Front page of The Sun, The Times, and The Mirror. Breaking news on Sky, NBC, and USA Today. You may not know my name but I’m sure you’d recognise my face. That shell-shocked expression. Those fearful eyes. I am the face of the Manchester bombings.
At the age of fourteen, I never expected to be on the front page of so many tabloids, and never did I expect it to be for a reason as sinister as this. As a budding dancer, I’d hoped to be recognised for my sporting successes, yet the only thing I seem to be known for now is the girl who survived the Manchester attacks.
The 22nd of May 2017 was a beautiful, sunny day. My mum, Natalie, my eleven-year-old sister, Emilia, and I arrived in Manchester at teatime. The city was bustling with Ariana Grande fans, or ‘Ariantors’, should I say. You can spot them from a mile off. I should know, I considered myself to be one. I knew the words to all of her songs.
There were lots of giddy fans waiting outside the arena, ranging from as young as 8-years-old up to teens attending their first concert without their parents. A capacity of twenty-one thousand and almost every seat was sold out. You could feel the buzz in the air that night.
But that seemingly perfect night turned sour very fast. Ariana had sung her final song and the crowd was beginning to file out when there was a sudden deafening blast from the foyer. The sound of the explosion was enough to send our ears into a muffled, ringing state.
A shrapnel bomb had been detonated as people were exiting the arena. I was only 5 steps away from the suicide bomber, sending me flying forward ten metres. This was when I hit my head and fell unconscious.
I woke to my mum shaking me, shouting: “We need to get out.” The room was dark and smoky and the smell of burnt plastic and fire permeated the air. You’d think it would be chaos following such a horrifying event, but it was calm and quiet in an almost eerie way.
I dragged myself out of the foyer, now noticing the blood and the pieces of shrapnel falling from my body. With the help of my mum and sister, I made it to the pavement outside. This is when the real chaos started. It was like stepping into a warzone. People were running, screaming, crying. Bystanders were cutting my jeans, and wrapping bandages around my legs but, at this point, I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
My mum made the dreaded phone call to my dad who was at home. I can’t even imagine how she put it into words, or how my dad felt on the receiving end. It’s one of those where you almost have to pinch yourself.
Paramedics, police, and fire services were now flooding into the arena. A triage system was set up and I was separated from my mum and sister and carried to category 2 for the severely injured. This is the point I believe the iconic photograph was taken.
When my dad arrived he was given access through the police cordon. A few hours passed which I spent wrapped up in blankets on the pavement, surrounded by other injured civilians.
When my turn came to be taken in the ambulance they sent me to Manchester Children’s Hospital. I was given morphine before they took me for multiple MRI scans and X-rays.
I underwent an 8-hour-long operation to remove the eighteen pieces of shrapnel. The surgeons fitted drains and bandaged both my legs from feet to hips.
I stayed in the hospital for twelve days before doctors realised I also had third-degree burns to my thigh.
As a fourteen-year-old I didn’t realise the extent of what had happened. I remember thinking that people at school wouldn’t even find out, let alone people in New York, but that’s when the photograph appeared. The messages then came flooding in. People I hardly knew wanted to know what had happened. News reporters would ring weekly. I would get stopped in the streets. This wasn’t the kind of fame I had longed for.
Returning to school was a challenge. I’d get comments like: “Did you have a blast at the Ariana Grande concert?” or, “She nailed it”. My studies were disrupted by physio and massage therapy and I later had to have further surgery to remove more shrapnel which was found in my foot and head.
It took a long time to build the strength back in my legs, but after being told I wouldn’t dance again I was determined to return, and I did.
My lengthy treatment in the hospital is what inspired me to become a nurse myself. I’m currently in my third year of Paediatric Nursing and hope to qualify in the summer.
I still have scars but I’ve learnt to accept that they are just a part of me now. I have poor circulation with only 30% sensation in my right leg, but when I think about what could have happened, I feel lucky to be where I am today. I’m proud to be able to turn such a negative experience into something positive in my newfound career.
