’s feast.”
“Ice cream’s in the freezer, Em. Have some… I don’t want any.”
Ten years ago, I walked down a familiar hospital corridor in Manchester. Nurses, doctors, porters smiled at me—I knew them all.
An older nurse was at the desk.
“Emma, how long you been home? Four months? Back for more patching up?”
“Yeah, Nurse Beth. Hoping it’s the last time.”
“Let’s see where to put you… First ward’s under refurb, we’re packed. Even the kids’ bay’s crammed.”
I peeked through the glass. Ten cots where there should’ve been six, all full.
“Got a spot in Bay 12. Fancy it?”
“Side room? Obviously!”
Nurse Beth sighed, smiled crookedly.
“Come on. There’s a lovely girl in there—Lily Carter. Same age. Just… takes getting used to. She got burned too. Badly.”
“Burns? Seen worse.”
Bay 12 was practically a luxury suite. Shower, loo, mini fridge, two proper beds. Room for a telly, even.
I walked in. My bed by the door was empty. By the window, a figure sat, swaddled head-to-toe in a blanket. The nurse turned on the light, helped me unpack. The girl stayed silent, peering from under the covers. Only her eyes visible.
“Lily-love, this is Emma. She’s kind—come on out.”
The nurse tugged the blanket. I froze. Lily had no face. No hair, no ears, just holes where her nose should be, lips barely there. Her neck was braced with foam. No cheeks—just scars, like the ones on my back and legs. But mine hid under clothes. Hers didn’t.
Her eyes—huge, deep brown—seemed out of place on that ruined face.
I pulled myself together, stepped closer.
“Hi. Nice to meet you. Friends?”
Lily’s voice was muffled, her speech slurred. Getting used to it was hard. But she amazed me—spoke French, wrote children’s stories, knew art inside-out.
By evening, I barely noticed her face. Five years in hospitals inured me. Lily was special. Few survive burns like hers.
Her dad arrived—short, with kind eyes like hers. We sat on her bed, watching telly. He got emotional seeing us together. Later, I learned I was the first to talk to Lily like she was normal—not counting doctors.
Her story shattered hearts. She was six when their holiday cottage caught fire. She’d been there with her mum, little brother, and nan. The place was rented in a village near Manchester. Dad worked, visited weekends. The fire started at night. He was due back in the morning—but found only ashes. The house was gone. So was his family. Just Lily remained. She’d slept near the door, woke to flames. Tried running, but a burning beam crushed her. A neighbour pulled her out, burning himself.
Nothing was left to bury. The heat took even bones. Her dad scooped the ash, buried it at the cemetery. Seeing his daughter, he nearly lost it—but held on for her sake.
My op was scheduled for Tuesday—skin grafts. Lily had already had hers: neck and face reconstruction. We had two days. We talked nonstop. Lily spoke like she feared I’d vanish. I learned she was acing school, ahead of me, nearly done. Her mind, hunger to learn, stunned me. Apart from her face, her hands and chest were damaged—but she handled plants and fish tanks deftly.
My parents visited. Met Lily’s dad, talked in the corridor forever. Mum cried. Dad shook his hand hard. Lily glowed—she’d never had a friend before.
Tuesday, they took me to theatre. Lily, wrapped in a scarf, left the bay for the first time to walk me to the lift.
“Come back quick. I’ll wait…”
“Be back by evening, don’t fret,” I smiled.
No fear. I lay on the table, familiar doctors bustling, joking, inserting lines.
“Sleep time, love. Count down,” the anaesthetist said.
I was out by six.
Then—sharp, sudden wakefulness. Distant shouts. My body felt alien, heavy, like sinking into earth. I fought upward, drowning, nearly 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 brought me back.
I looked at Lily, our hands clasped tight, and knew—no matter the scars, we’d always find our way back to each other.
