Page 62 of Never Enough

It’s funny how you can be one person but have different storylines with different people. For example, in my grandma’s eyes, I’m an angel fallen from heaven. Whenever we’d catch sight of those cartoon babies strumming their harps with their little baby wings, she’d point and say “See, Daphne? That’s you.” Only, it didn’t feel like me because, according to my mom, I’m the devil.

So, that’s why I wanted to play the harp. I desperately long to fit the version of myself that Grandmasaw. Unfortunately, ever since her death, all I’m left with is the darkness, aka what some call Mom. The person who birthed me is the darkness, telling me I’m not fit for society. Her darkness seeps into my lungs and bleeds out my pores until I’m so sure that it’s becoming me.

That’s the difference between Alex and me. Once I leave this stupid trailer and stay as far away from Momas I can, I know the darkness will leave me alone. It’ll have no choice because I sweat it from my system.

Alex is different. I sense his darkness wrapping around his arms and legs. It’s imbedded in his DNA.

He’s struggling. I know what it’s like to struggle.

The difference is, I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel and the darkness will go away.

Someday.

Alex doesn’t have that. It’s like my depression is environmental. His is genetic or a part of him. It doesn’t make him any less of a good person. No matter the darkness within, Alex remains deserving of love.

He’s on my mind, which is unfortunate because I can’t gauge if he likes me back. I think he does, but he’s too hesitant to act on anything.

I’m lost in my world, thinking about harps, and Victoria, and Alex, so I don’t notice Mom’sglare that follows me around the living room.

“Why don’t you ever bring your little harp to the house?” she asks, taking me off guard. There’s nothing little about my harp. Also, I don’t trust my mom around it. Knowing her, she’d smash it to pieces out of spite. She does that sometimes. Threatens to hurt the things I love.

“It’s too heavy to lug around.” It’s the safest response. Anything else would just piss her off. Plus, it’s true. Harps can weigh up to ninety pounds! Mine does.

Mom swipes at her nose, making my stomach twist. You see, everyone has a tell. Hers is swiping at her nose. I don’t know if it’s because of the drugs, or nerves, or anger, but whatever it is, whenever she does it, trouble comes.

She snaps I could save hundreds by practicing at home instead of at the Whitmore Institute. “But you won’t because you want to ogle that Whitmore boy.”

My thoughts stutter, but I do take a step back.

How does she know about my crush? Am I that obvious about it?

The world narrows to a pinpoint as my heart slams against my chest like a prisoner against their cell, desperate for freedom. “What?” I force a casual laugh, hoping to deflect her comment.

Mom squints with suspicion clinging to her gaze. Her lips curl up in a cruel, knowing smile. “Oh, I see Alexandru swimming in your eyes, darling.” She drawls out his name just to watch me squirm. I hate how much pleasure she gets out of my discomfort.

Her words hang, leaving me speechless. All I want to do is escape from this place, escape from her poisonous words, escape to a place where Alex and I can exist without complication.

It’s possible that’s part of the problem. When I think of him, I think of us as one unit. Alex and Daphne against the world.

But that’s not the truth, is it? I’m delusional enough to think I can manifest something into existence.

As if reading my thoughts, Momruthlessly continues, “You’re dreaming if you think anything could happen between you two. He’s out of your league. A Whitmore wouldn’t fall for someone like you.”

It stings more than it should. I know she’s only saying that to hurt me, but truth be told, part of me agrees with her. No matter how much I care for Alex, no matter how much he might even care for me, there’s always going to be a divide between us. No matter if it’s money, his sister’s hate for me, or our own self-deprecation, it feels like we’re opposite ends of magnets—so close to touching but not quite.

I shake off the pang of sadness that threatens to settle in my chest. Suppressing a wince, I lift my chin and compose myself. “You’re right, but I won’t stop playing my harp and trying to befriend him.”

Needing to occupy myself, I turn my back to her to reach for my backpack. My fingers graze the familiar fabric, seeking the comfort of my homework’s routine, when a sudden, searing pain explodes at the back of my skull.

Books and papers scatter as I hit the floor hard. My vision blurs, but I feel the carpet burning against my cheek. She hit me!

“Mom?” I gasp, disoriented. Her grip is iron on my arm, dragging me upward then forward.

“Move!” she hisses.

I stumble, try to pull away, but my head is spinning. Her smack still echoes against my throbbing head. Meanwhile, my legs weaken.

“Let go of me,” I slur, my words more a plea than demand. Ever since Grandmadied, I’ve been alone. Parents are supposed to love you, and kids are supposed to have friends. Why don’t I?

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