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Bare feet placed firmly on the peach, shag rug as she turned and bent over the bathtub, fingers lacing about the knobs of the faucet. Warm water filled the bathtub as she delicately stepped inside. Her soft, blissful humming filling the small white room as her form sat down. A piece of paper sat by the sink, words scrawled almost illegible upon its thin blue lines. She had read it three times before being satisfied with what she had written. A satisfied smirk upon those pale, rose petal, lips as she thought about how her mother would react when that paper was read. The tub now half full, her plan put to action. Her wrists placed beneath that warm, rushing water as a razor was brought down upon them. The cuts were small, but did their job. Barely noticeable as deep crimson began to mix within the tub. Her watery grave set, she laid her head back. Not a tear left her, nor a shallow cry as her deep green eyes were closed for the what was hopefully the final time. Her mind, it drifted,. With a ripe apple on her head she still wouldn’t have been too many inches over five feet tall. She was lithe, slender and wiry. She had long golden-brown hair that came to her waist and smallish teardrop breasts ending in half-dollar sized areolae and pert little nipples. They would swell when she was aroused and those areolae would get puffy and sensitive, so much so that you had to be gentle with them. She’d let you know quickly-and none too sweetly- if you got too rough with them. She could be snippy and petulant. Her legs looked long even at her diminutive size. It was the seventies and so she wore minidresses and hot pants everywhere, which gave her a chance to show off those gorgeous gams and give a glimpse of her perfect little ass... We didn’t call shorts Daisy Dukes back then. It was hot pants or short-shorts. The travesty known as “Dukes of Hazzard” had not yet polluted the airwaves.Carrie had a temper, the little firecracker. Which is why I often imagined her with an.
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