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Skinned alive!

Flames shot up and suddenly it seemed like I was melting...


Published by: Laura Hinton and Lucy Gardner
Published on: 21 June 2012

Not many people can say they're living the dream. But I could! Desperate for fun in the sun, I'd left Scotland behind after training as a diver aged 18 - and hadn't been home since! For 10 years, I'd worked in the Maldives and on various cruise ships. Now I'd recently started a managerial position at a diving school on the island of Zanzibar in East Africa.
After a long day at work, I was quickly popping home with my pal Darren, 36, so I could get changed before a party that night.
‘This place is so behind the times,' I grumbled, bending down to whack the petrol generator that we kept outside the back door.
The island had recently lost its electricity supply, so we were all using these portable devices for power. Suddenly, there was a great whoosh from the generator.
‘Woah!' Darren yelled, jumping back.
Flames shot up, sending me stumbling inside the house.
I legged it upstairs to grab a towel. Soaking it in water, I ran back down to put it on top of the generator and stop the fire. Instead, I was greeted by thick, black smoke.
‘Oh God,' I choked, stumbling backwards. The fire was spreading by the second... ‘I think we're in trouble, mate,' I yelled to Darren. He didn't hear over the roar of the flames.
I had to run. Putting the wet towel over my head, I dashed to the back door. But I was wearing just a t-shirt, shorts and nothing on my feet! The heat was unbearable. Sliding through the puddle of petrol...whoosh, the naked flames shot from my toes to my shoulders.
I burst outside, ran towards Darren. Saw his shocked face at the flames engulfing me. There was a pile of dead leaves in the corner of the garden - I chucked them over me, but they didn't put out the flames.
Screaming, I ripped at my melting clothes with my bare hands. Finally naked, gasping for breath, I looked down at my legs. They were swelling up already. All the hair had burnt off and they'd gone so pale, like a layer of skin had been ripped off!
‘I'm f-fine,' I stuttered to Darren. ‘I've just l-lost my tan.' How I could joke is beyond me, but I needed help - fast. The nearest hospital with electricity was on the next island, though. Suddenly, I had an idea.
‘I need morphine,' I mumbled. ‘Take me to the diving chamber.' We had medical supplies there.
‘Let me help you into the car,' Darren choked. The flames were roaring behind us, destroying my home as they went.
‘No,' I pleaded, dragging my body over the gravel path. Even though the stones started embedding themselves into my melted skin, I couldn't bear the thought of anyone touching me.
I finally made it to the car. But the 30-minute journey was when the pain really set in. Every jolt sent shock waves through my body. I couldn't speak as Darren drove. ‘Try and stay conscious, mate,' he repeated.
He kept pouring water over me. Argh! It felt like someone was dousing my burns in vinegar, and then scrubbing them with sandpaper.
Finally, we made it to the chamber. Morphine numbed the pain enough for me to call my parents back home. ‘There's been a fire,' I croaked. ‘I've just burnt my hands.'
‘Are you sure, love?' My mum Nancy, 54, panicked. I could hear my dad John, 57, calling out in the background: ‘We'll come out if he's hurt.'
They'd use their savings to fly out if they knew the truth... ‘I'm fine, Mum,' I lied.
‘Okay, love you,' she replied. My final thought was of them as I slipped into unconsciousness...
When I came to again, I was in hospital and the doctors were working by candlelight, digging the stones out from my legs.
‘Oh God,' I hissed, gritting my teeth in complete agony.
And their ‘treatment' came at a price. ‘We need £1,000,' the doctor demanded. ‘Otherwise we won't treat you.'
‘Take all the money from my bank account,' I begged Darren.
I didn't care if I was left penniless, I couldn't endure the pain much longer.
Darren was a godsend, though. Once he got the money, he refused to leave my side and slept on the floor next to me.
After 10 days in that dingy ward, we'd paid over £2,500, but I wasn't even put on a drip.
My wounds hadn't been bandaged, so my weeping skin stuck to the bed sheets. My arms, legs, shoulders, hands and feet were slowly turning black as the skin blistered.
One morning, I woke to find two local women praying by my bedside. ‘I need to get out of here,' I croaked to Darren. ‘Otherwise I'm not going to make it.'
He called tons of airlines... but they all refused, saying I wouldn't survive the flight. Finally, British Airways said yes.
Next day, Darren pushed me in my wheelchair to check-in... ‘I'm sorry, he can't go on,' the lady gasped. ‘He'll die on the plane!'
‘Please,' he begged. ‘If you don't let him go, he'll die here!'
I didn't have the strength to speak myself, just hoped, prayed... Finally, they relented! I was put in first class, so as not to upset the other passengers.
The journey was a haze but, finally, I opened my eyes to see a British paramedic. ‘Welcome home,' he smiled.
I was rushed off for an emergency 13-hour operation, then put in an induced coma for five weeks to give my body a chance to heal, to survive.
Thankfully, it worked. When my eyes finally fluttered open, Mum and Dad were there, along with my sister Joanne, 25.
‘You're back then,' Joanne grinned, tears in her eyes.
‘We were told...' Mum said.
‘You suffered 43% burns,' the doctor interrupted. ‘We gave you just a 27% chance of survival.'
‘Why didn't you tell us how bad it was?' Mum sobbed.
‘I didn't want to worry you,' I whispered. For the next five months, I had countless skin graft operations. I needed a hip replacement, too.
I've always been stubborn, so got straight on with trying to walk. It was agonising, exhausting - but each day I walked further. Finally... I was allowed home!
With time on my hands, I decided to give online dating a go. If any women emailed me, I was always honest with them - but I'd never hear back.
‘Before the accident, I had no trouble getting the ladies,' I moaned to Mum. ‘But now...'
‘When you meet someone, it'll be for the right reason,' she replied confidently.
Then I got a reply from a woman called Becky, 31. So? It doesn't change you, she wrote about my scars.
I was self-conscious, but she loved me for who I was. ‘This is me before the accident,' I laughed, embarrassed, flashing a photo of me with my golden tan.
‘Nah, I prefer you now,' she chuckled back.
I've had 23 operations so far, and I'm almost fully recovered and back to my old self again.
Just three months ago, I went swimming for the first time. Being in the water again felt amazing. Before I was happy living the dream - but now I'm just grateful to be living!
Robert Small, 33, Twickenham, London