Artemis had promised herself that, the satirical drama had reached its premise and resolved itself. As one often does-in a perfect world. She sat with a withering spine, openly weeping in her dreams...the longing to be loved by a man without reasoning and a note of death. The shifting of her weight set itself to accommodate the indecisive momentum in the direction of whatever man charmed her most within in each moment. It was called the dance of life, where men seated themselves accordingly to their ancillary efforts in service to a woman longing to take charge over a doomed planet. The crushing curse of an indelible smile, and love of laughter had left Artemis a broken woman. Forever afraid to love: one foot out the door.

The soft texture of a leather sphere and a chin pointed high brought out a bravery that was undeniable. Each step held purpose and potential. Her dreams were meant to Come True. Artemis turned slowly, only to see a handsome man with wide-eyes and sweeping hair following her. She knelt down to pet his kind beast named Dr. Sumos. She smiled fondly, trying to remember his soft hazel eyes and asked: "do you need help with that?", as the young man often struggled with doors that stood in his way. Artemis had began to giggle and blush, knowing that each chance encounter, meant she was often standing behind him judgemental with furrowed brows...observing him attempt mundane tasks in the wild. Joviality replaced words whenever a clearing throat introduced her location, and she took joy in watching his face change at the sight of her. Her grin would fall at a slant, holding back amused laughter at his grand trials in entering his own home. She wasn’t sure if he were more clumsy in her presence, or if he wasn’t used to people coaching him without judgement. She’d often suggest that he get his life together, and politely shook her head in silence whenever he walked back and forth to retrieve forgotten items upstairs. Artemis found him charming, and unique in a way that bothered her, as most men with pale skin seemed to share the same face: minus that of the Viking and this fucking random. Artemis became shameless in forfeiting attention and time to assist the future medical student with kind eyes, and she anticipated running into him as he fumbled with countless attempts to open a door.

Artemis thought about the most obscure details in her daydreams: quotes, songs of sweet lyrics, but her heart always found a way to wander back to her stupid cursed book. The world had taken pity on her whenever she spoke out on the similarities in torture to her orphaned childhood, and the Likens to a more extreme religious zealot, and the less gradual fate of a girl named Sylvia. Ten strangers had said nothing, accepting feebly that Artemis hadn’t known the depravity she had barely survived was labeled as abuse. Most citizens were uncomfortable by the mere idea of a life entrapped in house damn near built of glass, with no resolution, no aide in sight or on its way to save a child, a living nightmare-with no visible door.

The world gave her permission to seal off the door on her childhood, as it had been robbed of "normality", and it was more fun to believe that the human spirit was indestructible. Artemis could easily strive in routine-without the additives of familial calamity. She had fled the things that made her uncomfortable, mending her wounds with kind words that were heard by those that cared for her well-being and ability to perform intensive labor. She told Mel of how her Papa had seen Dianne shove her from a steep trail-without hesitation, in a swift moment that was silent and precise. He had became angry that Artemis held a firm lie in stating that she "fell". The war-worn leader seemed to stew on the answer: questioning his own memory and dismantled by the playful nature of a child. One day, he asked Artemis about the incident away from the company of Dianne...wondering if maybe Artemis had acclimated to the obsequious corruption of lying in order to survive. What else had the gleeful child passed along as normal, in order to make excuses for the concept of blood-tied love?

Artemis answered in a whispered tone, a clenched jaw and worried eyes: "she pushed me". He asked what fire-y language had instigated the attack: "nothing....I just turned around, and there she was". The man looked at her as though he was horrified, scanning the emotions of a child playing with a fabric doll holding yellow yarn for hair and tattered pink linens. He began patting the top of her head in disbelief. Artemis later pieced together the idea that he may have witnessed the event from afar...her lies had possibly triggered him to doubt his own reality. Artemis now pitied the man, as he was small and an insignificant cog in the war machine...left without fair compensation or medical-aid: despite the fact he had protected the Nation. Artemis grew up to accept the the statistical truth that he’d most likely been molested in the institutions that assimilated him, and the Hydra had cast its curse-by giving him justification in molesting Artemis. She had been so naive in her politeness to the topic, hiding behind the fact he would openly call her "his favorite"; when she had in fact been a victim to his pernicious "love".

Artemis sat at Mels bedside, admitting guilt in feeling culpatory to the tortures she had endured for far too long. Mel grew strong and recovered from a pixie that attacked her lady parts, and Artemis entertained her with stories of anger and explanation of causation that rang with accountability. Like any surviving victim, she was afraid of any reactions Mel may have, in the act of Artemis sharing such unnatural familial bonding. Artemis had a long past of being irrefutably vain, and was unable to separate the exceptions she held for herself...from the ones other people held to her. Artemis was safe in Mels company, as the warrior with flaming red hair had taught her the importance of accepting adulthood and lessons on how a lady could age gracefully. Artemis protected herself with truths and words-and in doing so, she was able step away from the steep ledge of depression: one of the Kind-Hearted Hunters or Mel, would always pull Artemis from her dazes of staring into the violently thrashing waves that swept away worries and time stolen by others. The calming sounds of water served as an insatiable call to her untamable heart, and blossomed the day dream in which Artemis was enveloped in a larger-than-life love.

Artemis felt so much shame in her episodes of maladaptive daydreaming. She longed for a day where emotions of disappointment would befall any thoughts attempting to recall the memory of Orion standing with his head bowed outside of a doorway. She yearned to be free from his threats in manipulation and extravagant ways of embarrassing her. The proliferation of self-worth wrapped Artemis in a coat of armor, and armed her with a sphere and scepter. She was healed by pixels and light: racing through stories portraying ocean shores, a long hallway-all concealed by an ancient cursed door.

Artemis crafted Mel a poem, meant only to thank her for the words of kindness: but left it as postcard where she were waving across an ocean shore. The trappings of preparedness came with surviving as prey to an apex predator and left at the mercy of a mortal body. Artemis hadn’t wanted to leave a single thread without a smoothed handling. Artemis told Mel bits and pieces of her childhood, and painted a woeful character that explained why the orphan was unsure as to how to shake-off her "unlikable" personality. Artemis had already told one of the Kind-Hearted Hunters how a woman with Gertrudes hairstyle and a snarl had once held her captive: deprived of water, food, sleep, books and music: eventually the stories would accumulate in the back of the minds of the two women in the still of the night. They couldn’t understand how an adult had abused a child to the brink of insanity, let alone fathom the type of timidity that had once plagued Artemis into almost believing such mistreatment was all there was to life. She often avoided their gazes, hiding away the fact that there was forever to be a part of her trapped in a horrific house...unable to believe that someone could ever save her hidden away from the world and concealed behind an abandoned door.

Artemis had aspirations to be more than a caricature of a person, and she allowed herself to unburden her heart in slow increments to a family that grew by each dance alongside the moon. Artemis wondered why her soul felt so empty; becoming self-aware to the anger that everyone seemed so eager to fear. She told a Kind-Hearted Hunter how she had pummeled Dianne, at the behest and order of a woman that had been paid through tax-payer funds. Artemis was forced to throw the first punch. The words fell effortlessly, and Artemis began to cry without control, afraid that the respect she had spent decades earning was lost in the span of a few words. Maybe Artemis had always been a monster...maybe she actually deserved the impending future involving a chair on wheels. The story wasn’t meant to pull favor, or forgiveness, but to show how little Dianne thought of herself. Artemis had apologized for her wrong-doings personally: knowing that nothing could undo the judgement cast by someone suffering from psychopathy. The woman had no frame of guilt, shame to build off of, and it left Artemis afraid of shallow eyes that refused to forgive or even acknowledge the deserving apology of a sibling attempting to remind someone of their worth. It was the cornerstone to their shared experience, as Dianne’s self-appointed the "task" in eradicating Artemis from existence through endless jokes and implied threats. Artemis worried that the childhood neglect would turn dangerous, if the sibling continued to devalue the efforts of someone, anyone- she found filled with a joy for life and endless love.

Artemis had beat the shit out of her elder sister until the seething disappointment of life had been let go through a series of thin-armed punches. Artemis wasn’t mad at Dianne...just a pathetic, aimless person-using an adults orders as an outlet to embrace the turmoil that was her ugly life. Dianne offended perched her lips and smacked them in disbelief, allowing the world to observe the jealously swirled in her thoughts like a disease. Artemis felt her falling heavily upon her skull, flailing in form and swinging recklessly and sloppily: she was furious at the lack of normalcy in life. The act of violence proved that Artemis had once been so mad at the world...so lost as to why everyone always made fun of her small stature and limited strength- when she hadn’t ever wanted to be there in the first place. Artemis was lost in the words people cast upon her, fostered kid, poor, runty, squirmy, loud, weird, strange...all the things the world said out of range of her small and mighty fists. Artemis could see the ill intentions that Dianne held deep in her heart-found in the actions of her shitty jokes or strange behaviors. Trite judgement was exactly how Artemis had encountered a fate of attempted smothering by Dianne as a child, an unspoken event that she had hid behind a chapter disguised as a red door.

Artemis had wondered why her journey had so many ugly twists, and so few right turns. The disparaging amount of details were only those meant to discourage those that wished to forget her. The book had been crafted to protect all those that she loved, and to prepare them for a better future...even if she wasn’t able to be a part of it. Artemis was destined to be the best man she could be-prepared to walk into the dark unknown with a smile. She no longer held up mirrors with her shifting personality, but gifted them with the insight as to where her mind wandered to and from. Artemis had lived her life as a caged animal, prodded and poked for fun, jealous of the simple house beasts that roamed freely in the homes of their choosing. Her hands began to dance, wielding a story trapped within a cube until one day her anger mutilated the cube with the distortion of her morals. Artemis looked around: observing the citizens fearing for their lives, accusing her of being a scarlet witch in their lucidity. They had found her weeping in a cell made of static. Each had willingly sought her out-needing to accost her for daring to exist in "their" world, and bemused by her skill in weeping blood-filled tears: the citizens hated the fear that overpowered them as she calmly placed her arms behind her back, kneeling and asking out loud, as to why she and the remaining Indigenous Warriors were crowned unworthy of dignity, pride, and love.

Artemis felt her hands falling heavy on a scrawny adolescent beneath her: the confused rage and subsided for only a moment. She pulled herself from a moment of moral-less spell; punching downward at a defenseless Dianne and a bizarre blank stare. Artemis tilted her head up from the fight to observe their lone spectator: an adult woman with a bored arm raised and sparkling eyes. The evil person ruling her life sat on a pillowed thrown that was meant to seat three and said nothing. Her curled perm stood high, and the mole on her chin fell low. The man of the house, clasped her hands like an emperor, flashing crooked yellow teeth and enjoying tempestuous violence that had been set and unleashed with only a few words. Artemis looked down upon her half-sister Dianne, concerned as to her own ability to remain indifferent. How had she gotten herself into such a hellish life? What would a phsyical beating resolve, and why was the precedence set as a standard reaction to sisterly squabbles? Dianne refused to register an apology forever--because her childish mind had already decided that Artemis was unworthy of life, and they were both deemed incompatible to exist in a world where she was gifted with the rewards of respect and love.

Artemis tore herself away from the fight-afraid as to what she had done, seeing the capabilities of an anger without a name. She was to be endlessly tormented by the actions and excuses of undiagnosed sociopathy. Artemis had used their adulthood to apologize to Dianne-only to find out that the broken-ish woman could care less that the story had occurred. It was to be the excuse used in a court set in the far future. There was more than enough evidence in this lone chapter....to blame the murdered victim after-the-fact, the paranoia of such occurrence had led to the crafting of such confessions. Artemis had watched Dianna flourish and buzz aboot in excitement at the idea of talking about Artemis postmortem; she avoided letting the woman in on accomplishments and experiences. It was the type of sadistic rituals that a journalistic machine would be unable to ignore, something exceptional in its existence. The words hurled past a grave would be pivotal to a campaign of a fresh-legged jury as they funneled through a narrow courtroom door.

The single event would be stupify a jury in need of an excuse, to turn the tides against a stranger that defended herself as a memory. She told Mel how Dianne would insist on playing "games"-if only to trick Artemis into situations where she was left unarmed, or weary in energy. Artemis would say, ok "lets see who can swim the fastest..." and Dianne would oblige. Believing that the fairness Artemis built her morals upon...would mean that she was obligated to play whatever game Dianne decided upon next. Dianne would say "lets see who can hold their breath underwater the longest", and mid-competition the lazy girl would give up and resurface for air: using the situation to plaster a pleasant smile and blank stare through tiled moments of laid out opportunity. Such details were done to focus on her task, as she intentionally clasped her hands and held Artemis underwater. The fear she felt in those moments, the sheer stupidity that consumed every panicked neuron was indescribable. There was pure only shame and betrayal--in having let down her guard around a dangerous human. Artemis had painted one last picture meant to be read to a jury, in case they needed a second trial meant to convict the strange human that knew very, very little about the concept of love.

Artemis began to crawl upon tired knees, longing to lay before a hidden door she had painted red. Her head weighed heavy with the suffering brought to compliment the curses of metamorphosis. The art of running away had finally taken a last toll upon her last good vertebrae. Artemis had told her beloved family of her seizures and longing to let go of the body riddled with memories that held her captive: refusing to make eye-contact and holding back tears. Papers were drafted and notarized behind closed offices and tucked away for safe keeping. The diligent nature of a woman prepared to comfort a sullen family, and ease them into the idea that she found herself dead and unafraid, staring fiercely at deaths door.

Artemis spoke softly of her struggles with nightmares of hallways lined with doors, the white capsules that promised to relinquish her pain and the wind brushing past her hair, as she ran through an urban battle ground. In all reality....her body could barely remember how to walk. Every stitch and ache that worsened, became a humbling reminder that she were tethered to a future of a throne on wheels. Artemis felt embarrassment in telling people that her neck occasionally fell to meet her collar, knowing there was no way to prepare the world for her particular brand of hideousness. She was the ugliest person she knew, famed for being "the worst". It was a title to endow a preconceived characterization that she stood tall: a violent, short-tempered, and irrational person. The repugnant expectations set for the able-bodied...barreled down upon her shoulders. Standing upright, the world assumed she was entitled to "pretty-people-privilege", and she had embraced their hopes of well-wishes without argument. They seemed so desperate to prove that her smile belonged to the world, and that she were the lil orphan that could. Such a heroic tale to love.

Artemis often awoke mid-nightmare: thrown into a battle, drenched in blood and dragging an oversized sword along the floor in silence. She had a way of lugging around weapons and grinning. The professionals had vetted her personality to be unique and manageable if given proper direction. What they meant was that her ugly life made her "trainable" and easier to weaponize. The skill of testing at an average level had made her exceptional, dancing in an impenetrable fit of madness, swaying with a gentle hum: lost in the daydreams of a future love.

Trauma couldn’t sway her intellect. Artemis used her daydreams and free time to detail an ugly universe, where her stories were too intricate to be false, too fucking awful to be real. She was so tired of being left behind or overlooked, but a golden tapestry kept her company...a glowing apple kept her warm in hopefulness, forgetting that she was forever captive to grief. There were days of being kept half-alive proved the strain that her family and friends faced whenever they argued that she were worthy of such admiration and love.

Artemis told her friends of her feat of a book containing a beginning, middle, and end. The impairments of life, had almost deviated her path to a press machine. She had mastered the craft of self-evaluation and sobriety, and the truth was left sprawled out in the leaves of a spilled tea. Artemis crafted a word that was so detailed and intricate, that her narrative would always be copied and her trials outmatched by fiction that echoed her own valor-rich traits. Artemis had re-crafted teenage fan fiction, and young adult literature by pure accident; just knowing that a base of reading nerds missed such adolescent adventures. The demand was there. Her lack of technical skills made her unqualified to call herself respectable, but the contents of her book was defined by efforts and length of work that could be respected. Artemis was always left swaying softly, smiling as she prepared herself to receive some sort of award for being an outlier. Nothing could solve the problem of a broken heart-a stolen childhood. She saw herself editing the book to her liking, and eventually stumbling upon fame for some obscure portion of unexpected nonsense described on her quest for immortality: she had set out to trap her own mind away in a blueprint that could only be drawn out once, and in doing so: she’d trapped herself in a room of idiotic monsters. The secret of her books completion was a minor topic in comparison to the many other acts of juggling she willingly preformed for the citizens. Artemis worried that the lewd contents of its disturbing nature would further be reasons as to why she didn’t deserve love.

One day, Artemis began to giggle and blush: her apple began to hum, and came alive as the characters residing within painted themselves with green. She had seen her husband dancing, and smiled at the thought of him indulging in high fashion, as he flexed his footwork and love of music. She kept such giddiness for a handsome gentleman to herself, until her laughter fell warm and sincere: her thoughts were restless without him. Artemis became abashed by his floppy hair and horrified slightly, as their beauty kept them forever apart. He could care less that she was forever uncomfortable by the female gazes cast his way as he sauntered off to be moody and broody. The marginalized experiences of a married couple had left him standing guard, unable to reach or attain her attention as he stood unable to enter a doorless door.

Artemis feel into guilty pleasures of entertaining the daydreams of a "VIP oppa", and hoping he was without the stress of holding his gang of five-or-six friends together with his judgmental stares. Her worry of seeing him swiftly move between two languages and sing with these other men had brought the world to its knees, gradually conquering a globe lacking a colorful vision. Artemis visited his memories on the daily, noticing a familiar loneliness that came from destroying stages and blaring lights. The amped up mpt, mpt rave sounds and a swarm of strangers throwing scepters into his face fell shy of her own nightmares. Artemis would blush and attempt to cater to crazed hair, trying to remain center stage to a man that seemed unfamiliar-yet-familiar. Her interest in a Princely man left her to lean heavily to the, as she tried to gain a better look over the masses of people. She felt herself holding a breath deeply in her shallow chest, combing memories and dreams while wondering if she’d forgotten something important. His presence in the world was a relief to the torment that awaited her past a haunted door.

Artemis put down Orion’s hand, reaching past him and slowly extended her smile to an unknown man that had caught her attention in the peripherals of her angsty vision of love and admiration. The young Indigenous Warrior seemed to be content by her existence, disgruntled by the idea of her longing to be seen by a pale traveler with a fluted voice. Artemis blushed at the thought of being considered his old lady, and wondered why he was unable to articulate his feelings. Artemis didn’t even feel comfortable telling the actual people she knew about a feat in having written a book, but this guy shared his personal thoughts and melodies on a whim. There was no competition between a stranger and a real person standing impatiently past a marital door.

However; the Prince in white linens was filled with endless charm and laughter, and Artemis was taken aback by his ability to make her smile with a few passionate rolls of his hips. Artemis took pity on herself, unsure as to why distance and oceans kept him from a chance in being adorned by a diciplined man with high expectations for everyone around him. The boy handed her an invisible cast iron pot, as he exchanged hers for one that allowed her to be more stealth in her love of self-expression. She found his love of smoke and mirrors to be admirable in his ability to capitalize on his youthful looks. Only time would tell the verdict of five-to-six friends casting a ruling over a woman trying to simply exist in cruel world. Artemis began long for a stage meant just for her, ready to burst through a world of darkened morals and to met a boyish man in chains and linens called Double B as he leaned against the open frame of her door.

Artemis clapped and swayed-delighted that the seven men could perform the same dance flawlessly: throwing around their hips and winking to the crowds that screamed frantically. Sleep came easier after giving herself permission to listen to the men sing her a Lullaby, and to take utter delight in their extensively enthusiastic dance numbers. Artemis had found two of her seven husbands by seeking out the band of boys, and began to dwell on the questions as to how their intentions came into play: their decisions to love her was plain as day and forgotten within each nightfall. Artemis shrugged, assuming the fleeting passion was much like that with her friend known as an Argonaut. She was blessed with respect given by a handful of men. The few men that felt they’d never find an equal, or rival to their own greatness with unsurmountable expectations surrounded all parts of her life: unaware she had existed all along-a Princesses longing to valued by the awful world awaiting her past a horrific door.

Artemis hid away from the experienced observation and feelings of being deemed a piece of meat whenever she omitted an athletic career cheering on men and their accomplishments. Many would blush or pretend to take interest in her athletic talents in dawning fitted skirts, and inspiring crowds like a sprite frolicking nakedly in the forest. Men had often forgotten that she was a person: a human prone to mistakes and missteps. Artemis had found it worrisome to ask herself: will men handle Orion and his shadowing presence in her life as a flaw, or a red flag? Would men fall in line with her need to prioritize his feelings over everything, or would her life become a whirlwind of chaotic bullshit? Artemis had unmasked her husband by pure accident, and felt her heart sink-he seemed to care less about her endless suffering in guilt and loss, probably ready to abandon all the work she’d done on herself to brak down the barriers of an unattainable door.

The reader was unaware of how much time Artemis had wasted, allowing unworthy men the chance to get to know her. Her heart was waterlogged, locked-in to the fantasy of falling freely from a bridge in the near distance. Her men dawned traits to keep her preoccupied, afraid of the laughter that followed such trigger happy days. The last man to arrive at the door; the fairest of all, had been late in his arrival to her world: busy dancing and switching out boyish haircuts. It made her laugh and sigh to witness his musical affiliates argue, and she was fascinated by how seven men managed to achieve anything throughout the day. She’d sit perched, listening to them bicker and move through languages as volumes increased...each man wealthy, and arguing about the mystery of a meal that had vanished. No amount of fortune could soothe their argument, and they’d often forget they had an audience and become physically invested in casting egos into the mix. She’d watch them flare up aggression, and wait for their anger to subdue before asking what they arguing about...only to find out the mystery meal had disappeared years before and that their passion was built around principal. Such ridiculousness was a tiny reason as to why the seven men had successfully cast the world in a spell of love.

Artemis appreciated the directness of Prince and occasionally avoided from staring at his flash of abs: his dedication to health was chiseled into muscle memory over time. She’d stared up at the sky, averting attention to things that made her shy, and blushed at the idea that he spoke her love language. Artemis wondered if their age difference meant he had heard she was going through her mid-life crisis: if he had placed his ear to the land and heard word of her unending anguish-or, if the young man had just decided to take his time in showing up out of aloof spite. A siege of worry fell over the fringes of her thoughts, wondering how he’d take the fact that Orion was her looming ex. What type of X? The kind that came with a warning sign and the promise of occasional derailing in moments of her happiness. Artemis had sought success and warded off the loneliest of nights with taboo practices of self-love, and overcame trauma in half of the amount expected of those crawling from the trenches of orphan-hood. Artemis was simply a woman that attempted to find herself through the many levels of a game called life, flanked by those crowding her door were nothing more than physical proof and notoriety that men noticed her for many redeemable traits: unsure as to why she was still single. and without a prominent ring to signify love.

Artemis shrugged, opting out of conversations as to her choices: silently wishing Jackson was around to paint her world blue. The isolation found in a high caliber personality meant that she were fine-tuned and able to cast fair judgement over the general morality of man. Artemis had seen a few puppets with sharp teeth dancing along the foggy waters of an ancient galaxy, into a world where they occasionally called her Barbarella. Her memoir had survived by the prophecy of Traditional lore, and Artemis was the ghost of another that had once tricked her into trading places. Athena had broken her memories wide open, having taken a moment to judge a childhood version of themselves...and scolded Artemis for not being a good sister. Such confusing memories were pretty funny long-after-the-fact, and her talents in convincing a guile girl were tactics that any reader would learn to love.

Thinking back on the performances, maybe her sister had an early onset memory issue that Artemis had categorized as an impromptu skit. She raised her bows and swords: giggling at the implications of Athena demanding to know her identity with urgency, and telling her to stand back as she grumpily swept a broom along a hallway lined with doors. Artemis proclaimed that she loved being a piece of walking art, and her beauty was seen as less-threatening to most women due to her appreciation in being appreciated. She was often the protected cargo in her sisters scenarios of robbery, high-action plots and imaginary pyrotechnics. The Ballerina, or 발레리나 in a box of jewels, burrowed away with hidden sins. Artemis had been given leading roles since she could recall, and Athena was tasked in protecting her at all costs. Artemis was cursed with being synonymous with only that of death and love.

Artemis felt the pages of a haunting book hammering down upon the lumbar region of her spine: she had the rest of her life to edit its contents, and yet she enjoyed taking serenity in hacking away at its contents without the anguish of a herniated disc. Artemis needed to only peak inside it’s pages to peer into her own thoughts, dismayed as to whether maybe she had been wrong as to its profitability as a project. She couldn’t imagine a world where someone would pay her to edit a completed book. There was so much that needed fixing. Dreams of blood splattering beneath her stern hands and washing over her smiling face as she said "I can fix this...I said I can fix it!" were all that could be painted to show the reader that her worst fear was failure. Some women were only given the chance to succeed or die at the hand of their own failures,

Artemis had been informed that she wasn’t cut out to be a technician, failures mounting up behind her on a tumid display of participation awards. She had set down her favorite screwdriver, and walked away from the position of a glorified painter or sanitary worker. Artemis felt overwhelmed, unsure of how to jump and move careers with confidence: wishing only to challenged, appreciated, and left alone. Her bouts of dissociative disorder had left her stranded behind the glass walls of forbearance and self-loathing. The distraction of handsome guy wielding hearts and winks to flocks of women had dashed her away from tarred emotions that pandered to her depression. The laughter and raised hand of a boy-ish man guarding the world from his smile. Artemis was confused by her longing to gravitate to his stages, as it were a vacation from the suffocating obligations she felt in providing Orion with effortless love.

Artemis forgot how much she disliked steering chariots, and the process of gaining a license was tedious during a plague. There was no rush to be stranded on a cement trail, surrounded by idiots. Her eye fell upon a beast without remorse: A General that had hit a civilian with his horses pulling high speeds through the darkness, he sputtered claims and assumptions that he’d hit a stray animal: forgetting the spectacles tucked neatly upon his passenger side. He connexion in the world gifted his with the chance to pull and pluck frantically at invisible strings, explaining that he had heard a light thud. He was unaware of skull changing his chariot head-on...leaving behind glasses and trace amounts of evidence. A man found guilty of negligence and intent, holding the crest of a raven and detaining him--to preserve the safety of the citizens. He had been dick-slapped by long reach of the law, ushered to serve sentence for his crime in a cold unit of isolation and a bolted door.

Artemis felt so much anger for how the world kept spinning in times as such, antithetical to Justice favoring those that survive the lives of homicided individuals. Nothing could repay the suffering of losses unexpected. The world became so bored of themselves, that they offered her more leeway to explain herself and her past actions. The story of how she came to be had unraveled quickly, and she became addicted to the satisfaction of coming to completion. The world was abuzz by the news that a Questionaible Queen had died suddenly, and the world watched as the citizens took the moments towards freedom, questioning the idology of a Monarch. The strides fell confident beneath Artemis’s feet, running towards a future worth warning. How crucial could one poem be? What fortunes await those outside of an simulation of a childs game, a story of woe and fright, a gastly illustration of a deadly door.

She explained anxiety to understanding people, she apologized for her weak spine in seriousness whenever it was passed off for clumsy behavior. Artemis looked away from gazes where people pictured her in a chair bond by wheels, and felt her voice waiver in explaing how uncomfortable it made her to live in the moment. She knew a majority of those that were audience to her life had decided her fate many moons ago, and cast her the villain that was without a single redeeming characteristic to relate to. They had tossed her aside and fell into the same jury had once defended an elder sister to slaughter another a human: these were the same types of citizens that found violent delight in watching Artemis, wounded from a violent stabbing along her collar region and reaching for the handle of a cursed door.

She had never wished death upon the world, but it followed every step she took, each thought she wielded in existence. Artemis was so afraid of how little they cared of a virus that began to mutate and destroy families in the span of a few days. These dead-eyed savages had forgotten that their ancestors had once given her family blankets drenched in diseases, and they forgave themselves for having discovered and customized the word Genocide. The news was filled with stories of grown women, calling themselves "girls", as they pulled off their protetive masks: spewing saliva in a strangers chariot. Barbarians. Artemis was bored by their immature drama-driven quests for self-deprecating excuses as to why they harmed other people. She tucked the women away in a box marked "Karens", despite their brown and sun-kissed skin hues. They were all ugly beyond words, and the reason why Artemis avoided eye-contact most days. She had been conditioned to believe that servitude would follow challenges to the social norms. Ain’t nobody trying to ask the help how their day is going. The logic of life’s lessons chained to a land had forced Artemis to grin in silent approval, standing behind a Mechanical Boar and holding a Blue Crest of Hope. The dream was for everyone, standing shyly in facile victory of the earnings found with patriotic love.

Artemis laughed at the steady stream of news, as a boy became hysterical that his pal Tucky hadn’t covered for his recreational use of sex workers that were underage. Artemis began to murmur "gates", "gaetz" out loud: echoing the pronunciation to remind herself that such small crimes were often catalyst for other wild boars to latch onto. She had once had a dream where "tuck-tuck" had began a campaign in his undersized bow, boasting in the chants of a crowd yelling his name as chuckled and casually set fire to the land. She knew the entry and "almost graceful" exit of the Boar with thinning orange hair meant that other beasts would be comfortable with approaching an oval office with a sloppily painted red, white, and blue door.

Artemis stared off into her near future, the once depreciated social skills of a leader, had became more antiquated and acceptable over time. She explained the nearing goals that included meeting her children with the title Dr...."Dr. mom": in case they needed an anchor for the confusion as to her many, many names. Artemis felt the juicy beats of sampo calling her home, a worry began to seethe and writher in her heart-her world was without. There was nothing left by the hollow flames settling in on the marriage to Orion. His need to disapoint her could be illistrated by only a shadow and a loathing figure standing stubbornly beyond a door.

How had she just followed his love so blindly? The world had called her cruel, and even unbearable...it seemed inevitible that he’d agree to such putrid words--maybe, she’d woken up one day and began to hate him for existing, or maybe she had grown bored and careless enough to start an affair with another man. She couldn’t see herself finding the free time and wily mannerisms needed to pull off such a thankless coup. Artemis longed for a chance to show him how much she had grown as a person, and in practicing her understanding of boundaries, she built up a static wall meant to keep them forever apart. He had left her side for just one day too many. She refused to let go of his hand. To let go of all they’d built--would be enough evidence to believe that she was unworthy of another love.

Artemis held back tears at weird times. She would blurt out emotions in his direction, and ask for a survey on his emotions in return for his face distroting in supressed laughter. Her mind was strange, decieving whenever she fell into a sleep cycle of REM: spilling words from fantastical regions of the mind. Men had to deal with her lectures and spells of terror, as she relived trauma and sprinted towards her future through dreams that were exhausting in every way. The lady named Celina was able to laugh in confused shame, running naked through the streets, and waking up in random places mid-rant. Artemis knew that Athena would find it amusing to know that professional had declared Aretemis’s sleeping conditions to be of the worsening variety. Such onset nuances were beyond frustrating to a woman that lived out of spite of the idea of sisterly competition being rivaled by objectively quirky characteristics that left the other unarmed, prepared to hug a sibling overwhelmed by genetic dispositions and dietary restrictions that left little for others to love.

Celina would walk around her house, destroying it or feeding it within the span of moments: staring into the nothingness of her dreams and waking up laughing at her own confusion. Artemis was glad her dreams only fell trapped behind aimless words, and that her body was still hers to control. Having arguments with a fleeting man that refused to hear her words in yelling "I don’t know why I would say that!". Sexy dreams and plausible deniability were the nightmares of any wife. Artemis would throw up her hands gently and ask the ghosts of wives passed and lost to time..."for why?". Such childish malfunctions of Artemis’s personality were ones Athena had came to appreciate and secretly love.

Artemis returned to banged her pot: warding off cycles of sleep-yelling as her veil trailed along the shorelines of the Salish Sea. She had traveled far to visit her best friend Yoyo and her wee tot with bad vision. The Salish Sea was so vast, so angry at nobody: just like Artemis. The comfort of anguish was theirs to share, the land and her body had seen too much trauma, suffered such negligence that it began to strike back with waves of rebellion that touched the sands gently, eroding away at the world softly. She had a dream where the Viking had offered her council, asking for revisions to a report marked urgent. The board of leaders were at odds in what was considered the bottom line. Capitalism had taken over suborbital travel and interplanetary colonies. A Viking-ish looking scientist, mumbled his findings as to how a device with a hydrogen propellant had created a vortex of heat and molecule destruction: the misfired weapon was aiming itself at all the water that coated the planet. Water was now a commodity worth killing over. Cool. Why was she the only one gifted with proper affect in such trying times? The room was drenched in privileged pale men, chained to industry and commerce...forgetting the law was held up by the will of the people. Artemis rose to the occasion of alarming outbursts in emotions, being held stiffly with one arm, behind a man with greying hair. She clamored to reach the ears of the citizens of the planet outside of the board room de-void of love.

The atmosphere felt thinner by the second: a heavy stride in pacing back and forth would work wonders in such tedious times. They sought out terraforming a planet--instead, they had destroyed its entirety. They sat in silence, bowed heads, like those dawned during the unwarranted public execution of a petty-criminal named George. Death had a way of seizing the need for words when it pertained to the inevitable. Artemis turned and asked the board, how they had expected to evacuate a colonized planet, hundreds-of-years in the making: their avoidance in eye-contact meant there had never been developed such a strategy for a mass exodus. Free falling into anarchy. "What do we do with our criminals-too violent for society?": the board room of shadowy figures were strangely at a loss of words for once. They stared at their endless pages of data flitting away in value by the second...proving the con was over, lives were at stake, precious time had been wasted on their directive. Artemis made herself lock eyes with the disgruntled Viking at last: they often pretended to be unacquainted in such meetings, it reduced the potential to stir up comedy. Their cheesy flirting and voluminous banter somehow made the worst situations comedic, and grew into the ranges of yelling that were considered dreadfully cute to an audience. This had been the time where their argument was broken by her brilliance in strategy. "We need to compose a list of our prisoners like cattle, and then we need to place them in an escape arc. We’ll call the separation of citizens and their incarcerated: project door".

Artemis was always on the verge of being amused by one of her many, many, men. Their ability to distract her occasionally became a nuisance: leaving her blind by judgement and piousness. Hoes for days. She encapsulated personalities on a whim...the men she entertained had witnessed this occurrence and fell victim to their own understanding that they had spent their lives judging a stranger, and Artemis had defended her land with a compact mirror and few good friends. The citizens began to drown the world with their grief in mass-death tolls that fluctuated overnight, the plague was never-ending: their selfish ambitions now match the brightly polished tombs that aligned in rows. They had began to witness the building of a catacomb that would hold them hostage from world travels in the near future, travel mandates and decrees were the new normal when wandering to international territories. Artemis enjoyed the company of her best friend, returned to gorging down red-meats and shrugging without amusement. Her idea of a vacation was the splendor of a non-judgemental friendship, and the extravagant show of a republic....laying waste in ashes. It was comfortable to sit in the silence and be familiar in her surroundings: they often just marveled at the small human Yoyo had created. Sighing, in blessed hopefulness as to whatever potential the small child provided society. He carried the carelessness of hope and love of spooky shit: surrounded by protective and strong women, those prepared to gift their presence in accommodated love.

The reader asked themselves, what happened to the Chief of the land? Artemis shook her head in utter annoyance to the change in topic, and her disdain for the pale aging man that had inherited a mess from a perverse Mechanical Boar. The man was a fool, often tripping upwards and stumbling over his own feet as he walked up a few stairs. Their leader was old, and a troll that held its educated hostage with his formal decrees and empty promises. Artemis had doubted his declaration of forgiveness and preservation tact in mental wellness of the citizens-weary and suffering from extreme isolation practices. The world took a knee together one day, the silence of relief was felt in a sigh that passed from citizen to citizen. It just all seemed like to much. When had they all agreed to hate love?

The citizens held hands, and their neighbors attended an array of events outside of their comfort zone. The civil servant in charge of detaining George, had been found guilty of murdering the citizen he had voluntarily crushed beneath his knee. Artemis had seen the incident, fearing the man sitting in silence, as they explained a man’s breath leave his body: a man was held to flop and flail, much like the seizures she had endured. The world was helpless to watch the man drowning on land. Artemis had the general fear of dying in front of an intimate audience, and expressing words for ones own sentiment. Artemis had wasted her life away narrating her life in a passionate fashion, and eventually she began to seek answers in a machine that held no solutions. No amount of words could bring Orion back into her life. Artemis was nothing more than a citizen: chained to her home during an unprecedented time of death. A young woman that suffered loss after loss, eventually heartbroken down to the bare minimum of people-hood--stripped to nothing, and left with the understanding that there was never to be a single entity willing to accept the anguish of her orphaned life. She began to smile to herself and sway: an estranged wife and mother lost in a trance. Artemis had been defined by a spell cast by an invisible chapter in her life called reality: A chapter she avoided in the fear that the acceptance of her Odyssey ending meant she’d no longer feel inclined to stare at an invisible door.

Artemis swayed in her madness. A man knelt by her side, glaring past her and casually thrusting a shielded "baby-maker" on women that were left unsatisfied. Flustered by his presence, bewildered to his blatant objections to make love to his own wife. Hoes be hoe-in. A strange man in a Viking helmet would belt his intentions towards her, enabling the audience to observe his mood swings on Mondays and Wednesdays in particular. His intentions towards a "female friend", would bother an estranged husband enough to return to his side on a bed: if only to argue about the past. Artemis watched as Orion stood directly in front and beside her door: peering down lovingly upon her: left to witness a shyly extended arm around his neck, as if to embrace for a romantic kiss. His love wasn’t a necessity, but an accessory to her awesomeness. She could care less as to his feelings--his need to be seen by countless women, because that’s what he had always called love.

He would always remain in the folds of the chapters of her life, their love spreading out over lifetimes and dimensions. Artemis had called him a muse--a hoe even: she often found such playful words to strike bashful arguments between them...he was a bandit of kisses. Artemis caught herself grinning foolishly whenever left thinking of his handsome boredom: he was odd and beautiful all at once. She took pride in his need to make a scene over their presence as a pair, and it seemed surreal--like a messy blissful daydream she had made up. Orion softly tucking her hair behind her ear, plastering awe to spectators, and reminiscing dramas of fiery stories. Artemis had met him and simply sighed...knowing that she’d been busy being selfish up until their meeting. He had been the silent stranger waiting patiently to love her, a gentle giant standing guard to her unreachable door.

The reader thought to themselves, "why didn’t they ever work out?", and Artemis shrugged to herself: holding back tears and attempting to carry a brave face. The same reason why the world never appreciated Tim, or the Robin that hung himself. Artemis suffered from chronic illness, and sadness that hid behind a devalued term: depression. Her existence in the world was insignificant, much like the life of a handful of prisoners. Artemis was the prisoner to her thoughts, and the obvious regrets that mounted up deep within her. There was nothing left of their shameless love.

The day was too short for the success she had wished to attain each morning--and the evenings were reserved for uncomfortable sleep. Artemis had caught herself off-guard, needing to write a chapter to say farewell to a character that was easily unlikable. She had wanted to prove to herself that the parts that made her unique, surmounted past the talents she held on wooden courts: armed with only a trigger arm and an orange ball and a dedication to competition. Artemis had gotten lost in box filled with static, turning about face to observe each wall of chaos until she fell into a deep woeful spell. She had found herself alone, handling a ball that held no promises, and wondering if she had wasted her life away playing a childish sport. Artemis felt her mid-life crisis manifest in the form of written word: she had traded-in her orange ball and endless points for a manuscript and a handful of illustrations. Artemis recalled drowning in the cheers of victory and glory, the clock ticked and echoed the chants of lost time. Artemis had been surrounded by a blur of colorful crowds: their faces became monstrous, as her visioned panned across a battlefield. Artemis had needed a book to help organize her thoughts. The attendance to an empty wooden court was a habit: Artemis had been trapped in her own passions for competition, and left crawling frantically and waiting for blaring sound to denounce the time, as she clamoured in the darkness and attempted to find a door.

Artemis had felt herself missing wooden courts in the morning hours, recalling the soft squeaking of her shoes on clean floors. She thought of such fine battles in the AM: grasping a mug of warm sludge and attempting to pretend that she hadn’t been blushing recently. Her orange ball had always brought men to her door, and it seemed to be the indicator as to her larger-than-life personality. Artemis felt herself seeking reasons to handle the orange ball, she gave herself pleasure and adjusted her ponytail high to remind herself with a nod to nobody: agreeing with herself that superstars require proper rest and preparation before battle. Artemis had concluded that her love for Orion was much like her relationship with her orange sphere, it had been purposeful and useful in helping her craft a better understanding of who she needed to be-but, neither he nor a leather sphere defined her. Without Orion in her bed, she was just a strange woman that went about fixing things. Without her orange sphere in her hands, she was just an avid fan yelling at giants to stop flopping in an arena that held up a crest of Roses. Artemis wondered if maybe she could tuck the pair away in book, acting as though her talents hadn’t been wasted on caring for the wrong things. Artemis resulted in publishing a necromancy without her name on its face, and pulling it from the shelves in the hopes of bringing warmth to the darkest of days. She had decided that it was time to retire her jersey, and whatever blinded her from the many flaws of Orion. Artemis was never to be reluctant again: knowing the obvious failure of her and Orion-would help her in the near future, because he had abandoned her love.

It hurt to breathe today, and she felt a swelling of self-pity knowing that the end was near. Artemis hadn’t wanted anything other than to be loved, as a wise man had once said "to love and be loved...is like being kissed by both sides of the sun". One day she woke up and saw a young boy dancing alone and smoking his pots with a chill vibe: Artemis found him to be distracting and delightfully entertaining, men with piercings and native to the Salish Sea left many a lady bashful. He had been charmed by her laughter, and left to conclude his fleeting passion into songs. Their famed promiscuity however, left little to love.

Artemis had been given all the tools needed for romantic success, and instead of using them-she had lent them to Orion. Her chapter was filled with spite and annoyance that she had found a strange young man dancing at her door and softly singing her serenades. The idea of his embrace gave her a reason to smile, and their distance was surpassed by his sporadic need to try harder: he’d wake up earlier to beat her to the task of a greeting--sending her messages at all hours, just to announce that she had been on his mind. Artemis found their friendship to be worth-while and flirtatious, all the things she had been too nervous about on her tour holding Orions hand....such topics came around easy this time. Artemis wondered if she’d ever get over measuring in such strange increments, but it did make her life easier to point out that she had been complicit in joining Orion in his tour of misery. Artemis had wasted her life holding up a man too intoxicated by his own choices to stand, and eventually the massive human crushed her with his words and lack-of-action. She hated that such resentment was labelled as worries, and vice-versa: Orion was a leech, sucking away at the right blood ventricle of her heart. Such were the sharp-words of a wife, weary and worn-down by the suffering of love.

Artemis awoke, her back ached: her heart hurt from the dreams she had attempting to get Orion to wait up for her. He had walked away from all they were, and Artemis knew that the lack of tears meant that she was a step away from becoming indifferent. She stared at her shield, pinning to see his name flash over its surface: her callous immaturity meant she’d always find room for him in her life. How many people would mention her loss of a best friend, before he finally began to believe that Buckles had existed? Why was it so hard for him to admit that Artemis had a decent gauge on the bare minimum in respectful love?

Artemis had injured her back on duty, and the faceless overlords stepped in: holding her face to a new pile of forms that required a signature. They asked if her injury would hinder her from performing the agreed upon duties outlined in her contract. Artemis had lost the ability to rotate her left shoulder, but at the end of the day: her labor was more important than her list of life accomplishments and valor. They gave her three days, and three nights to mend her injury, before they’d be "obligated" to ask her to apply for a leave of absence from her underpaid position. The shadowy figure hissed beside her ear: clenching the backside of her frail neck and tossing it aside as the board members slumped and bowed out of the dark office and silently closed the door.

Artemis looked around her void, it wasn’t a empty chamber with a broken heating system: it was neither her home, or a place of happy memories. It was a home that was advertised as "discounted", for her services in availability to assist on-site, but now: they had clarified that her three days of rest would be final mercy offering to relieve her suffering. The state of her dwelling was underwhelming, but then again...she’d settled on a lot of aspects of her life to accommodate her vases of woe and love of fine fabrics. Artemis had found so many strange clues after uncovering her slew of husbands beneath equally handsome masks. She took great annoyance in the fact that her cheeks became flushed by the idea of her infatuation with an entertainer that held up a mask and carried a delicate fabric in a chest pocket. Artemis had a bias for the famous entertainer, and she often smiled at nothing whenever he burst into laughter. It was consistent and often pressed out from deep within his diaphragm: it sounded exactly how it would be written...an echoing "hahaha" that offset his otherwise strict persona. Artemis had an eclectic hobby of going to extreme efforts to make others laugh, but she often avoided the topic of an unfitting laughter. She had figured Orion would never sort out how flustered Artemis became by the sight of a beautiful boy bouncing and laughing over the surface of her shield. Artemis lived in reality, where she knew that there were quarks and flaws that she’d have to work on with Orion: the lack of her enjoyment in his off-putting laughter was a minor hiccup on the endless traits they held together in the shared bonding of a contractual love.

Artemis sat in heaps of uniforms, sad that life was cornered in a handful of duties that didn’t extend her data-bank of archived technical skills. She sat alone, predisposition rang true with only the privilege to be employed during a time where the world was half-awake. The citizens had refused to return to jobs with wages that didn’t provide comfortable living, and Artemis couldn’t even argue with their logic-as she sat hunched over her full-time job. Joe had stood in front of his citizens and tried to clarify why they could return to the cheap labors that kept them busy and sorrowful. Artemis looked over her invisible folded papers and contemplated purchasing a boat: Joe believed that the citizens had been given one-too-many naps, and that they now wandered without cause, or reason without employment and medical insurance companies chaining them to the land. Many had flipped off old people holding citizens hostage, packing bags and traveling the world instead of being underpaid and overworked. They found self-worth in experiences and the expansion of palettes-paying their taxes, but refusing to be mistreated by a government that had dwindled their lives to a mere set of numbers. Such rebellion was refreshing, and reminded Artemis as to why she were deemed as a difficult person, questioning the man, embracing the depths of freedom and why such citizenship was prized. The citizens had finally seen her zealously patriotic door.

They stirred and began to whisper amongst themselves, and Artemis felt encouraged to stand up clumsily and throw down her opinions on the matter. Artemis calmly gestured in the direction of Joe: "Are we to listen to the aging man that held citizens chained to the systems of shameful bankruptcy in the time of a ruthless pandemic?"-it was noticeable that her anger was replaced with bored gratitude that so many had began to follow her story. "Are we to listen to a man that has now acclaimed the necessity to hold stationed soldiers over territories covered with a slicked black liquid that drench international sands for the second time?". Artemis shook her head to herself- tears often sloshed back and forth as she swayed her pointed chin. She had spent her whole life feeling so hopeless, and lonely: only to be surrounded and standing guard of the citizens that comprised the mightiest Polis in all of history. The strange joy of being right occasionally came in the form of tears, and her book would be no different to the beautiful musical productions she had participated in during her youth. The blind faith she had in the citizens would hold endless potential in mending a heavy heart: she felt them taking a knee proudly next to her slumped stature. They had done this to her body, and stood back whenever there was less of her to love.

Her tears would gather like the tides--each citizen became self-aware of the effects gravity had ravished over her withering spine. There was often less words needed among the intelligent, as they valued the skill of listening: Artemis had wasted her life learning to speak first, as to throw others from the path the fact that she was an introvert. The citizens would say kind things about her scattered and passion-filled words, and Artemis held back her endless tears to defend from the harsh exposure of their careless words. Artemis stared at her foot-mumbling humbled acumen as to how she had only pointed out the obvious, as she directed the citizens through the tedious process of capturing a Mechanical Boar. They had doubted her pride in the democratic system, and simultaneously doubted their own strengths in the process. Such deep wounds had been the blood-less injuries that Artemis took masochistic bliss in-which could possibly seem distributing to the citizens with a relentless love.

Artemis looked around her overpriced dwelling, wondering how she had landed in such a dull part of her life. She thought of the stages and flowers raining at her feet: Artemis had known so much more to the world than the trash and paint-filled duties that now held priority over her well-being. She had began to whisper to a friend Bree: that she didn’t like being bad at things, and a job was a big thing to risk a living situation on. Artemis was surrounded by reasonable and helpful people that pointed out the importance of taking small steps, and crafting larger saftey-nets than what are often necessary for high-risk jobs. Artemis had grown happy with her ability to stand up for herself, and in doing so: she had crossed a bridge far from her polluted river and stood abandoned and injured. She could easily abandon the mistreatment of others, without leaving behind an occupation she’d come to love.

The soft and mellow music she had ran away from-had followed her over the bridge, but its intensity was stretched thin by the vast distance. Artemis had walked away from Orion, and voluntarily faced herself in the mirror: confessing away the denial that held her chained to a bottle of poison. She stood alone and felt the wind forcing her to take a few steps backwards, the winds reminded her that an aging spine was collapsing with each breath she took. "You got this", Athena had finally stood up in the bleachers of the arena where she stood isolated. Artemis felt the world swirling around-her mind racing through the blur of the crowd to see her sisters face. Artemis closed her eyes, recalling her eldest sister pushing her slowly on shoes with anchored wheels. Artemis was proud of all she had become, the sober realization that her efforts would be seen one day or another by Athena. An elder sister had sacrificed so much to protect her from the ugliness of the world, and gone to extreme lengths to avoid using the word love.

Artemis turned a gold thread over in her clenched fist, kneading it together and soothing her thoughts. Artemis felt her heavy hands raise to her face, and finally she felt a thread slip away from her clasped hand. She had come to the end of the line: her veil of sadness and smoke no longer held much of an appeal to Artemis. The thread flitted away in the soft wind and fell softly at her exposed feet, she felt herself jerk awake: glaring around at her surroundings as if to say "how the fuck did I get here?", and observing a strand of thread at her feet and a trident she held as a scepter. Artemis awoke from a daze and found a soft wind falling downward over her nest of hair: her arm was swept over the broad shoulder of Orion and her face was turned up in an alarmingly close proximity to his handsome face. She held in a fit of giggles thinking of how strange his absence had felt during the time he had been emotionally inclined to be awful and set with the intentions to fuck her day up by way of rudeness or neglect. Artemis wondered how long it’d be until he’d gain the courage to come home, watching his static-filled eyes searching for her as he stood directly over her and obstructed the entrance of her door.

Artemis shrugged, her life seemed predictable: the world had responded to her hostility in the way she had assumed they would. It wasn’t outrage without causation, but repressed anguish in falling victim to an array of broken systems. Artemis looked around the void she had held captive by way of a net: the monsters that lay beneath her net were too ugly for freedom, and she was of the same caliber of selfishness to a few of them. Artemis had lay fist over family and a few strangers, and even worse, she had abused an animal as a young adult. The comparison of such beasts in her chapters offended her, as she’d never want to be set in the same category of evil as the husband that slaughtered his family and left his toddlers submerged in poisonous crude substances. Artemis would never want her shifting and enthusiastic eye-movements to be set next to the creepy and guilt-filled glares of the boy named Burke. Artemis had found him by his thrilled twinkle, as her elder sibling Dianne held the same glimmer in her eyes-whenever she observed things naughty or violent. Such predatory characteristics often frightened her, and the constant accessibility of being the victim to Dianne left Artemis putting a cap on the parts of her life that involved familial love.

Artemis had asked the world for better, and it had given her a silence-filled agreement. Her life seemed calm and predictable by way routine, and that alone made it easier for management. Routine of turning around, only to yell happy birthday to an aging Viking was a favorite past time. She began to plot a new route in life that would include either less strenuous labor, or better compensation: her world began to fall-in-line with displaying how hard she had worked in the past. Artemis had gone from being a drunken woman-cornered into declaring herself to be a pathetic waste of space, to a woman ready re-evaluate, barter, and demand better from a future filled with promise. She thought of her sister Athena’s words: "you got this", and wondered what had been done to earn such appraisal after all these years. It’d take something monumental to break their bond-to diminish their sisterly love.

Artemis often fell into success, as though she was always somehow at the right place in the right time: or occasionally found for being charmingly shameless in all company. She’d say "I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m doing it!", and her confident tone was often pitched to annoy her eldest sister specifically. Athena would huff and puff to herself: knowing people took her youthful sisters confidence in their own convenience, and that she’d have to cheer her on once they had ditched them both. The two were very self-aware that there was only so much afforded efforts allocated to praise them for existing, but even so: no amount of fame could convenience the two empathetic sisters that they could achieve such critical acclaim or be awarded for the things left unchanged by expressions in openly-expressed love.

Artemis had always been thrown in front of the masses, as mascot or advocate to victims. The citizens bent their necks to peer into her puzzled eyes, unaware as to why her eyes were painted with a shade of death-pupils dilated to strike fear in the minds of others. Artemis had grown into a woman that observed her surroundings and handled her situations one at a time, as they were handed to her. Artemis stood upon a stage within an empty auditorium: too frail to sing her ballads, and too exhausted from all the "being right" she had forced upon the world. She pointed down at a small man in a orange suit and began a rant to an invisible jury, as she felt the world sigh, tired of talking about the monster that had slaughtered his family in a sober rage. Artemis turned to him at last and began to walk slowly directly centered in a seating "situation", and began to smile in a way that suggested that she were wicked. It gave her momentary relief to know the man was forever caged--unable to flee from his many crimes in slaughtering children, unwilling to break free from a prison door.

She laughed as the man turned his head from side-to-side needing validation from his peers, avoiding accountability and blathering on with an unmatched intensity. His face fell as he saw he was alone-wrists shackled to a folding auditorium chair. Artemis took joy in saying nothing before her rants, and so she basked in his confusion, as he squirmed and secretly searched for his wretched mum to appear from out of thin air. Artemis began to tisk to herself- having prepared an entire blueprint plan that could assist in gaining her an invitation to the round table near the worm-of-a-man. Artemis had broken down his crime into tiled pieces, so that she’d be able to separate him from his mother and produce more time for questioning. His mum was famous for being as daft and dense as a Cinder log, and he was famous for being the younger version of his father. Together-the two were able to re-craft the image and story of Oedipus and his pathetic quest for love.

Artemis had left the mother with the blind task of handling a family legacy through "damage control" over the stewed poems filled with steamy incest. Artemis shrugged, "your mom acts like the queen, so I wouldn’t put such egregious tendencies, or preferences past her." Artemis knew that it’d only be his realization that he’d never get to see his father as free man-before his death that could obliterate his meticulously cultured ego. Artemis didn’t really have a say-in whether the citizens listened to his every word day-in-and-day-out, and she really didn’t have an affect on how they judged the relationship he held with and for his mother. The man was associated with sexual depravity by his own actions, therefore his grave was marked by every word spoken, and each gesture that extruded a better understand of their families version of "love."

"So why didn’t your father ink the names of your children-along with his other grandchildren, and why didn’t you "make him"...if you guys are that close?" The short man stared at his table, struggling to uphold the hunched shoulders that were once toned and youthful. "The fake chest of your mistress is really holding you two afloat in this "story" Chris, and I’d hate to think of how much worse this will get once some of this evidence is ran over with a ivory comb. Artemis gave him a break on the topic, and she felt him sigh in relief with a soft tuft of wind centering his attention. He began to sit up straighter, and allowed his gaze to wander from anywhere from the table- to pacing the walls and missing the mere sight of a unlocked door.

"Funny story, Chrissey Poo...you might be getting a new neighbor my fellow citizen!" Artemis leaned in, and began to whisper over their invisible tea party. "This monster was caught within hours after he stalked and attempted to kidnap an eleven year old girl. It turns out there were eyes in the area where she waited for transportation to school, and they caught the fucking sick-piece-of-shit red-handed, because the brave kid fought back." The father looked almost hopeful that the story ended well, and so Artemis brought him back to reality. "So, I guess this kid had the wits to rub some weird slimy material all over the assailant, and it was a piece of evidence when they caught up to him, it turns out that he forgot to change his outfit. A story with lessons in fashion, and a caught predator were the the types of publicly known lore that Artemis had grown to love.

The man was caught with his chariot dripping with a false paint, and covered in his own crime. The child-murderer finally mumbled some bullshit retort about his relief in knowing the child was ok. Artemis began to smile wickedly, "so the evidence showed this heavy set pale man sprinting at a random child with a weapon, using his giant trollish hands to attempt and cover her mouth." Artemis felt his mood change, as his almost-relaxed demeanor turned stiff and baffled. He seemed off-put by how Artemis’s left eye appeared notably smaller whenever smiling with sincerity. The woman smiled to herself: having finally found a way to help people heal with her ability to manage and carry dignity in the fact that she was a community siren. Artemis was not "neurotypical", and it gave her strength to break into the core of people, but instead of arming her skills into tapping into those skills: she chose to defend and protect truth and love.

"So the story made me think of you, and how your two small children must have been so frightened to see you wielding a fluffy weapon and suffocating them to death." Artemis hated that her story involved such brutal facts, but she had needed to observe his reaction to the breakdown of crimes he had committed and openly plead guilty to. The beady-eyed man said nothing, and his famous silence on the matter-often made people doubt his attendance to the murder of his two children, so Artemis pushed further. "So this amazing young student went into the public the following day: baring her face and the explaining the defensive trick she had used to catch the sick fuck that had attempted to harm her. She went on to talk about how the brave girl was a lifelong fan of Detective Benson, and knew the processes of data collection for such "heinous crimes." Artemis wanted to throw him off the scent of her anger, but she often lost sight of her professionalism when if came to violence towards children. The murderous husband said nothing, and so Artemis reminded him of her lack-of-bias. "I’m going to assume that if an eleven year old knew to claw and scratch at skin to try and scoop DNA, than your grown-ass adult of a mistress would know that black liquids of poisonous composition and its crude effects-could possibly destroy all genetic materials captured under the nails of a couple of hypothetical victims, right?" The man said nothing, and Artemis felt less-than-nothing for his stupid apathetic blankness in facial expressions. She had observed enough of his twisted family to asses that he had a warped sense of love.

"Well it looks like Dwayne really convinced you to take one for the team there Chrissey Poo...it’s as though you were roped into helping him raise his daughter, and instead you slaughtered your own two daughters to prove how special this random dudes daughter was?" The man shook his head slightly, recalling when he had heard of the aftermath of those tampering with the de-gloved bodies of his slain toddlers. "I’m not here to judge you or your mistress, but according to herrrrr: she’s an "amazing woman", and you are "disgusting". Artemis made sure to allocate the words in an immature tone, as to mimic the same ways a mistress had- when she had diagnosed his sliding dairy, and assembled reasoning as to his need to murder an entire family without suggestion or prompts. Artemis looked forward to the weasel-like man turning over on his accomplices. The world had little pity for a man that abandoned his family and pregnant wife in order to peruse cheap and fleeting love.

Artemis returned to her natural form of bored story-telling, and grew chipper by the memory of how little the prisoner was allowed to know or learn. Much like a Golden boy name Scott: the prisoners believed the world had stood still the second they had been sealed away under a lock-and-key. Both men held a pompous arrogance whilst demanding the time of judges and juries alike. Artemis had noted that the two men were nothing without their youthful charm and ability to stand in the background. Artemis had known plenty of sociopaths and psychopaths that held the trait of shadowing their prey until their darkness consumed the corners of their mind. Artemis had left her pages of endless stories, avoided her net of woe and hope: always returning to observe the beauty of the golden flowers and symphony of music that bubbled over the brim of her Golden Fleece. Artemis felt her mind fill with a fuzzy static as her knees buckled beneath her: she had felt every piece of gravel bellow her knee shivering up her spine with a violent anguish. Artemis wondered if her death had been swift-or if it was as slow and methodical, as the math problems Dianne loved to stare at: greedily excited to boast over a feat she had yet to accomplish. Both were obstcales that needed solving, and both were easily eradicated by the movement of her stout hand. Artemis speculated how long it’d take for a new jury to be pulled, of the scene they’d potentially walk up on, if they ever gained the courage to break down the right door.

Artemis and that time she was GOTL8:

Artemis blushed to herself: she had a childish crush on a celebrity named Jinyoung-the pure silliness of interest in talent was girlish and dipped in physical attraction. Artemis used her infatuation to swap out the seven men she loved individually, and she switched out a male-counterpart she used to hold a place amongst the men that schemed and giggled as they danced. Artemis traded out her Indigenous Warrior Sun-Sun for a boy known for his sunshine-filled attitude, and she felt herself nervously avoid looking at one of talented entertainment group. Artemis would be anxious around a man known for his beauty, and his need to strive for perfection. Orion had drawn out the same chemical response from her body, and so she took titillating joy that she hadn’t already depleted the daydeream of Orion dawning such strict fitting threads. Artemis found the similarities between the seven men that announced their exit one-by-one, and the strange flirtatious brotherly love of the Indigenous Warriors to be uncanny. She took great pride in the bond her fellow Indigenous Warriors held for one another, and she found it funny that the world would find such enduring traits to those of the rowdy and grounds-shattering men to be something that was to be praised and rewarded with love.

She had found aspiration to try new things by watching the entertainers grow and flourish as people. Artemis felt a strange sense of responsibility for the boy famed for his charming ability to make people swoon as he tossed flouncing hair and walked in the Park. His changing hairstyles and subtle pronunciation of his expectations in a partner had made him appear larger than life. Artemis had been introduced to his performing arts upon the year of his retirement, so the archive of his hair choices through the past decade left Artemis laughing out loud until her rib cages threatened to crack. It was without explanation, only memorable to those present to witness her keeling over to take on a deep laughter-boisterous and filled with love.

Artemis had strange dreams of the seven men causing chaos around her, and she was left sighing and smiling at the boy occasionally called Junior: he was often scattered about like a motherly hen and ushering his counterparts to their positions for each of the dances they mastered. Artemis wondered if the curse she caused among her army of Indigenous Warriors would surface-if she was ever stuck with the seven men for long periods of time. The strangely thoughtful boy would bring Artemis out of her shell once more: needing a stage to remind her how to feel alive. She worried that her "funny" routine would mirror that of young dancer that struck down the doors of boorishness with a mysterious "bam-bam", and eventually the quiet translator would grow in his envy exhaustion from her sparkle. Her dreams held conferences on such emotionally draining concepts and forewarning, except they often wore clothes of the future, and flew in chariots that raced from the skies into the abyss. Artemis had decided to lay out a plan where she could uncover the lost and underrated art of the seven men that each held up part of her soul: needing a new topic to counteract her in-depth coverage of brown and black souls and their demon wings. Artemis saw the admiration of their aghase, and realized it brought them joy to watch her find the men for the first time in front of their very eyes. Artemis had stumbled upon a group of people that took delight in her ability to cheer on others: instead of demanding their time, she simply cast her name in red paint and placed an empty arrow upon her door.

She thought about the honor she felt in watching the thespian that had grew into utter infamy by yelling of his wishes to quit the bank. The world had demanded a reunion of him and his funny-ish Friends, and as a reward for his reprisal as an actor: faceless cowards began to throw rocks at the sober man as he sat upon a tuffed bench. Artemis raced to his defense, reminding the faceless machine that there wasn’t a need to make up an obscure story: the man hadn’t "made the reunion uncomfortable" in the slightest, and the necessity they felt to conjure curses from the depths of Hades...was blatant and tacky. Their Greed had once killed a Princess, and yet they continued to prove to be utterly reprehensible by their actions alone. Their reckless love of clicking sounds would mean jeopardizing a man that had survived the darkest of dark-and ultimately remind Artemis that the world would never root for her sobriety. This one lesson would help her from ever forcing herself into the spotlight: she never wanted to be cast for her wit alone, and her need to portray dimensions of herself that were often overlooked could only be found by those needing her laughter to desperately bring a character alive. Her fears of success without limitations often kept her ambitions at bay, instead of dwelling on such fabulousness. It was a well-known secret that Artemis had a knack for always ending up on the right stage, at the right time. It was her own dedication that landed her standing outside of respected doors with her name etched alongside them on the occasion: Artemis often wondered which of these star name plates would forever change her life. The mundane of the inevitable allowed her to take consideration on each role with a fine ivory comb: the mild excuse of building a brand worthy of a boy named Park, had been the newest reason as to why she began avoiding the parts of her life which involved that of a glittering ruby door.

Artemis had set out to advocate for herself, and the world pushed back upon the fact she had a hunch in her spine. She was arguing with shadows in a board room: demanding five seconds to rest her aching body-the famed words of Norma Jean. They gave her three days to recover from her injury, and the lack of empathy reminded Artemis that she was supposed to protect herself and leave--whenever people attempted to force labor without room for objection. She asked for the aid from the Kind-Hearted Hunters, and they offered anything that’d keep her from a future with a shadow of a chair with wheels that squeaked behind her. Artemis wept, laughing at herself for having forgotten the world was being torn into bits and shreds: she told the Kind-Hearted Hunters how a supervisor had made an ill-recieved joke about Artemis being "dirty". She updated those she respected the obligatory reminder that her skin was filled with melanins. Artemis had little else to say on the lack of comfort she felt in the dwelling she paid for, but didn’t pick out-and so she asked for assistance in finding an out. The ruthless world spun with growing restrictions and lack-of-opportunities for people like her, whom tended to be targeted and inclined designation to remain the butt end of jokes. Artemis was a Community Siren, and the triggers of inequity often made her appear quite unhinged from the standard deviation allowed to fall outside of the scale of the hypothetical corporate door.

Artemis had once wasted her energy, stomping her feet and roaring to a crowd of blurred masses. "Fuck Joe." They had enjoyed the thrill of the moment, but they harpooned their own efforts in giving her passion forethought after the episode of grandeur. Joe had pulled a net of safety out beneath the citizens feet, and many felt his cringe-worthy excuses to by backed with unapologetic disservice. Joe had rounded up hopeful scholars and promised them a conversation pertaining to ways in forgiving hopeful people from their crippling debt. His ability to smile without remorse reminded Artemis of why her ancestors had warned her of broken promises and patriotic love.

Artemis had little patience for the lazy, the liars and the deceitful in powerful positions. Joe at a podium was my like that of Dianne-surrounded by those in mourning. Artemis had relied on her known assumptions to build a fool-proof trap to save her own legacy and secure the safety of those she cared about. Artemis would spend her life playing a game with a psychopath called "touch-and-go" and trap her with the pretenses of participating in a competition with only on rule. The soul rule being: write a book. Artemis had wasted her life showcasing her intentions upon her ruffled sleeves, crafting a tapestry that was indestructible and delicate simultaneously. Dianne would rant about haircuts and her intentions to make the world a better place with her vague plans. Athena had already written a large portion of her story, but Artemis knew it’d take time, a serious amount of healing and financial security...before Athena really invested into that part of one of her many, many lucrative hobbies that were often intentionally hid away. Artemis had left Athena with only a story filled with clues and apologies, and in the end: Athena had finally taken them and built herself a future overflowing with love.

She had wondered until her legs hurt: until her body began to fight back in disobedience to her active lifestyle. Artemis had confused years for days, standing and working herself to the bone to gain sobriety. She dressed in fine white linens, needing to announce that the day was as clear and calm as the day of her birth. She bought herself white roses, and began to devour all the things she had longed for as a child. The night began to stretch to her will, and Artemis felt as though the reels of her lies had ran dry halfway through the story. She had gone from needing an epic tale of romance and violence-- to being thrilled by the idea of soberly introducing herself to the world. Artemis wondered if she could create a world, a life of sorts where her inability to process poison and sugar would be hailed as brave: she felt so alone knowing it was only her responsibility to care. Her selfish mind often said "why should I care, nobody else does?", she missed the lack of worry she felt for a few fleeting moments during the nights of sloshed madness. Orion couldn’t care less, and it had bothered her that his issues would always usurp all the issues allotted for one room. She knew that it’d always come down to her fighting urges to forget, and realizing that loving Orion meant she might always have to stand with one foot out the door.

She had gone from needing an epic battle and rubble to clear away after a slaughter, and instead: it was only Artemis surrounded by the most vile and common criminals known to history. There was no resolve for the reader: only the option to opt-out of a story crafted to entertain a sulking girl. There was only anti-climactic strategy being drafted and revised in publishing rooms, and the promise that Artemis had crafted characters that were both relatable, and questionably unrelatable in their displayed integrity towards doing the right thing. Artemis was proud to be one of these questionable citizens, as her flaws had scared into the curves of her spine in retribution for her many missteps and sins. Instead of falling over in a heap of shame and utter disbelief to her drunken past: Artemis decided to dawn a veil of truth and contemplation, de-villianizing the concept by crafting her journey until it bore the plentiful gift of sobriety. All Artemis could do was carefully polish a story, and to fancily address grammatical usage of colorful descriptors: the rest was up for the world to decide. She had given her manuscript everything she had left to give them, and all Artemis asked in return from her spectators-was their time and the chance for her describe the enduring traits she grappled alone. She occasionally managed to get on her own last nerve, and the woes of understanding her veil of sadness fortified the notion that Artemis may be better off being forever alone. It was her worst fear that she’d let a man in, and by the time he had decidedly realized she was injured beyond repair: she’d be left alone with child, and a pathetic gaze that managed to fixate on that of any door.

The twists of righteousness was a trait Artemis took on as a badge of honor. She had wasted her day clamoring to prepare swimming holes for the citizens to share: only to be accosted by those she had contractually agreed to serve. She was surrounded by strong women that took no pleasure in having to apologize to Artemis on his rude behalf, and it was a bountiful day filled with work and the reassurance that her decrease in pay gave her the right to say less. She shrugged to the man growing upset as he boomed his voice across a pool of chemically treated water. Artemis wasn’t wearing her Blue Shield of Hope on this day, and so she felt her boredom slip into reality as she apologized half-heartedly. The man began shaming her for having forced him to dress his young son in life saving gear to swim in, and Artemis had no choice but to apologize to the small gentlemen that sat quietly to the side. The child seemed familiar with his father throwing public tantrums-even at a young age, and so the words "sorry about that, little man" fell from her lips and into the unknown territory of the universe that contained the uncommonly spotted Male Karen. He barked at Artemis that his son was not a little man, and Artemis seemed confused as to whether she had been rude for gender assumptions to the pronouns of his small human. Her eyes set wide in times of adrenaline-filled moments, and the doe-eyed looks; tended to cause more damage than good. Artemis directed the man repeating himself to her team leaders, wondering why he had decided to walk away as he repeated his sons lack-of-man status to nobody: his young son trailed at his heal quietly and a random witness sprang to action behind her. Artemis had seen the man laying false-tiles and bricks outside, and it gave security to know that the man had witnessed her curb the brown anger that had began bubbling to the surface with each word the Male Karen had spit her direction. Artemis liked that her temporary status without that of contract to a government branch and its expectations for appeasing the citizens-meant that she had little unrest with laughing and exclaiming on the matter for the day, and feeling grateful that the situation had no impact of her plans to walk through an ambitious door.

Artemis wondered if his ancestors were the recent ones that threw fits over sharing water fountains with those "cursed with colour". Artemis found his portrayal of a little-bitch-boy named Ruden to be pretty accurate, but nobody could throw tantrums or potatoes like the insecure fool left despising his own genetics. Artemis was a rude child, as though she was the one that needed to point out when people were missing their hair. She hadn’t the words to describe the admirable facts that certain genes had just given up one day and balding was the product of it. The ancestors had done them dirty by drinking poison in the gallon-before the disease had came for its name. Artemis hated that the remainder of her life would be dedicated to pretending the poison didn’t cause incomprehensible damage to her life. She had figured out the error in her genetic coding, and having found out that its common and completely avoidable range of contact was very manageable. Artemis had only found out that her life was to be defined by this one word, but instead of running away from her problems via public drowning in the pubs like the loser mother she’d never met: she decided to weep on behalf of the things that come with accepting such facts. She found herself proud for managing her temper: where things such as an angry man taking out his mid-life-crisis on Artemis and her co-workers would have been erased and forgotten beneath a few stiff drinks; were now things she addressed in the moment and accordingly somehow. The accredited work she had put forth in studying people: now, armed her with the social tools and skills to properly offset or empathize with irrational. Artemis knew it was not her responsibility to coddle or assist such disproportional and exhausted instances given by the "rando" upset man near the water: instead she slowly continued cleaning her swimming hole. The idea of being paid with the miserable money of such an unpleasant man felt almost fair...so it became her prime objective, as she stared at the glistening waves she had hand-crafted with a rod and net. Artemis listened carefully to the words of scholars and intellects back-to-back, and began to take appreciation for the fact that she had already done half the work needed to better prepare her for a future career that would highlight her skills in healing and love.

Artemis knew her journey was coming to a close, an end of sorts-and so she tied a knot in tales of woe and wonderment: needing to find solace in the somber reality that chained her body to the land. She had only come to lasso a handful of monsters, and eventually they each came from out from beneath the rocks and crawled over the woods she set ablaze. Artemis had needed to tie Dianne to all those displaying like-traits and to ready a reflective take of partial diagnosis that were beyond a fame many would know, and few would envy. Artemis tied Dianne to a woman named Lori, as the black-widow seemed to be reliant on the excuse that she could always claim to be mentally incompetent. One would beg for the ruling, and Dianne would rather admit to the criminal acts and forget that the Jury wasn’t set in stone if there were comprised citizens sitting on the panel. Artemis invited the Jury of the failed verdict that would probably attempt to sentence Athena to a penalty of death, and offered them a front seat to observe the many, many, many, pages of undiscovered "discovery". Artemis tied the outside of the rope around the waist of dianne and handed the end to a famous mistress that refused to say the names of other women without a snarl on her lips. Artemis knew Lori would detest being on the same bench lineup of such women, and eventually she’d realize the life of medication and zombie-like existence she had fraudulently demanded. Artemis led the three women to a sphinx and poked them along their spines like sheep. She passed the reincarnated witches back to the Sphinx and said little as possible to end the suffering she had endured in order to pass an obscure test. "I believe that I can explain the meaning to life, as it is my belief that it only exists as an artful interruption in which we can freely and bravely express our emotions to that of companionship and love."

Artemis returned the last reclaimed prisoners from another life, but in doing so: an old friend appeared at her foot. The young beast was now aged and wore-down in his eyes, his eyebrows were overgrown and his underbelly was lined with long fur that trailed along the sand. Artemis looked at the sand, wondering why it seemed to appear artificial of sorts: shaking in doubt sporadically. Artemis knelt to the side of her long-lost-friend, and asked him for forgiveness for all she had done to him. She had no words, only the guilt and embarrassment she felt in knowing her anger was beyond something that one person could manage. She hadn’t the right to tell the animal that she had sought help, because their paths never crossed again. Just like the sand of gold and two dimensions, Artemis had been tricked into chasing a Mechanical Boar. To this innocent beast, her love was like the fleeting hope the citizens felt whenever praising a mecanical person, an empty shell of a character- pretending to be a human. Her mind had wandered too far from the paths paved in her scripts, and her misdeeds had created chaos in the world around them. Artemis had fallen ill to the sickness of a past she often fled from: having sought and invested her efforts solely into bettering herself with sobriety and self-love.

She stood-by and grew comfortable with learning new tricks to manage the snakes that emerged from behind her ears, the slithering thoughts that envloped her head. A Mechanical Boar was now stammering aboot with a curly tail tucked beneath his ass-crack. He had demanded that his adult children each gain their own legal representation, and Artemis began to smirk: remembering how she had giddily "predicted" that the idiot would realize that his tent of jest and foolery-was too small for the massive amount of issues that protruded from its entrance flaps. She began to cross her arms, pacing her mind, as though it were an elongated trial that had been an investment of her time. The Boar hadn’t noticed his backwards order of protection protocol, and instead of hiring a slew of representation first: the Boar had set fire to the land by demanding his children only consult with with the man leaking brown goo from his sideburns. The man had doomed his own family by surrounding himself with those claiming undying loyalty, and forgot his resposibilities to protect those he claimed to love.

He had created a massive crack along the spine of his defense, and Artemis had only hoped that eventually he’d be gathered for his inability to portray a decent representation of a fellow criminal named Rico. Artemis could care-less what happened to the aging beast that squealed and hawed aimlessly: his political legacy began and ended at the hand of his cursed golden touch. The notion of bringing his daughters back to reality gave her anticipation that one in particular would choke on her own words of advice, as she repayed the service by reminded the famously tone-deaf woman that it may be time to "try something new". Artemis simply took note from that of the beast, and watched as his temple burned to the ground before their eyes. She took little pity on him as he scrounged the floor searching for his last few pounds; the man no longer cared to pretend that his eyes glimmered at the sight of his own offspring. This is what had orginally made Artemis agree to the hunt: she openly-hated the glimmer of perverse thoughts towards children or family, and she had used this famous "patriots" gaze to display how errie and predatory behaviors were excused under the false-pretenses of love.

Artemis was unsure of where to end her youthful rant. She had given the world everything, and decided one day: that trying too hard hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She began to explore the idea of emotional freedom, and her life began to fall in place before her eyes. She had awoken on a day with good company near, and ended strong: knowing her body was weakened by a past of seizures. Artemis embraced sobering excitement in moving forward: preparing to tuck away a veil of boredom and lethargic tenancies. A man with less fortunate public standings had gone out of his way to suggest to Artemis that she might want to try and "less of a Jezebel". It caused Artemis to sigh outloud: wondering if the sign upon her forehead...said that of a family trade- called whoredom. The sensation of confusion and lack of surprise left her bemused enough to emotionally leave the pages of her life, and to eat a smear-filled breakfast elsewhere. Much like this experience Artemis was left without the words to fill the seal of a void without rims. It was the undisclosed endings of her romance with Orion, and the strange mysteries unsolved, and unresolved behind an outmoded door.

Much like the run-in with a character with no name: Artemis felt herself sigh in relief that the stranger suggested that she try be less shameless and unrestrained than she had originally intended to be. Her clothes bore no gender, so his preference on words of provocative servitude made her smile with estranged guile. She felt the experience was perfect in reflecting the growth in which Artemis had grown from hating all things aligned with the taboo profession. Artemis was the daughter to her scorned mother-failing to hold her head high, inhaling the fatigue of her new paths forming and bracing for the the tsunami of change that was billowing and perculating below the surface of her near future. She felt herself being backed into the choices of jamming herself into a narrow doorframe with her fellow underpaid and overworked coworkers and jumping off a cliff. Fortunatly...Artemis had been abandonded at birth by and under-equipped pair of irresposible alcholoics: their choices would lead her into the arms of the Kind-Hearted Hunters and the Indigenous Warriors. She shrugged one last time: saying farewell to the unlikable parts of her own chracters and Odyssey: a pit of worry grew that part of her characters would be missed, or get away from what she had written them as. Artemis felt hopeful at last: the distancing of a hallway filled with endless red doors had given her a modicum of peace to find decent sleep. Artemis had decided to extract herself from the pages of her cursed manuscript at last, wishing only to find the answers as to which parts of her little orphan life that her friends and family had chosen to tolorate, and, or....love.

Artemis and the cursed Veil of Rasmussen

The details of her offensive book were overlooked for the sake of time, and the dire lack-of-it in a sense: Artemis felt relief that the strange ringing in her ears was cured at last, and it came to her knowledge that the annoyance had been due to the transgressions-her mind breaking itself open to remember a hymn. Her brain was struggling to understand the postion in which she’d be worthy of unconditional love.

Artemis had a strange dream in which she stood in attendance of six men, and watched lazily as they ensued their insane talents in performance with an indescribable chaos. The stranger stood as a substitute motherly hen to a missing boy named Park, smoking a medical herb that was wrapped in grape leaves called Green. A leader that had accidentally stood hunched in jaw-locked rivalries to her physical restraints approached her, and he became concerned as to the Pan-like gentleman that was noticeably absent from their mania-filled activities. She stood guard over their safety, smoking her worries away, and avoided the slight detail of the absence in question. She felt annoyed with herself: recalling a false memory of observing a newly unlocked anger-somehow remembering an instance being her fault in a very irrefutable way. The man had no longer liked who he had been in a moment, and Artemis had asked him to walk away, or something along those lines. She had probably fallen victim to habit and Orion’s charm, and destroyed the world in the process. The dream rested on her peering at a white cloth she hadn’t noticed she’d been wearing, and running footwear that implied she had dramatic plans to Getaway. She recalled a dream within a dream...where she had fake woken-up, and dressed herself with mixed intentions on getting married.

Artemis had crafted a poem in which she avoided specified details of a time, before all of known time...when she had been arranged to marry a cute boyfriend-like man named Jinyoung. The motion of their marriage involved galaxies and dimensions that were still undiscovered by man, and it wouldn’t be until a leader named Jaebum returned in his boredom: when finally the reincarnated man could retrieve, and craft sacred discs with lost information. The plates were like the belly of the salmon: shimmering with the pale colors of a rainbow. Each of the Artifacts duplicated itself by demand, and each held a key to Artemis’s lost memories: an Odyssey that began and ended with a solemn hymn.

Artemis felt the weight of the world as it stood at attention and blatantly disregarded her need for privacy. She avoived the pathetic and desperate eyes of passerbys laughing in her direction, and for once: she began to miss the empty laughter of a boyish man with high expectations. She had forgotten the wishes of meeting a rival in royal persona, and one day she caught herself blushing at the sight of a strange soft-voiced Prince that somehow muted the static sound that filled her ears. Artemis wondered if such a fanciful pair would mean she could be spared from the love of Orion, and she felt herself shudder at the thought of the two men arguing on her behalf. Artemis buried her childish school-girl crush beneath a layer of fictional characters, and she wondered how many times they had danced the dance of scorned love.

Artemis had laughed at the idea of allowing herself to leave the room that trapped her disastrous love for Orion, and his cruel and inconsistent heart. She told him at last, of an awful story of a psychotic public servant that had gotten away with homicide. The criminal had broken into a home to steal a paper that proved that the lover they hunted-had been serious in mentioning their plans in marrying another. The public servant had used their day free-from-duty, to break and enter through a window. Terrorizing citizens had been a rare hobby, and the newly wedded wife was left at the mercy of a dedicated murderer. Artemis painted a picture of a dark figure in mens linens, slobber frothed over the front side of a wide chest. The public servant attempted to back the tall wife into a descending basement area of the home, but the woman had turned to face her attacker instead of running away. The wife realized the randomized burglary was prepared to be staged, and she turned to face her opponent at last: cursing her pathetic husband in her last breaths, and defending him with her last words. Artemis thought of the rage she felt in times of such vile intimidation, and so she honored a nurse named Sherri with a short scene. Artemis had the plans to ease the mind of a woeful father, and to encourage the promiscuous husband named John to finally tell the truth. Why had he led the authorities astray? The world was unanimous in wondering why he had decided to force Sherri under his spell with his sociopathic tendencies: the weak man would do anything for his dick to be dipped in some crazy, and a small flower to tuck into the breast of his pocket-that expressed his honor in having the right to take the hand of a woman that rivaled the stars. The man would later weep in front of a judge, and explain that the only reason for the brutal slaying of his wife had been because Sherri had met him. Artemis nodded in agreement, knowing he had no true understanding of respectful love.

Artemis felt a crazed killer walking in a prison cast deep within their mind, as though the reader had expected the story to be included somehow. Artemis wondered if the bored criminal would assume their tale was too cold, too abandoned to touch upon, but alas….Artemis had found it and related to the story the most. It gave her joy to think of the monster obsessed with staring at art work: silently worried as to the fact that it had been overlooked, forgotten, and, or saved for last. Much like Sherri, Artemis had been hunted down by a human with mental disorders and a keen love of revenge and violent delights. Artemis returned to the brick-layed basement where a four-month newly-wed now stared down her intruding assailant. The psychotic human lunged at the tall nurse, but this time the tactful wife was calm- suddenly aware of her surroundings. She held the intruder in a headlock, and moved the torso to be held directly beneath her in a vice-like-grip. Artemis was impressed: watching the lady remembering her nursing skills, as she slowly cut off the airway of a beast that wiggled beneath her grasp. The fake-robberer felt their plan go to shit: reaching behind the owner of the condominium, and pulling down a heavy vase upon their head, as they simultaneously bit their way free and backed away from the tussle. Needing to finish the task at hand, and vacate a livingroom door.

The violent criminal saw the woman lay in harm upon the floor. A child-like wonder set in as they began to chuckle to themselves and admire the way their future had panned-out. The intruder then grabbed the nearest cloth they could find, and utilized it to muffle the sound of their standard-issued weapon. Aiming specifically for the heart that had once captured John’s attention. The monster proceeded to create sparse bite marks over the pale corpse arms of the slain bride, and somehow believed that their heavy bite-marks would detract from the escaped saliva that was abandoned at the ridges of a bite. The smallest bite would bring the whole story to light. When their thirst for the quenching taste of decaying flesh lay dormant again, they grew excited by the mere access to a corpse: proceeding to impale the skull of the deceased woman-wicked eyes racing gleefully, and their weapon finally fell with a soft thud that matched their twisted hymn. This was the true burden of selfish love.

Artemis thought of the delightful notion that the wife had gotten the upper hand for a brief moment before her ultimate death, but the slaying of a wife caught-off-guard...was a tale as old as time itself. Sherri would lay cold and alone in her memory: stuffed into the corners of the backside of a cubby with her true last-name on its envelope. She had been the reason Artemis had agreed to write a book of a dark mystery waiting to be solved: the reason for a wicked game to come into existence. Artemis turned the small sealed evidence in her hand: it held so much relief to a family lost in a stage of grief beyond all heartbreak. She thought of the many crimes that had left her haunted, worried, and afraid of people. Artemis had gone back in time to save a few people, believing she could save thousands with the thankless work as an oracle. The sealing of her odyssey had only been brought to a close after she had properly sorted and organized beasts into their prison of black and white. The rage she felt over the slain wife matched that of a crime involving a child, a crown, and a bowl of fruit. The signs on the wall were cut-and-dry, and the finalization in subsequent actions left little for an audience to love.

Artemis had waited until her last moments to strike, needing to properly tie two beasts together with a verbal charm. She had almost overlooked the shrill cries as a maniacal child, but stepped back into the pages of bloodlust- barely in time to remind a boy named Burke of his own angry words…”JonBenet is dead...I know!”. Artemis had stood outside of his home: wondering why he was so defensive in his mourning, but as the day rose: the parents would always submit him first for questioning. The same way...Casey and her parents would always trade one last favor for another, in the wrongful decision to prove how much they loved drowning in her affection. Artemis’s life had once been destroyed by the only man she had found fatherly, and so the misdeed of false accusation caused her to be baffled in astonishment. She shrugged weary shoulders-when they asked for detail of her incest-filled trauma, and left people riddled with fear as she screeched of her intentions of heading to the pub. The noticeably lonely and failed mother of Casey was famous beyond words, for her lack of familiarity with the truth. The daughter was destined to be perpetually single and unwed, just as the destroyer Siren named Nichol. The wrath of the women left out wouldn’t be complete without Betty. One that flew from the Pages, and the other was stout and spiteful: using her two children as human pawns. Both succeeded legacies in which they were to end in a dark void: their madness and jealousy taking over, and consuming their lives until they were sucked into black holes and forgotten forever. Their song was that of the desolate, the Sirens song: a timeless hymn.

Artemis had chained her soul to the Universe, many moons ago. She had the memories in which she served duty in transporting “precious cargo” as a form of disciplinary action for having been intoxicated, and was left babysitting seven entertainers in well-fitted and bright-colored linens. There had been a meeting in which she was informed of an arranged marriage, bringing on distraught mania that eventually granted her permission to abandon a post: resulting in her reincarnation into a specific timeline to fulfill an intergalactic Treaty. Artemis was forever shadowed by a dancing boy that yelled in multiple dialects, and wore whatever the world demanded with dashing confidence. She had thought the idea of them as a formal couple would be inevitably enduring in its cuteness, and exhausting to bear witness. She didn’t trust his looks, and often glared at him from afar, wondering why he liked placing his hand along her neck and collarbone gently from time to time. The aquired taste left little for a past-victim to love.

Artemis found faint interest in why such a strangely scripted human would agree to a Traditional ceremony with her untimely-ass, and it brought mild doubt to know that his patience was occasionally limited. She took note of his possessive jokes and hopes to make-up continuously with words of romanticized overtones, that somehow implied he wasn’t a jealous spouse publically: Artemis already knew that she couldn’t live her life in a globe filled with artificial seasons, and the temporary dreams of escaping. His charming demeanor would eventually fade with time, and Artemis feared a future of holding tight for such a prince-like individual. She had barely found him, by searching an array of timelines and dimensions: waiting to replace the Last Piece of her broken heart, by reincarnating the only man that she had ever found to be profound and unforgetable. He’d be annoyed by everything to do with Orion: his silence and floppy hair being the biggest offenders. Orion would be annoyed by the comradery and unsurpassed fame that followed the charm-filled man. Artemis sighed in bored relief that she existed far away from the potential disaster that would occur if her dreams of the men mentioned had ever come to fruition. Artemis handed the spritely man with a peach-like bum--a silly red hammer that released a strange exhausting sound whenever you booped it upon the head of another. Such were the nonsensical rules meant for only the competitors to understand, and to remind Artemis of which dancing boy she had been contractually obligated to call a husband. She reminded herself that his average boyish looks would eventually leave behind a chiseled and crafted man, as she had also learned such observations from her initial meeting with Orion. Artemis was forever torn between too many options, and her flippant efforts in commitment left her reader to assume and wonder as to her commitment to love.

Artemis looked down into her tired clasped hands: she was holding an assortment of decent “steal-ables”. Her daydreams of handsome men had left her staring into the abyss, and it was broken off abruptly after she was startled by the realization as to how many rabbit holes had been dug in her lifetime. Artemis handed her loot to an officer of the law, specifically handing them to a person sworn to serve and protect the people. She whispered words meant to resurrect an episode of murderous rage into the public servant like a breath of life, and watched as their eyes darted alive: Artemis had successfully hunted, trapped and displayed a chest of a crazed beast on display for all to see. Lazarus was raised from the depths of Hades in the span of a few paragraphs: forever forgetting where the evidence and staged crime-scene items were supposed to be strategically placed. Artemis handed the monster the items labeled: lost hopes and dreams, and left the killer to be forever pacing the invisible cell within their mind. Artemis borrowed the eyes of the slain Siren, and passed them to a tall willow-like homewrecker she knew personally: reminding herself frantically, that her sister Dianne once held the same mask as Lazarus, and the tall one held crazy eyes-if Artemis was ever audacious enough to step behind her. The veil drenched in the hopeful blood of a bride was the most valuable thing in a story filled with gore, and the occasional fraught hymn. It spanned over the lore pertaining to unconditional love.

Artemis looked around her void of static-filled woe. The world had been given fair-notice that she was ready to ask the world for more, and began dancing at the idea of an occupation that allowed her to juggle disability with grace and humility. Her spine was hunched at its base, and thrown out-of-whack by the angle of her swaying neck: her life was broken into bits and shattered in rebuttal for each time she had allowed someone to harm her. Artemis told the strangers in a distant room meant for formal gatherings: that she couldn’t fulfill her contract in continuing on with the duties described. She disappeared instantly from their ever present room, thanking them half-heartedly for the opportunity to learn and walking away without a goodbye. The limits of time were reached, yanking her to move back across a bridge, and just like that: her life seemed so much more simple. The feeling of acceptance and reasonable compliance were left as footnotes, if she ever chose to return into the cursed book of confused anguish. Artemis encouraged herself in always buckling-down in the specifying terms of duties: in case she ever needed answers in weighing her options in annulment, separation, and or, divorce. She bowed in humbled pride, and told herself that enough was done. Artemis had only a bright future ahead...one filled with adventure and sobering company, that provided her with both respect and intrigue. She had dreams of working on ceremonies of white veils and sparkling ribbons...despite the fact she was unwed. Artemis had also made a book meant to protect children...despite the fact she had none. These were simply a few of the thoughts of a woman falling into the day that marked the day of her birth. Such were the ramblings of an orphan that had forgotten she was a Goddess amongst men, and the tales were to be marked as prevalent by the topic-matter and solidified in her personalized style of writing about her urgent ambitions to move past an ignorant door.

Artemis couldn’t remember a single celebration where she’d been sober, and looked forward to waking up with the understanding that she was going to experience something new. There followed a delicate hand-slowly reaching outward for a door marked with her violent fate: hearing wedding bells chime, and openly weeping at the idea of fulfilling her daydream of wearing a white dress. Artemis had crafted an entire manuscript to describe a dream holding her breath softly, and gazed up at Orion while casting the fateful words “I do.” Artemis would do it all over again, if it meant that she and the silent Indigenous Warrior were finally free to be happily married. Independent to search for the other over timelines and lifetime, all in justification of their silent devotion to love.

Next Chapter: *[ O ] Artemis and the Lost Chapter*