Droste

The ‘self contained flat’ was a cold extension at the side of the house.  She’d hid there in darkness from her shrieking parents when it was still the garage, before she left.  Before she dropped out of her Maths degree, bringing her man back with her.  

“We have to,” he said, sitting in the one armchair chair, smoking.  The ‘flat’ smelled of frying; of skunk; of soap and sex and bad temper; so small everything contaminated everything else.  Most nights they’d heard her Mam bellowing next door that she hated having them there, her Dad saying ‘the money’.

“I don't like it.”  She couldn’t believe they were even discussing it.  The plastic bag of underwear and stockings was on the floor where she’d thrown it.

“No one likes it.  It won’t be for long.  Just until we get some money.”

“You do like it.  You like the idea of strangers inside me.  I don't want any of them in my home.”

She left him sitting in silence.  Sneaking out to the street she could see her parents through the front window, Dad in his chair smoking, Mam on the sofa. Neither speaking.

The word recursion hit her like a punch.