Black Sheep

by Rachel Harrison

All the shrapnel of her casual cruelty embedded in me, and now I had more damage to add to the collection.

It sank in that my father, who’d been this beacon in my childhood memories, was so twisted and ill, he might be dangerous.

It was never a good sign when charismatic men started talking apocalypse.

I wasn’t hateful. I wasn’t evil. I wasn’t my father’s daughter.