Challenge No. 21;
Against All Odds
What is their worst fear?
There are two Isadoras, and hereâs the shitty one coming to drag you down. No, there is one Isadora, and sheâs 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.Â
It gets worse. Thereâs no secret in you, waiting to come out. Thereâs no easy hook on which to hang the blame, like youâve seen so many times before. Youâre 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, youâre just pathetic.Â
Youâre 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, âcause it will, the fact that the only thing that rules you is your unshakable insecurity, you wonât have anything anymore. Poof. It was only smoke. Did you think rejecting their approval would save you from that cold, unfeeling truth?Â
Be real. That only meant that you wanted it more.Â
What is their greatest hope?
No, thatâs wrong. There is something in you. A reservoir of strength and imagination that can be tapped and tapped and never run dry. Youâre tougher than that, and youâre 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 thatâs how you understand love, as a craving to be or be near something.
Even you know thatâs not really acceptance, deep, deep down. If you do something, so phenomenal, so staggeringly great--wouldnât they just have no choice but to accept you? Love you, even? Not just one person, but many. Maybe even everyone. Wouldnât that be enough, then?
Where do you think the well of strength has come from for all these years? Itâs 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. Youâre ignoring something, youâre missing something. You think youâre so smart. Youâre trapped in your own head, thatâs what. You think that the existence of God and the Devil and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse has made you fearless? You think youâre gonna do great things just because you work so, so hard? Oh, kid. Hereâs some news for you.
Serious things are happening in the world now, and youâre a part of them. But go on, focus on that poor little boo-boo on your heart, youâll never have the impact you know you could make.Â
The only way to make what you have now worth anything is to keep going. If you get distracted by this feelings bullshit thatâs dogged you so hard for so long, youâre gonna miss this shot, too, and youâll never do anything or have anything. Everything will turn to ash as soon as you lay hands on it.Â
Youâll 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 youâre going to be a good little Sinner, get your reward from the Devil? Pay attention. Think about how this works. Youâre not as smart as you think you are, but if youâre on your game, little girl, you might just manage to fake it.
What is a cherished memory?
Donât fuck around with this Patronus bullshit. Itâs 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.Â
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.
âWhere are you going to wear that dress, mija?â Papa asked, and you didnât have a good answer. You shrugged. He shrugged. âI guess it doesnât matter. The heart wants what it wants.âÂ
Silence for a few stops. Itâs yours, itâs yours. Thatâs all you could think of in the moment. You didnât 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.Â
âItâs quite something, isnât it?â Papa said, two, maybe three times, like he wanted the other passengers to hear. âWow. Five thousand dollars.âÂ
It was four thousand, five hundred and seventy-five. You donât even have that dress anymore; you left it behind when you went to college. Itâs 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.
âIt just goes to show, doesnât it--â 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 wasnât a platitude. He was talking about you. âYou can really just do anything you put your mind to, canât you?â
