sewn
set to the backdrop of suburbia, follow the darkly funny tale of Alison through her highs and her breakdowns and the revelations in between.

this story's song is 'sewn' by the feeling

prologue: last words
Tripping up the escalater of Sunrise Fair was not the way I had planned to spend my afternoon. With eyes unfocused and hair blowing in an unseen window, uniform askew, I stumbled up razor edge after edge, scraping my feet but hardly able to feel it. People around me halted in their activities and stared, eyes wide and round like saucers, but I let the colours of the world around me blur and bleed together as a thick trickle of blood snaked its way down the bottom half of my dress and onto my shiny leather school shoes.

As I reached the top, I heard one woman shriek, "Oh my God!" It was shrill and painful to the ear and broke through my haze of numbness. It made a flash of resentment run through my veins and I thought to myself: Oh yeah, bitch? Try living it.

My pale, stick arm wrapped itself around what everyone would later call a Stab Wound as I reached the top of the stairs. The blood was strong like a virulent wave - it washed over my arm as if it were nothing, a dam breaking through and over. My thin arm was quickly red and damp and dripping and I could feel tears sliding down my face more for the pain than the aching in my poor heart. I dropped to my knees on the grill of where the escalator ended, it digging hard against my soft flesh.

There was a gash and a rip to my lower belly, a thick expanse not covered by any layers, by any skin, that make the shoppers, all fifty looking on in morbid and horrified fascination, hover, their faces drawn and unsure, questions chorusing through their brain like freight trains (do we move her? call 911! will she die? how deep is it? who would do this to such a sweet looking, innocent girl?).

He rushed out from Sushi Train, smelling like cinnamon and cigarettes, right over to where I was poised, dying and bleeding out. Around ten people were on their mobile phones to 911, but it didn't matter. I suppose that really, it was some kind of miracle that he was around, because for God's breath if these were my last waking moments on Earth's grassy knoll, I wanted him to be there with me. Before I would plunge into the valley of death. As I saw him coming, I felt as if I could die, as if I didn't have to fight anymore, and with any lasting strength, I collapsed into him as he neared. He gathered me up into his arms like a ragdoll. He was warm and firm and held me tight and stable. I felt my head lolling in his arm, burying into the crook of his elbow, crying into it like a baby. Something fell on my cheek but I knew, I could feel it wasn't heavy and terminal, rather light and damp - with a jolt in my dazed recollection, I realized that he, he was crying. His hands were tangles in my bundle of wrinkled uniform and he sobbed into my neck, his voice low, hollow echo in the dithering walls of my mind, where everything was darkening, "Who did this to you, Connie? Fucking Christ, Ally, who did this to you?"

Before I lost consciousness, I uttered one thing, letting it slip past my lips in a thin, raspy mumble, "Jesus doesn't fuck."