The Crush - the real story

The Crush - what really happened.

...... and why you should never run in high-heels .....


You want to know why the club has banned shoes with heels over 3 inches! You really want to know. It’s not a nice story. But if you insist I’ll tell you the true story not the one that you’ve most likely heard about. It’s not true that the new floor is made of an especially rare wood that … here we go.

It was only last month, we were all waiting at the club to see the new sensation. And we knew that outside on the beach terrace there were thousands more. I’d known Sandy for a long time. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s why I’m here telling you this story. And it’s why I’m wearing a yellow sun-dress and doing my best to look happy. She wouldn’t have wanted anything else. Even though we’re supposed to be celebrating how wonderful she was. It still doesn’t feel right – and my bra straps just don’t fit right.

Sandy Twain was the name she was using. I had once known her as Alexander Bye – and she had cleverly played with the name to turn the first into Sandy and the Bye into Twain. She had always been keen on playing with things.

We’d been at school together – we weren’t best friends. But we sometimes walked home together. I guess she was just friends with everybody

She played with words. She played with girls and boys, of course. She played with her body, her hair, everybody’s clothes. And she was good. When she was only a child she had begun to dress whichever way she wanted on a particular day. It always entertained us that she refused to wear blue or pink. Almost everything she wore – or that he wore – was green, yellow, black or white. And she had style. Everything looked right.

And no one was jealous about it. Because it was just ‘Sandy being Sandy’. The kids at school accepted that Sandy would be dressed smart – and sometimes in trousers and sometimes in shorts and sometimes in skirts. It was just the way it was.

Like I say, she wasn’t just good at playing, she was good at everything she did. And she was good nice as well. She made everybody feel good.

In fact, she was able to make even the haters feel that they should be more reasonable. I won’t go so far as saying they became tolerant themselves – but they kept their mouths shut and their ugly opinions to themselves. She wasn’t always top of the class but she was definitely bright and willing to help people – and willing to ask for help if she needed it. I remember she asked me for help with her hair – and then a few days later I realized that she didn’t ask for help because she needed it – she asked for my help because she knew I needed that extra push to be willing to help. I’m a nicer person because of Sandy – that’s the sort of person she was.

Sandy truly was, in the opinion of everyone who met her and almost everyone who saw her or read about her ‘a good thing’. Everyone wanted to know her better, to get that bit closer, to share with her, perhaps in the hope that closeness would transfer some of that niceness.

Back to what happened that night. As you know the club is at the bottom of the cliff down on the beach side. There was the main entrance from the car park and the celebrity entrance from the top of the cliff restaurant down the twenty-five steps to the terrace. We knew that Sandy would ‘do it big’ and she was everything she had promised.

Dainty, all of five foot three; curvaceous, and golly that corset was a real squeezer; high heels which made her glossy legs shine in the lights; and that dress – wow. Worth every penny of the alleged cost.
As she reached the last but one step, the fireworks exploded. Someone shouted ‘Gun’ or maybe ‘Run’. Lots of them pushed past her to run up the steps. Perhaps that was how it happened. I saw Sandy fall just as the crowd ran for any exit they could find.

It was panic. It was chaos. It was pandemonium and disaster.

They counted over 250 stiletto marks on Sandy’s battered and crushed body. That’s the truth.



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This story is 769 words long.