Ember

Something flickered on my shoulder, in my peripherals. I turned my head; it was flame. I batted it with my hand. My mother and sister sat across from me around the campfire, talking. My father sat to my right, removed. I couldn’t seem to put it out.

“Hannah,” I said. “A little help?”

My sister looked over. “Oh, Michael.” She leaned across the fire, swatted my arm. It went out. “Must’ve been an ember…” I started. Hannah had resumed her conversation.

“Could’ve used your wet pussy, Michaela,” my father said.

I met his drunken eyes. He’d seen, and done nothing.