Challenge No. 21;
Against All Odds
What is their worst fear?
There are two Isadoras, and here’s the shitty one coming to drag you down. No, there is one Isadora, and she’s painfully obvious, her problems trite and tired and the same as every other millennial whose self-esteem has become her own worst enemy. Everything you ever did was a lie you told yourself. Look. People are mirrors. The reason no one ever liked you was because you wanted them to, so so badly. Your neediness repulsed them, then made them feel guilty, and that guilt you made them feel made them resent you.
It gets worse. There’s no secret in you, waiting to come out. There’s no easy hook on which to hang the blame, like you’ve seen so many times before. You’re not going to bloom into the kind of thing that would explain their unplaceable dislike, supernatural or otherwise. No affinity is ever going to explain your strangeness. Are you unique? No, moron, you’re just pathetic.
You’re just like the rest of them, longing to be special, and no matter how hard you work or what you give up, nothing you do will change that. When the truth comes out, ‘cause it will, the fact that the only thing that rules you is your unshakable insecurity, you won’t have anything anymore. Poof. It was only smoke. Did you think rejecting their approval would save you from that cold, unfeeling truth?
Be real. That only meant that you wanted it more.
What is their greatest hope?
No, that’s wrong. There is something in you. A reservoir of strength and imagination that can be tapped and tapped and never run dry. You’re tougher than that, and you’re going to do such amazing things. This is the truth: you want to accomplish something so amazing that they have to say it, out loud. You want them to love you for what you are. You want people to envy Envy because that’s how you understand love, as a craving to be or be near something.
Even you know that’s not really acceptance, deep, deep down. If you do something, so phenomenal, so staggeringly great--wouldn’t they just have no choice but to accept you? Love you, even? Not just one person, but many. Maybe even everyone. Wouldn’t that be enough, then?
Where do you think the well of strength has come from for all these years? It’s that hope in you, that buried, tender dream from which all your drive and passion springs. And one day, it might even come true.
What is their deepest doubt?
All this acceptance and identity stuff is a joke. You’re ignoring something, you’re missing something. You think you’re so smart. You’re trapped in your own head, that’s what. You think that the existence of God and the Devil and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse has made you fearless? You think you’re gonna do great things just because you work so, so hard? Oh, kid. Here’s some news for you.
Serious things are happening in the world now, and you’re a part of them. But go on, focus on that poor little boo-boo on your heart, you’ll never have the impact you know you could make.
The only way to make what you have now worth anything is to keep going. If you get distracted by this feelings bullshit that’s dogged you so hard for so long, you’re gonna miss this shot, too, and you’ll never do anything or have anything. Everything will turn to ash as soon as you lay hands on it.
You’ll never snag those black wings. Remember what Belial said, back when he was Belial, while you were mocking him about being an old fogey? You think you’re going to be a good little Sinner, get your reward from the Devil? Pay attention. Think about how this works. You’re not as smart as you think you are, but if you’re on your game, little girl, you might just manage to fake it.
What is a cherished memory?
Don’t fuck around with this Patronus bullshit. It’s so tedious. People are made happy by the same things, over and over again. The fact that overdone cliches still make ratings is because people can never get enough of the same feelings of contentment or catharsis. Yours is about acquisition, about accomplishment. Nobody knows how much you loved your very first McQueen--all yours, paid for by your long hours, your gritted teeth, your dedication to saving up those dollars, through serving platter tips and pay-per-clicks. You were sixteen. It was true love, falling just above the knee.
Papa got a glance at the receipt while you paid from the debit card he helped you set up last year just after your fifteenth birthday and whistled. He rode the train with you into the city; you were still his little girl back then. You hugged the bag to your chest, careful not to crush it, as if the dress were a living thing that could be killed. Papa was stretched out over the seat beside you, completely bemused, scratching the graying streak in his beard. But he smiled at you.
“Where are you going to wear that dress, mija?” Papa asked, and you didn’t have a good answer. You shrugged. He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter. The heart wants what it wants.”
Silence for a few stops. It’s yours, it’s yours. That’s all you could think of in the moment. You didn’t even notice Papa, watching you for signs. You recall most of this in retrospect, cobbling it together from how you remember what he said. Sometimes, it means less to you; sometimes, more.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Papa said, two, maybe three times, like he wanted the other passengers to hear. “Wow. Five thousand dollars.”
It was four thousand, five hundred and seventy-five. You don’t even have that dress anymore; you left it behind when you went to college. It’s probably still in your childhood closet, if they kept your stuff where it was when you abandoned them. Your ego makes you think they probably did.
“It just goes to show, doesn’t it--” Papa said, again and again. You remember the repetition especially. You remember the look on his face, appliqued onto your memory like a lace detail, unfrayed by wear and time. It wasn’t a platitude. He was talking about you. “You can really just do anything you put your mind to, can’t you?”
