One of the Queen of Filth's very rare content warnings: This book is about a the mid-wife version of Elizabeth Bathory. There are dead babies and late term abortion.
6
Only with the bucket in the bathroom did I switch on the taps for my bath. It ran quickly. I had to watch for the half-way point. Optimal time to add chunky style baby stew.
After all these years I should have at least an approximation of how long that takes but the water pressure was so variable it could be two minutes or take up to ten. My phone conversation with the water company resulted in an offer to send out a water saving attachment for the tap. I told them to go fuck themselves.
It didn’t help my foul mood when the call centre worker kept calling me Starla. My name is Stara, not Starla. I find it rather bothersome when people don’t get it right. I’ve even been called Stella a few times.
Any patient that gets it wrong finds herself miscarrying regardless of how much she wanted her baby or how sane she still is. She won’t be for much longer after getting my name wrong. There are lots of things a midwife can do to ensure miscarriage. And plenty of others to ensure insanity wraps a jagged embrace around the patient.
The first scoop of chunky baby stew was always the best. It rested on top of the water like an oil slick before the larger chunks would sink, leaving a waving trail of blood in their wake. It was the way this blood would dance in the water that left me so mesmerised. It was calming. All my problems would melt away and sink with the chunks.
Once the second scoop was added it was lost to the chunky crimson tidal wave and red steam. Two scoops were all it took to restore my youth and give me the possibility of immorality. Any more would clog the drains and lead to the authorities being altered to my bath time activities.
There’s no way I could pass chunky baby stew off as a flushed goldfish. First of all, baby stew lacked scales. People were so stupid with such short attention spans. Charm would work for a while but someone higher up would be called because the initial call-out person wouldn’t know what to do.
Chunks of bone often passed through the blender unscratched. Fish bones were tiny enough to escape into tins of processed salmon. Fish bones were very different to the bones of late term abortion.
I liked my baths hot. He said the extreme heat would help the essence seep into my pores restoring my youth and into my soul taking me one step closer to immorality. The soul was where immortality lay.
But he also said to rinse in cold. I didn’t like the cold. I would have to switch on the heating in the height of summer depending on the quality of what I scooped into my bath.
Heat left the skin pink with diluted blood rising the surface. As the body returned to normal temperature, skin returned to its normal colour unless covered in foetal blood residue. Rinsing in cold made that process happen sooner trapping the youth inside.
I had to rinse. And rinse again. I even had to hold apart my arse cheeks and vaginal lips to ensure all the chunky baby stew was gone from my body. It can flake off onto the bedsheets during the night to leave incriminating evidence behind to rub back onto my skin prior to work.
I don’t often bathe before work – there isn’t much point. I just end up covered in various bodily fluids I would rather not be covered in. These made my appearance older not younger. Chunky baby stew had to be prepared in a special way with spells to restore my youth.
It is a waste of hot water and soap. The smell of urine is easy to wipe away with wet toilet paper. Special baths before work were hard to find the time for. They were a way to unwind after a day of manipulating patients and making them seem insane. Today was a rare exception; the lucky day when there wasn’t much point in returning to bed.
I wasn’t much of a morning person. The sleep problems common with my age never appeared. I had my restored youth and impending immortality to thank for that. It was all due to him. I would have been swallowed by my own depression years ago if he didn’t come into my life.
Midwifery seemed to promise nightshifts until I grew old. My shifts switched to days as I started more community work. He wanted me out in the community securing abortions so I didn’t complain.
I looked younger than anyone else who worked at the hospital, regardless of being the oldest on payroll. Being old, I was allowed to be grumpy with other staff. I tried my best to be pleasant. I didn’t want any unnecessary attention or complaints about my working practice. It wouldn’t lead to an investigation; it would impact on my working practices though. I may no longer be allowed to go out alone.
To purchase Stara on Amazon, head here.
To buy the ebook on Godless, go here (the ebook is cheaper on godless).
6
Only with the bucket in the bathroom did I switch on the taps for my bath. It ran quickly. I had to watch for the half-way point. Optimal time to add chunky style baby stew.
After all these years I should have at least an approximation of how long that takes but the water pressure was so variable it could be two minutes or take up to ten. My phone conversation with the water company resulted in an offer to send out a water saving attachment for the tap. I told them to go fuck themselves.
It didn’t help my foul mood when the call centre worker kept calling me Starla. My name is Stara, not Starla. I find it rather bothersome when people don’t get it right. I’ve even been called Stella a few times.
Any patient that gets it wrong finds herself miscarrying regardless of how much she wanted her baby or how sane she still is. She won’t be for much longer after getting my name wrong. There are lots of things a midwife can do to ensure miscarriage. And plenty of others to ensure insanity wraps a jagged embrace around the patient.
The first scoop of chunky baby stew was always the best. It rested on top of the water like an oil slick before the larger chunks would sink, leaving a waving trail of blood in their wake. It was the way this blood would dance in the water that left me so mesmerised. It was calming. All my problems would melt away and sink with the chunks.
Once the second scoop was added it was lost to the chunky crimson tidal wave and red steam. Two scoops were all it took to restore my youth and give me the possibility of immorality. Any more would clog the drains and lead to the authorities being altered to my bath time activities.
There’s no way I could pass chunky baby stew off as a flushed goldfish. First of all, baby stew lacked scales. People were so stupid with such short attention spans. Charm would work for a while but someone higher up would be called because the initial call-out person wouldn’t know what to do.
Chunks of bone often passed through the blender unscratched. Fish bones were tiny enough to escape into tins of processed salmon. Fish bones were very different to the bones of late term abortion.
I liked my baths hot. He said the extreme heat would help the essence seep into my pores restoring my youth and into my soul taking me one step closer to immorality. The soul was where immortality lay.
But he also said to rinse in cold. I didn’t like the cold. I would have to switch on the heating in the height of summer depending on the quality of what I scooped into my bath.
Heat left the skin pink with diluted blood rising the surface. As the body returned to normal temperature, skin returned to its normal colour unless covered in foetal blood residue. Rinsing in cold made that process happen sooner trapping the youth inside.
I had to rinse. And rinse again. I even had to hold apart my arse cheeks and vaginal lips to ensure all the chunky baby stew was gone from my body. It can flake off onto the bedsheets during the night to leave incriminating evidence behind to rub back onto my skin prior to work.
I don’t often bathe before work – there isn’t much point. I just end up covered in various bodily fluids I would rather not be covered in. These made my appearance older not younger. Chunky baby stew had to be prepared in a special way with spells to restore my youth.
It is a waste of hot water and soap. The smell of urine is easy to wipe away with wet toilet paper. Special baths before work were hard to find the time for. They were a way to unwind after a day of manipulating patients and making them seem insane. Today was a rare exception; the lucky day when there wasn’t much point in returning to bed.
I wasn’t much of a morning person. The sleep problems common with my age never appeared. I had my restored youth and impending immortality to thank for that. It was all due to him. I would have been swallowed by my own depression years ago if he didn’t come into my life.
Midwifery seemed to promise nightshifts until I grew old. My shifts switched to days as I started more community work. He wanted me out in the community securing abortions so I didn’t complain.
I looked younger than anyone else who worked at the hospital, regardless of being the oldest on payroll. Being old, I was allowed to be grumpy with other staff. I tried my best to be pleasant. I didn’t want any unnecessary attention or complaints about my working practice. It wouldn’t lead to an investigation; it would impact on my working practices though. I may no longer be allowed to go out alone.
To purchase Stara on Amazon, head here.
To buy the ebook on Godless, go here (the ebook is cheaper on godless).