There was nothing left for Artemis to flee from. She stood her ground: holding the hands of the two men that longed to be at her side for reasons unknown. Her simplistic Threshold Model had wasted for over thirty-thousand years, and each man was left to be ripped to pieces and bits--shredded by their own faults. The vast man at her left would be stunted in his waving opinions and self-doubt…he was only able to answer questions with a ringing of confusion. If someone were to ask him if he loved Artemis, he’d say yes with confidence: if you were to ask him if he had wanted to marry her…he’d answer no with a defiant tone. In the reverse order of the same questioning…his tone and answer would echo in the same annoyance-almost as though the was confronted by the fact that he held no idea, as to what he truly had wanted from her. Simply said--he had a hard time sleeping alone.

The turmoil of his swaying opinion left her bursting into laughter. Artemis was delighted by the poses and costume changes needed for Orion to hold half of an apple hostage. "what are you doing?" the cursed words of a confused wife. Artemis would only gesture at the device settled in his clenched fist: he was indentured to only his own lack-of choosing, and blind to his surroundings by pure choice. He had the direct line that tethered her to stand in his path: holding his sharp nose higher on the days where he missed a small bobbling head and small laughter. Orion had nothing but a few memories--squandering his allotted time and hating the world for having let him done so. Youth had betrayed him--and time would always win the shortest of races. Artemis was forever disappointed in his needing to prove that he deserved the right to fuck every hole he saw fit, and had seen the signs of a man in love with only his reflection, censured and audaciously demanding compliance. Her life was simple, predictable, and respectable when she was able to exist alone.

Some days he’d stand close to her: draping her left arm over his neck and leaning in to kiss her. Other days…he’d turn his broadened back to her: wishing only to forget every moment with her. Artemis felt his ego-driven cavil growing in each and every breath. She was hurting him--simply by existing. He hated her: everyone hated her. She was an orphan that stole air to spite the citizens. She had learned to hold a facade that redirected the sorrow that flowed over---emotions slipped away like waters passing over calm brooks. There was something left to prove--to all those that accused her of drowning in self-pity. Artemis had crafted a narrative of a successful woman, that was unattainable and meant to be held at a distance...the forethought of her feral upbringing transformed itself into a weapon that she wielded with pride. Most men had abandoned her for the trait of unmending anguish: she was forever drifting through the darkness, grinning and walking alone.

Artemis had driven herself to the brink of madness: attempting to forget or dismantle the image of a man leaning in to kiss her. She was pathetic in her need to recall his touch, and relinquished dignity--each time forgiveness overshadowed his many missteps. One day she awoke, as a thirty-something year old lady, single and surrounded by the hard-earned home that kept her warm. A book lay open at a memorable page, ready to destroy and question reality. It no longer frightened her, it embraced the silliness of tales and adventures too adult for her preference. Artemis was comfortable laughing over pages of stupid stories, unable to be emotionally struck-ith by Cheryln for sharing the lies of Chris, daydreaming childishly about holding hands with a strange boy that stood surrounded by a protective screen of static.

She allowed herself to lay her head on his chest and sway slowly in dreams of dancing with a Prince: her mind racing in curiosity towards the intensity of his passion. It gave her pause to observe his presuppositions in an equal partnership, and she took it upon herself to stand at a distance to his high expectations. His charm had reminded her heart of the curse of Seobok, as he promised to create a youthful mindset in arguments and manipulation of surroundings. His life lacked privacy, boundaries, and respect.

The level of familiarity of such a lonely life, had made her weep in confusion: staring at a door--forgetting why tears fell, and fell. She felt a weight prying along the base of her right wrist, as a red chord trailed over a lazy arm and secured itself over and index finger. There were dreams in which he would argue and cast judgment towards her past, and Artemis had begun to shrug in disagreement. Age was man’s worst enemy, and the disillusion of immortality was a real bitch. A man’s approach to life in his thirties and forties were the test as to ones true character. A hairline could easily be replaced, fixed, or adjusted---whereas the same didn’t go for earned respect.

You could ask the Prince-like man if he loved Artemis, and he’d say yes with a calm, threatening voice…but, if you were to follow up the question with reserved silence, the boyish-man would always follow up his own opinion with the self-doubting excuse of the word “but…”. If you were to ask him if he had wanted to marry her….he’d stumble on a response--managing to change his answer last minute...spitting-out the response: “no…but…”. "yes...but...". He loved the idea of her, but also didn’t want her to belong with anyone else. The same would occur if the questions were reversed. He openly loathed her, but wanted to be the primary person to hold such objections by default of holding the title of husband. Artemis was always understandable of his fears in mortality, and the option of dying alone.

Maybe he’d already established the opinion that Artemis was a peasant of a Princess: an ambassador of an undeveloped Nation, and that her impoverished upbringing ultimately meant that the affiliation in public accountability were inexcusable through her moods. Forced to uphold a grin that displayed her role of royal social equanimity to a community on the brink of extinction. Artemis was cast to hold such a splitting persona, or given the opportunity to be hurried away from public judgement--left to stand alone in her risks of being left to be wrung, strung, and marred by the uncultured, and those declared undeserving of titled respect.

She had stumbled into the abyss of time, sprinting away from Orion and his version of the truth. Artemis clumsily fell into the hands of a postured man with sharp judgements and a fluted voice--humming to himself and attending a post near a pool of water. She had seen him lounging, and asked that he assisted in dislodging the branches of the small tree begrudgingly being drug along in the dirt. Her hair was a mess. Artemis would mumble and curse at the fine robes and laces that declared her bullshit status and femininity: articulated emotions could rarely be considered lady-like. He stood by, enjoying the sight of a bubbly woman casually struggling alone.

Artemis would manage to find twigs in her hair even when walking through nightmares, the same as she would have an aching back in a dream and compensating the reasoning for it by doing manual labor in ones dreams. Even in the aloof introduction cast from an immature subconscious, she worked to hide admiration in managing to find him without getting lost. Rendezvous were imminent--Artemis forever dragging along a spruce; barren of accolades, ornaments, or publicized respect.

Artemis didn’t like shallow pleasantries in moments of chaos, so she had returned to mumbling as to his talents in being unhelpful. She felt defensive to his endless questions, and noted that the man seemed compelled to stare. It seemed like the least of the mounting worries held, considering Artemis was already late to her own wedding; somehow. The limitations of ones patience could be set by a scene of robed chaos between a man entertained by prevaricate conversation, and a woman that didn’t feel like explaining personal procedures to a stranger. The lazy male lead, would flick a fan remaining from a marvelous dynasty. Artemis would man-handle a tree, casting lectures on the trials overcome. The ripples of scratching branches would prepare the citizens for a spell of daydreams; weeping on behalf of a blood-drenched path. The undeniable etches of Genocide would forever carve out its place in history, and Artemis had just been the messenger tasked with running to the next village to report the carnage and ready the neighboring Tribes with due respect.

Few words were left to relay. Artemis had only needed to clear her throat and repeat an SOS meant to clear away all questioning. "Nothing is enough--they will take everything. Everyone is gone." Her soul ached--the words weighed her down. She began to drag along a small tree to inspire people, and combat the chance there existed a world lacking the word December. She liked being around the moody Prince--enough to avoid the topic of Orion altogether. She had prioritized a tree at the expense of a lot of things, specifically as a detour to her bridal fear. The versions of her heartbreak held chances of notation and correction, all while addressing her silly insecurities towards the concept of being alone.

It’d be a scene to watch a Prince grow annoyed over traits that he didn’t understand, and the condemnation that followed one silly enough to disobey such judgement. It was a strange sensation to miss someone that was fun, and famously known for his discipline and lack of jollification. She knew that their meeting would result in the same curses that had consumed a man named Walt. He envisioned marriage to uphold the expectations of a fictional setting called EPCOT: as the last priority that triumphed over all things in the near-future. She was left with only the option to hold up a mirror in his direction, and watch as he and six confidants stood at attention. The six men would cast portraits and stories that were meant to remind a Prince of the future he claimed to want--he was circumvented by his own self-disgust in longing for a Bittersweet idea, a fictional expectation that was held up by him alone.

Artemis had wanted to prove that each man in her story was unhelpful AF. Words of fun critique kept her cheek flushed as she swayed towards to the left. The scene fell into new depths of disarray, following the entry of Orion and an aging man in a horned hat. His tone began to boom, holding lecture to both men on the nature of their generation lacking proper dating etiquette. The man himself, was too preoccupied to help in the manual labor at hand. Artemis was used to doing things herself. This instance in lugging around a tree was cast just to prove that some things were easier for her to achieve alone.

Artemis began scolding the yelling man, and watched as he stood hunched over a marble--worried as to what words had been unhelpful. The harp-eyed man had claimed to desire the chance to grow as a person, and had forgotten that Artemis had been there to mend his mid-flight wounds. He had taken steps because of her, as a friend that was barely encouraged by the bossy tone of a woman that insisted he quit relying vast strides and talent in skipping steps. His distrust in her ability to be right, had been the reason why he was stuck sneering in her direction of her doorstep. Artemis had simply seen it as a sign of allied respect.

He hated the sound of her laughing in gaiety, scowled over spectacles--as she daydreamed of a Prince and an army of five men that somehow believed in her too much. Artemis had awful dreams where she yelled at him “I love you…why isn’t that enough?!”. It sounded like an intense time. The distance from that particular dream, and reality kept his expressions of disapproval etched in her memories. Artemis appreciated that he’d always chain himself to her side by the way of a task in tying a ring to a finger: weighing judgement of each man so that Artemis could grapple some lush needles. Artemis hadn’t the time or energy to explain how little was left of her life: she had crafted comforting words and well-thought-out answers in the deep understanding, that her physical body sick beyond treatment. Words that could bring resolve to those unsure of what to do without Artemis walking through sets and scenes, dead-body dragging a tree, and reminding the world that she’d cut it down alone.

A realization that seizures were worsening, had been the block of fear that Artemis had set her small feet upon--the race of mortality was remembered only by the spectators in attendance. She had stumbled, and instead of rolling off the tack and out of the way--Artemis had crawled the rest of the way. The festive tree was to give purpose to a life unfulfilled. She worried the injured man in a hat would stumble on a dark path, surrounded by words that could haunt him--those left burrowed in his memories. Artemis deflected thoughts of an early diagnosis and shortened mortality with pugnaciousness--it wasn’t a big deal today because denial was a very real thing. Living in the moment helped her find peace in the idea of dying, and she hid away in abandoned rooms to collect tears and pull at blades protruding from her fingers. She coped gracefully with the idea of leaving his side early within the pages of the book. A youthful crush serving as a sacrilegious token to the idea of quiet, and the true bliss of being left alone.

Some compared death with a long and peaceful spell of sleep, but Artemis worried it would be more like drifting through the unexplored abyss. Her orphaned heart feared the notion that death would render her to be abandoned to defend the existence that was crafted in her image--and the lingering traits of humanism that’d be left to stand trial to a jury dissecting endless sins. She had watched the public drag a pregnant woman named Shan’ann’s corpse alongside the street--they ripped her from limb to limb: forgiving the actions of her murderous husband. The world was quick to begin ignoring the fact he was a violent coward that slaughtered children. The world gave endless excuses to the little-bitch-of-a-husband--rewarding him for being too afraid to tell another person that they demanded a divorce like a normal adult. He was imprisoned for blatantly choosing to suffocate and choke the innocent...dumping two small children into the darkness, shivering and forever alone--separate, even in death. The "loving husband" was needing to placate his childish divorce from a "less-fun" reality. He had the spry eyes for a childish woman, and his own actions gifted the opportunity to avoid a row of inmates destined to die alone.

Tortured suffering was all Artemis knew to be true, and the promise of an early death held her heart hostage--unable to commit to tomorrow. Such a grateful desire to live could be illustrated by a smile. Her smile. She remained walking through the day being half-alive…pretending that a collapsing spine hadn’t burdened all those around her. Worry was an awful gift to give. Still, it was reasonable to be afraid of the world judging her fear in dying…she lived in an unchangeable state of anxiety because of what she’d be leaving behind: terrorized by the mere idea of returning to an existence where she were left marching through the dark utterly alone.

Artemis crafted the two men in her heart--a poem to solve their differences, believing that it’d be more valuable to the readers. Her songs of deep emotions could only do so much for men lacking patience or concentration. The woman took pride in representing herself as an enigma outside of the book that they had both avoided reading. She offered them a final competition surrounding two truths, and a lie: a telling of their talents, each having renounced his own skills in “reading her”. Only one would honor the notion of allowing her to live in the understanding of the importance of preserving dignity. Only one believed in her efforts to end the predictable disaster that lay at the brims of an bevy, and wanted personal growth to include accountability and self-respect.

Artemis bowed her head, and drew up a short story that explained her trek to freedom, dragging a tree and avoiding her own wedding. Even so, they we all chained to a timeline: awaiting for Sarah to gain an understanding remorse. The timeline of monsters overflow-ith. All chalked up by a pictograph of smiling figure next to a travel bag. Artemis knew that a time to wrap up words like gifts and to place the tree-side had come. The chance to leave a blank room began to sound lovely. She accepted that a sea of crowds could judge the depth of pain and heartbreak holding tight in the basin of emotions Artemis coveted. "All these people, and I still only miss the one." She had lost everything in a single conversation, and locked away a piece of unattainable expectation for the world. An Indigenous Warrior named Buckles, had left her to drown alone.

Artemis had been a Ward to a Nation of criminals. When the reader forgave her for the many flaws she hid or buried--she reminded them of the historical importance of her role in society. “I was raised as a WARD”, the capitalization meant that the Indigenous Warriors had offered her in tout: trading her with the family of a potential enemy, upholding the ceremony practices that had been traced back to the beginning of the history of colonization. The facts behind the common practice of religious zealots stealing and abusing children was it’s own horror story alone.

“You can tell a lot about a community by the way they treat their children”. Artemis had began casually slaughtering people throughout her endless pages: slashing away at the throats of beasts and monsters as they retreated to their cages. A man named Chris, dragged his feet--complaining to the world that "she did it". Artemis was done with his shit, gifting him with a swift kick and standing over him. "according to you...you did this. You murdered them all Chris." The man began rolling in the dust, attempting to shake of the judgemental words that stuck to his every breath. The world hated him more than his mother ever hated his slaughtered wife. Artemis had set out to prove the fact that he was a fucking loser either way...glad that she’d made to the last pages without the worry of paranoia in theories and scientific studies. She had stood upon an island surrounded by black sludge--begging, pleading with the readers...not for freedom or aide, but for the chance to unbury the truth without having to be alone.

Artemis returned to pages and chapters--picking up babies and children in her arms and taking turns bringing them to the forefront. So many dead children...for what?! This version of freedom was defensible, commendable to the citizens, and they seemed unaware of the stretches of their corrupt government. She lived in the moment, recalling dreams of sprinting for her life and crawling to the next village....needing to find some purpose to the endless attacks that left her Peoples unarmed...pillaged and raped. "Everyone is dead, they don’t understand what they’ve done." Even with the word Genocide being born, the citizens rebuilt a sloppily established civilization over a metropolis, all while demanding undeserved respect.

Artemis armed herself with the brusque truth, and a simple piece of cloth that signified a time period that’d forever symbolize what was to be known as the Equalizing Era. Weapons drawn, Artemis walked a thin line between madness and the discovery of ones sober self. She’d cock her neck to peer from side to side, unloading weapons in a hallway of terror. The luminal environment meant she looked terrifying--smiling as metal beads hit the floor one at a time. She heard a small voice calling out, confusion was embedded in a tone of worry. Artemis was afraid her nieces and nephews would fear the person that existed before they came into the dark world. She’d filled an entire manuscript attempting to bring comfort and reasoning to the ugliest parts of their lives, and yet somehow there was crippling anxiety as to whether they’d read of her struggles and take agreement with their mother--that maybe she was too broken to love, cared about the wrong things, and possible deserved to be alone.

Artemis had dropped a weapon to scoop up children, unarmed by Cheryln on a whim and left to return screaming into the void blindly. An enemy with only the passion of wealth was a scary one to face. Luckily, a loser profiting from slain children--was a box Artemis had no intention of stepping in. The wealthy had lived by different rules, and lack-of-laws: separate to that given to the average tax-paying citizens. Artemis had been stripped bare with anguish and survival instincts, and woke up to find herself stranded on a land riddled with citizens that lacked all understandings of right and wrong, specifically of the value in self-respect.

“There once was a boyish man named Boris, and he was famed for holding up parliament and tussling his ghostly transparent hairdo. One day he demanded that all of the citizens stay inside: surrounded by mirrors and the anxiety of how to uphold their finances. He stood behind a podium, and threatened each of those that disobeyed his orders with fines and imprisonment in a blase tone. The next day...his fight was fought. The citizens were beyond-pissed, finding proof of his dereliction of duty. The man stumbled, still chipper and blushing from the poisonous bevvy--dressed in the finest of threads; bought-and-paid for by the citizens. The laws and mandates didn’t count if he wanted to parade himself; attending lavish parties and tussling his party-boy hair. The many missteps of a leader, left to morph and bend the rules as he wished--were a fine lasso shape for the man to hang himself. Artemis observed him tinkering with a roped knot, and smiled in glee knowing he was unaware the device was meant for him alone.

The citizens began to laugh at his speeches, throwing books and wadding of torn and crumpled pages. Artemis stared the round of "Boo this man!" out of boredom. Her mean spirit was only a small flame to a smoldering fire. The citizens were emboldened by their angry neighbors that had caged a Mechanical Boar. They even began demanding a head on a silver platter: a delicacy reserved for traitors. Instead of remixing the fate of the last Czar, the citizens revoked his support, and politely suggesting he step-down from his ivory pillar; a figurehead role labeled with a tag of moral ambiguity. Artemis growled through the crowds of disagreeing citizens "On the scale of one to murdering someone in a dark tunnel...we should let him explain himself". The man had eyes filled with panic, and more than enough sweat to cover himself and Prince combined. He had nothing to say, for their collective brevity in numbers--could prove the democratic powers of standing bare in front of ones entire government: unabashed, shameless and alone.

The world deserved better than all he had to offer. He had always used his position and authority to pay bills, hide his many mistress, and disorganize the sanity of the moment--by aiming the conversation towards the shriveling size of his aging Johnson. The man was left with the neck of his career being snugly fit into a noose: Artemis had placed the softened rope around his neck herself. She knew that it wouldn’t be his own sin in the trade, but the accumulation of those scandals surrounding him--the many missteps that could cause the walls to close in, and for him to step off a platform of fate willingly. Artemis had needed him to squirm to gain any sort of pleasure in a hooded verdict...pressing down upon his hunched shoulders with a gentle hand, and forcing the man to slouch over upon his knees. The gaze of the contempt citizens struck his eyes with terror-filled lightening. Artemis could never had captured, strung and left the man out for judgement by herself...such a grand hunt could never be completed alone.

The daft politician had spent his life categorizing the citizens by economic classes, and now he bowed in the midst of their forbearance: the boy-ish man that prioritized partying over the safety of the citizens...or, the immature person, that prioritized anything and everything over the safety of the citizens. The verbiage did little to stifle the information he was now facing, and it was obvious to note that the man had never once considered his downfall would come at the verdict of all those he had diminished and oppressed. The man in charge of holding Minster over a land; was now being held on trial by the citizens, and found guilty: childish, selfish, and unworthy of their respect.

“There once was a boyish man named Jason, and he was famed for having let his father stand trial over the double homicide of his beautiful step-mother, and a strapping young man that she had newly become acquainted with. He had been found guilty long-after-the-fact, for his primary role in attempting to slice off the head of a woman that had the audacity to “embarrass his father”. His daddy had suggested that he “keep an eye on her” in a casual tone, and Jason had used it as an excuse to expose his childish crush on a woman that had finally garnered enough strength to file for divorce from a family with one-too-many issues. The beautiful wife and mother had gained confidence in restoring her own smile, and distanced herself from a family fueled by vitriol violence. She had promised to dine and rave her step-son’s culinary skills, and then decided to break that promise on a whim. The boyish-man with plenty of recorded incidents in knife-related violence was offended that the distancing woman had the audacity to lie to him: his violent father had raised him to believe that threats on her life were normal, and excusably expected in their broken family. A violent father… had taught him to devalue her life to the extent of homicide. The woman had used her last days alive to warn the world that her ex husband and step-son had been stalking her, leaving small crumbs whenever she need reassurance by a few trusted individuals. Artemis had found a drowned child in the beginning of a story about a father cursed with the rage of a thousand volcanoes, and followed a path of blood up the steps of a home--a safe haven tortured by the images forever painted in gold. Artemis scanned images and stories in desperation...needing one more crumb, one more grain of information to bring solitude to her dreams--that would later ensure that a loving mothers life was never forgotten, or that her memory and legacy in kindness was never left alone.

The boy in question...was in charge of only holding higher moral reprobate than his wealthy father, and the bar was set very, very low. Artemis had found him staring into a pool of water, smiling with content as he did nothing. The child grew to resent his choice, as he was then given the best help that money could provide. Nothing was ever enough. He was left to be forever jealous of the memory of Aaren, and unaware that Artemis had jumped in feet first...speaking to a baby left "unattended" and humming gentle tones. "I got chu baby, we’re here...everyone is here" His father was left to rebuild his life; trying to over-compensate for the loss of the child. Artemis had seen this in another instance, so the story seemed to float to the surface...building a thick layer of truth that was sturdy enough to walk across. The re-occurrence of sibling rage and polished narrative was all it took for Artemis to be left standing alone in a pool, pulling a slain baby to the edge of the water. Unable to explain to a distraught mother as to what the capabilities of a "neglected" child meant, when psychopathy was left unchecked and siblings were left alone.

Artemis knew that nothing could subdue the "rage of Paris", but she could point out the marking along the cave. It wasn’t the first time the world had seen such a sibling hatred that boiled deeply from the core of one’s soul. Objectives consumed the mind, and for someone like a spoiled son...objectives were like cooking projects. The boy grew annoyed that his father had paid for the best medical help found upon the land, and refuted blame in ending a marriage with his negligence. The world avoided pointing blame at him as a child, and the loss of a coveted step-mother would blossom into an entire world of chaos. Their timeline was crafted around a single death--one that defined the simple, barbaric state of the world alone.

Traditional culture often called such creatures of habit, to be titled as an Imoogi--after a beast born by the hand of their parents. Artemis had been witness to one: a "boy" named Burke, that had stumbled in the fabled footsteps of the preceding beast named Jason. That sibling was defined by the fact that a jolly bearded man had gifted him with a two-wheeled vehicle, and due to his sisters untimely murder...Burke wasn’t given the vanishing gift. Artemis crossed her arms-gazing up a poster of a sibling grinning and observing the game of cover-up....there was no way the mounting probabilities were her burden to carry alone.

Both siblings had absent father-figures, that abused their mother figures...one beating a blonde woman filling in for the role of a biological mother, and the other utilizing his woman as a womb for hire: holding his house up with advanced secretary skills and taking care of Johns "difficult son". One father handled a leather ball with a flashing speed, and the other handled numbers. Both arranged people as though they were pawns. One father loved sex, and reveled in endless violence: the second father got-off on avoiding undesirable situations and monetary wealth. Jason had every chance to tell the truth, and every opportunity to change his reflection. Unfortunately, he chose the life of a fucking loser, sucking his fathers wealth dry--left to hide from his deeds: until science found him guilty on an unpredictably random day. The man had taken a trophy home--the knife brought a twinkle to resign behind his eye...it made him happy to recall the silence of his actions. Jason was forcing an uncontrollable creature to be trapped by his own reflection. Even the facts couldn’t return all that was lost by his once-revered father. He had squandered everything while attempting to protect his mentally unstable son: forever drained dry of wealth and "public respect.”

“There once was a boyish man named Andrew, and he was caught fucking children". This occurrence wasn’t too strange for those with accents and pale skin, but this boy was a crowned Prince. He crawled upon the golden floor of his mothers palace, begged forgiveness for having committed adultery, as though that fact alone was his worst crime. He begged and pleaded, yelling that a girl holding the surname Giuffre was a fucking “lying twit”. His mother said nothing--thin lips pursed, showing how silent-coldness was a trait found within the famed family. There was such a thin-line to walk for those inbred under the excuse of a crown. His mother was already in a treacherous mood--the citizens had recently taken up the skill of mocking her directly: pointing at the fact that and her late husband were both second, and third cousins simultaneously. The choice to be doubley-inbred was a bit gross to Artemis, and so she just kinda left the thought alone.

The woman was already beyond peeved, noticing that her son was itching to take the throne, soon after he had forced her hand in discarding a woman that had single-handedly rehabilitated their family image. That son..had needed to clear the path for his "rottweiler" mistress: a woman that was born as the great granddaughter of Sonya. Their unstoppable love of inbreeding-- matched Andrews unquenchable love of prepubescent girls. For whatever reason; the family had only became financially scrutinized for the latter. The citizens began to stir: reading the fine print pertaining to the localized financial usage that umbrellas the Commonwealth. It was important for the citizens to be the one’s that eventually placed bounty on the head of Andrew, with all due respect.

Artemis held the hand of the woman that had once been a child prostitute, and calmly told her to rise from her knees: she noted that the woman wept on behalf of all she had survived. Artemis calmly tossed her into a fragile courtroom, needing to preserve a life from drowning in self-doubt and shame. “The whole truth will set you free.” Artemis watched, as the woman took heed: blonde women standing together to defend the vulnerable. The woman bowed her head, and recalled the many times she had stood in front of the monster named Jeffrey. Artemis applauded her as she brought forth a slew of young children and women to hold a brothel upon a secluded island. The citizens began to stir, enticed by the idea of black book of names and dates, and bereaved by the fact that their neighbors had sexually violated children and returned to their regular lives--hidden behind prominent Gates or offices of duty. The new year promised a new horizon, one where freedom of information became the new standard and way to manage public offices. It was the only way to preserve what little was left of democracy, and Artemis believed the citizens were more-than-ready for such insight. It was a matter of intellect and concern conquering corruption and crime with nuanced respect.

The woman admitted her childish deeds in attempting to gain power by pimping others, and in turn: a Queen began to strip her grown-ass-son naked. The royal leader banished him from holding onto the pre-purchased military titles he had used to accessorize his life, and restricted allowance to the loot that had been granted at his birth. The man was left to face the public as a regular citizen, average looking in every way and held in the same contempt to any other predator. His mum had finally had enough: forced to pick between her coveted wealth and the insatiable needs of an entitled son. The man was exiled, and left to wander a number of courtrooms at the behest of countless judges: tied to Jeff--a child molester; sickened by his own thoughts--both men guilty by their own actions alone.

Artemis sat upon a bench that stood surrounded by lush greenery. A petite woman with graying hair sat beside her, and they sat in perpetual silence. One un-exceedingly average day...Artemis began to speak to the woman, the unfortunate person tasked with ushering her “unmovable” soul to the next life. The woman had refused to choose a condensed memory to engrave her existence into the vast bowl of all that is the human experience, and decided to sit on a bench instead--listening to Artemis spin webs of spoken tales. The day of reckoning had come. A winter wish come true, the eve before the release of a list of names: the ones left exposed and without context; besides the ink’d affiliation with a monster named Jeff. Condemnation of social leprosy, or praise in surviving victimization was held carefully in the hands of the citizens alone.

Artemis would massage a left collar bone, missing a time before bad dreams. Her month had been derailed by a nightmare...one of throwing herself against a cursed door. A taunting silence had brought the sense of curiosity to tickle her ears--like the a moment of realization that toddlers in the next room were too quiet. Except instead of a medical box being raided and dispersed to patients...there was something deeply wrong. Artemis began sprinting to a door; having felt a knob turn to static and begin bleeding at the touch. "He’s in there--I have to help!" Everyone that passed along her hallway refused to help. It was almost as though it were futile, and a lesson Artemis had to learn alone.

Artemis rammed into the thick panel: crowned with trim and an ability to show up at inconvenient times. Her dream couldn’t quite recall his name or reason of importance, but the hesitation of commitment to something other than the suffering in indifference kept her distracted. He was important to her somehow. A familiar warmth drew her closer to the door by way of instinct. Nothing mattered--the door was impenetrable. A moment that ripped her mind into two. Artemis awoke to search her shield to counteract the awful sorrow that burdened her eyelids with swelling. Her life was a fucking living nightmare. There would never be an etching upon her shield announcing Ryan. He had left her in this fucking awful place, gazing down at moment forever lost, staring up at the night sky. Alone.

Artemis had finally listed out the woe left to be scraped at the brims of her sorrow filled jar. She’d gone through the depth of all darkness, handing off a barrage of stories to a woman on a bench--song-like tales, passed along over cocoa treats and tea: somehow making the time fly during the After Life. The polite woman had nodded and threw a ball into the distance--firm posture from the task of yeeting items for her furry companion to fetch. High tea time was for women that enjoyed one another’s company, and the fancifulness that comes from being dapper-dawning threads worthy of a leading set. Artemis had convinced her to dawn the royal toques that varied from detective to powdered judgmental curls--those demanding justified respect.

They continued down the redwood sized list of things that casually bothered Artemis--holding friendly sessions as she laid upside down on the bench and crossing arms: throwing defensive hand gestures, stewing and ranting like a maniac. There had come a spring where the Cherry Blossom season was more anticipated than ever, and the kind woman had begun to arrive at their bench with unpredictable anticipation to greet the occasion. Artemis had shared the darkest of secrets, those hidden away from the public: the silent dread of the winter season- the immense expectations to be happy, present, and grateful for all one had in life. She began to mumble in annoyance that the life of an orphan had meant a lifetime of role-playing, to be a ghost walking among the alive with a smile that occasionally stood empty, blank and expressing her ability to exist alone.

Artemis had found the strength to shrug in disbelief to the horrid things people had done with their lives, and eventually confided in the woman that she had been abandoned as an infant. Artemis recalled the memory vividly: watching as a woman strapped and secured her to a pole, clutching a glass bottle with desperation, and stammering that she needed to go pick up her two daughters. She observed with fearful eyes a man seemingly walked right past her: knocking on a door and informing a person in fine-linens that someone had abandoned a toddler in unsafe conditions. The man detached from the scene of the crime: a new father, excited to have a reason to leave a drunk woman. He had other plans, and he’d eventually replace his guilt in actions with three other children. Artemis had been left behind. Everyone always went out of their way to punish her relentlessly. There were no words that could describe the rage she hid from the world, and it often came through with bursts of tears. Artemis was forever left daydreaming of violence towards strangers, as her body withered away soon after birth. Her mind was stagnant in a phase of postictal confusion. She had wasted her youth, pushing people away before they’d inevitably abandon her--it was easier to become a villain...than to admit that she was quite possibly undeserving of love. Artemis had been crafted by an unforgiving environment, unable to pinpoint moments of shame, loss of dignity, or the fear of death. Artemis was forever able to draw a loaded weapon along a jawline--able to stand utterly petrified and smiling by the wicked notion of remaining bound and alone.

Artemis had crafted the kind woman a poem to read on their bench in need of a post card or new reading materials. "My body is real sick Rindy." Artemis gifted the petite woman with the promise of remaining "her Tila", as the name was found in every language, catered upon every static surface and needing rounded and polished perspective. She had avoided telling Rindy that the name "Tila" was cursed from birth, and instead she embraced the Traditional name (Clothos) in the final pages of her manuscript. Artemis had been hunted her whole life--sprinting through the fog with time on her heels--mortality slipping away from her grasps with each step. The severity of crookednes in one persons spine was a curse thrown around in light fashion, a condition that came naturally with aging alone.

Artemis began wavering back and forth, staring at the leaves that graced the floor and waiting patiently upon a bench. The burden of a patient late to an appointed time gave her an expression of shame. Artemis used comedy and a splash of colorful expressions to mask her common need to seek a maternal companion to share her unending woes with. The woman had arrived at the bench in the knick of time, and the more time passed: each had forgotten that they were attempting to move on from their past lives. Neither was comfortable vacating the bench, as it could mean Artemis returning to being utterly lost and alone.

Artemis had only wanted to return to the bench comprised of soft wooden planes--and to admire the spring arriving one more time with her old friend. The temporary season of fleeting blossoms was much like her experience of being half-alive, and helped her recall the sentiment: “The dead don’t know they’re dead”. Artemis had known the many times that should’ve resulted in her premature death: each time she’d arise and feel slightly more out of place than the night before. Her skin felt heavy and unfamiliar. This had happened enough times--where one day she grew stubborn and perplexed: realizing she was surrounded by a culmination of beasts and angels. She shrugged as people apologized on her behalf, or glared away as they took her sharp wording personally. It was almost as though she were naked in public, captive to a social experiment...unprotected and alone.

Artemis hadn’t needed the familiar touch of the kind lady to feel pride or ambitious hopefulness. Their shared love of standing on stage had meant they were both vixens cut from the same cloth. One held the gift of natural grace and fluted voice the other had held the craft of comedy and love of song. Artemis began to wonder how much danger the woman had found herself in--during a youthful career, fighting off swooning men, and defending her femininity from other women. Some of Artemis’s best and worst memories occurred when she was standing on a stage, song in mind, smile in motion, well-lit and presenting the world with ones whole heart. Prepared to burn down the world alone.

Artemis had told the woman of how a man she trusted had been "gifted" with perverse love--dedicated to faith and predatory robed practices. A God-fearing man had abused his own authority by molesting her as a child. He just happened to be a monster that was related to her. She explained how telling the man’s wife had resulted in a grown woman calling her "disgusting", and holding Artemis in a jealous light as a small mortal. The second her husband died: the widow had starved Artemis, and forced her to strip and throw punches on demand. Her kind friend asked few questions, wondering out loud--why there hadn’t been any authoritative services called, and informing Artemis that her anger was valid. Such relief was found in kindly reassurance--sanity restored in one’s burrowed emotions. A light lifting Artemis from the darkness--providing a well-lit path, paved with self-forgiving respect.

Artemis had finally wiped away thirty years worth of discomfited tears, and admitted that the situation was never spoke of or addressed again. The victim; left taking accountability for the abuse that she had barely survived or remembered. The confession had meant that she had finally found the strength to say "I never asked for this." Her friend said nothing, nodding and pacing back and forth with a gentle step at times. The silent rage of another could heal her heart, and the kind act had made Artemis grant pity for the childhood that was stolen from her. The unmendable tear in her soul was without Justice; a tale of child abuse that Artemis had almost died--left carrying the surmounting weight of endless shame alone.

Rindy would offer endless comfort food, frantically hugging her on random days and encouraging the lost child to embrace the fact that the trauma she had survived had never been within her control. Artemis trembled at the mere thought of a younger self: she had always avoided the fact that even the six-year old version of herself--had taken up ticks in raised arms, a curled nose and deep blinking. Artemis was forever sleepy, and deciding to take glee in the thought of pending death. The "child within", could be seen wearing a belt around her neck for as long as she could recall. The act of controlling one decision, one’s entire destiny--had meant that her fate was to be hung by the verdict of her voice alone.

The woman had grown to learn Artemis and her ever-changing moods. She could dismantle her rants with a single open-ended question: "Where is this coming from?", or by stating the obvious with an amused stiffened grin, as she said elementary things like: "I see that you’re upset". It would often cause Artemis to step back, and assess the battles she had settled on. She’d often be left with only the option--to uncross folded arms, and reconstruct the efforts put forth towards defending herself from people--those that weren’t necessarily worth the time. Artemis had grown used to her company and wise insight, and one day the single thought of losing the calm lady broke her brain. It had caused her to draw weapons and hide away the blood-thirst she had buried deep down in a pile of unapologetic pages. She had looked around at the world in flames and said out loud in a comically empty tone…“so this is the bad place?” Artemis had made the lady laugh... reminiscing on "that time some randoms sent prisoners and lazy farmers to colonize her yard" A timeline called Jeremy Bearimy. They held varying political opinions that were isolated by two very different lives and upbringings, but conjoined by their agreement in needing reform: this lack-of-deviation in views, allowed them to catch their breath in shared passion and mutual respect.

Artemis looked forward to telling Rindy silly stories of charming boys walking her to work, and explaining his ability to always be around, as she threw a fake tantrum when noticing that them as neighbors--passing ships of sorts, had floated further and further. The guy working in a nearby deli, also lived near her flat. She was often confused by his straight forward manner of addressing the things on his mind, and somehow was impatient with her already. The inconvenience of busy people had made the inevitable dance of two strangers to enjoying each other’s company in small walks and talks. He had leaned over crossed arms and pressed over glass--explaining his ability to remain waiting outside her door. He was unaware of an ink’d battle in romance--one where Artemis hedged victorious Olympians, because she hadn’t thought that the event of running into him had been a thing that’d happen when she woke up. How was she to know a tall man with dimples would be wandering around a small mansion--casually hoping to run into a woman famed to assisting on a corner. She had no intention of running into the man sporting a tailored coat and a chain. Artemis had a bizarre new life: rowing a boat with a crew and wandered off to draft a love story about a selfish ex and the curse of a gold-haired woman--born with a smile that belonged to the world alone.

Artemis meant business, strolling down marble flooring--her heels announcing a timed departure. There was no reason to throw off her standard work day, even if she had hoped to exchange smiles--such impulses were more watered down and in-tune to reality. She’d found the power in the saying "If they wanted to, they would." and kept her success chariot rolling--hedging any assumptions, and walking off with more dignity than those displayed during a time drowned in a lush-y past. A manicured life consisted of commitment to walk away from an impending fate, attending to applications to better prepare her for a proper introduction to such mellow, decent and polite men. She took more comfort in each stride--juggling an appointment for mental wellness, a spine specialist, and an athletic regimen. She had finally took center stage to her own life--prepared to close the door on a man that had been a figment to her active imagination. Artemis was ready to disengage with a man that was so adamant that she suffer alone.

The embarrassment of a lewd past with a fuckboy had led to a blood-drenched book...where Orion had been accused in holding up a mirror--until his reflection bore the face of John. Artemis had lived a life in strange discomfort long enough, and had given up on the illustrious disadvantages of what such a predictably cowardly personality traits could manifest. Life was dreary on the timeline where Lazarus was readied for a chance to appeal a sentence to parole. Artemis had fled a wedding in a dream-one where Orion had given up on holding standards or boundaries and she was left the looming nightmares of such lack-of wifely respect.

Artemis had listed off the expenditures, explaining the small tallied flags panted red in a factual way. She was always so patient with Artemis’s swaying moods, and lady enough to help put a reel into focus. Such friendship had helped Artemis remove her entire generation from the box they stood in. Not because the woman had aggressively insisted that she evolve her political views, or stood armored in outdated excuses, but because the intellect had raised Artemis to see the detrimental costs of compartmentalization. She had hated being an "orphan" in a box, and even grew to despise the citizens that smiled at her destined chances of avoiding being placed in a box reserved for criminals alone.

The citizens suffered from a blindness, a narrowed vision for the future. Artemis had taken a moment to step back, and correct the notion of such a unbending system. Democracy was crafted by the unforgiving Indigenous Warriors, and implemented by voting systems free to be at least by-lined into motion. A future where the citizens could demanded fair-living wages, medical coverage, and better education systems for the future generations. Elders were instead--obsessed with immediate gratification for their sacrifices without diligent proof of due respect.

The de-colorization of their political views and intentional dismantling of political sensationalism, would unite the citizens in a way that would destroy entire foreign economies. The same way Pence had destroyed a path of a exaggerated fire, by holding duty and boundary as to what lines should be crossed and watered down to hold the tasks of a job that could land him on a presidential stage. There had been a dimension where Mr. Ramsey had pursued his political aspirations, and his daughter hadn’t been kidnapped by a foreign faction. Both universes held their own terrifying consequences-- filled with purge-esque grins and self-congradulatory moments held at the raised hands of delicate glasses and extreme moralism. There were two separate types of dark futures; ones where each man stood upon a stage, basking in extol of their accomplishments in oppressing others; dick in hand, and the invariably disastrous outcomes in the other--ready to burn the world down. Artemis felt relief in the idea the world had barely avoided the catastrophic outcomes guided by their own hands; slipping between the grasping claws of two idiots led by blind and insular beliefs and the choice to believe that titles meant earned respect.

Artemis had heard her friend BamBams reaching at her hand...choosing to ignore it, as it’d mean that he’d have landed in Hades as a young man. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had followed a cadre of musical friends, and forgot her somewhere along the way of the simulation. Artemis had heard the snarls of a man disguised as musical genius--having tricked the young man and his five friends into traveling upon a journey with no stage to be set. She began to worry for the health of her idol, and knowing full-and-well that a spell of corollary was nightmare for some, and a utopia for selfish "sunshine-filled" man. Artemis had known the dangers of a person existing for the stage and the emblazoned worlds of others alone.

Artemis washed the static from her eyes: fearing that a petite man with con-filled eyes, had managed the artistic group of men and made light "jokes"-- specified to the monetary weight of his job. Following up his odious words with insured claims on the lives of seven men. His mean-spirited jokes were followed by neglectful actions, until he had dehumanized the minors and guided others to a Burning Sun Gate. Artemis was comfortable distancing her self from the strange little man that made lewd comments. She didn’t believe in laughing at shitty jokes, considering Dianne had always followed up such antics whenever a crowed agreed to her terms and conditions. You’re not supposed to react, enable, or confirm the double-sided words of untrustworthy people. Artemis had learned the hard way, surviving an obstacle of mean-spirited jokes and ploys to bring solution to an odd person--hiding behind suggestions and sloppily choreographed jokes: alone.

Artemis often made the same faces as the unimpressed audiences--when observing the stout man flaunting little talent, and vast wealth. He was an aging music savant, and had grown jealous of the seven men that bore untouchable talents. Artemis began to snarl in the darkness: her anguish resulting in her thrashing around, wrangling her hands free from static chains and needing to find BamBam across dimensions of time and space. The woe of his absence had consumed her healing vision, and set off the starting-point of a simulation. She had awoken to recall the worry of a leggy friend that seemed unaware of his own death: left to solve an unsolvable simulation alone.

Artemis returned to her bench: reminiscing on how drastically life had changed since the loss of her best friend to a boyish loser named Curtis--a selfish citizen that longed to slaughter those that stood is his way. She often stopped shy of stating the fact that she hated the individual: afraid that such angry utterances would mean her intentions pillared as low as Diannas. It was just safer to honor Buckles memory; by screaming into a void of his existence and bringing his memory along her path of success. She preserved their honor by avoiding entrance into a room that held such a dead-beat, and dangerous monster. All she could do was appreciate the fact that the Justice system had found peace-of-mind thinking of a faceless fucking loser, pacing in a cell and forever abandoned by his Peoples. An Indigenous Warrior had gotten drunk on jealousy and destined himself to repay society with a life-sentence. Artemis saw his rotting away to be fair retribution for the slew of heinous actions he had committed alone.

Artemis informed the woman with greying hair: that her best friend had taught her the value of silence, or the importance of only saying things once: replacing words with concerned brows or glares. He had attended to her introverted spells: needing to address the uncomfortable truths within a single moment--and moving past it just as quickly. Buckles had said kind things like “do you ever get tired of people staring at you?”; turning a simple question into a statement somehow. The world became crisp and detailed; carved away by latent words of things that needing to be said. Artemis had burst into confused laughter replying with a smile to the exhaustion found firmly within his tone: he had said it out of nowhere, unprompted--as though it weighed heavily on his mind. Artemis had spent her entire life defending prized body autonomy, and avoiding the curses that came from the given vanity that had left her raped, unloved, orphaned and perpetually alone.

The relief of the words tumbling out, allowed for her to catch a stifled breath--smiling awkwardly at the words passed between two Warriors. Their friendship was filled with conversations that wove in and out of trend, overflowing as clout-less words. She was the appendage to his worries, a tough crowd to please and a person longing to believe in value of loyalty in friendship. Artemis learned the trait of shrugging in that moment, as though the answer was deeper than a single verbal response. She was just happy that he had noticed: familiar with the true value that his words held in their world. He would always heckle others compliments, desperate to quench his desire in being the center of attention. If someone mentioned she looked nice...his words would outweigh in their volume...yelling over fleeting words with a flurry. His sentiments were rebutted in layers of sarcastic pretentiousness; "she always looks nice", or "she’s a model. That’s her job." He’d be the first to mention in private whenever she looked "like shit", ushering her out of sight to make her privy to the valuable information. He was dependable in managing her attention and feelings in privacy--giving relief to a childish friend wearing the linens of a politician on a Wednesday. Together, they had planned for Artemis to hold up the debilitating weight of the world, and the unrelenting expectations of the Indigenous Warrior community alone.

Buckles had strode before her in guard of a path unpaved, occasionally breaking character by holding himself in charge of tussling her neatly placed ponytail. She just appreciated the fact Buckles liked being around her. They could both appreciate laughter in horse-play, if she was ever caught taking herself too seriously. Artemis missed the taunting temperament given to those that had went out of their way to distract her. Artemis could close her eyes and recall his tapping of an index finger...yammering on impatiently and pestering the pages of her books. He was stern in a kind way, a giant with a stupefying tongue. Artemis had a friend that saw her standing isolated by a cruel world, clutching books for dear life and suppressing the trauma that came from people inflicting harm as she crawled to an academic finish line--alone.

They lived in a shortened time that seemed to be abundant in its value, and full of meaning by way of authenticity: it was as though neither believed the other existed. He had been the first person in her pathetic life to use himself as a shield to defend her. Artemis often felt discouraged whenever he announced himself as her best friend--abashed by the easily provable declaration. What had made her worthy of such knighting? Artemis had always excepted her role in the world as the perpetual loser: a woman hiding behind books, an orphan discarded on a hill...without a destiny or calling. A mortal cast into Hades, left to wander through life alone.

Artemis often wept in the confines of her own home, saddened beyond all words known to man--a stranger had hunted her best friend. He had destroyed the lives of countless people in a single night. How was such unending sadness real? There were no bottom of the basin of tears. She glared in the unbridled and torturous rage that a murderer had no idea as to the mass-casualties he had inflicted upon an entire community. The man had slaughtered another human out of pure spite to the fact(s), that Buckles was loved and admired whole-heartedly by an entire army of people. A massive community...that just happened to be Indigenous Warriors. He had taken everything, all because he couldn’t cope with the fact that his anger made him unapproachable and that his baby-momma had willingly left. Artemis didn’t blame the woman missing her ear, because she was unsure of what horrors she’d faced in Ryan’s protective absence--alone.

The worm of a man hadn’t simply stolen a dying star from the night sky--but burglarized the moon. Her life had been robbed of a beautiful future, and a grisly wound placed upon her heart--the pain had nothing to do with her horrific childhood. It was a ache of hopelessness that began to pry at traumas, until it would convex into itself--collapsing into a hole that consumed her by the fringes of all that was left. The instance of death, was inevitable, unfixable, and the tipping point as to her emotional strength as a person alone.

Artemis fought off curses in avoiding sleep, the spells of weeping that had been birthed by death left her catatonic on occasion. She was in a constant state of fear to the notion that Buckles would show up in her dreams: foolish in the need to be upset that he did, and distraught when he didn’t. Artemis would stare at him, wondering why his smile felt surreal to witness in generic dream-settings and needing to pinpoint why her heart longed to reach out and hug him one more time. The moments of accepting that he wasn’t supposed to be somewhere, meant she’d awake from a dream--tossing and turning as she wept; left to manage the aftermath of waking up in a living fucking nightmare--forever alone.

Elation filled every neuron in her projected dreams, for relief in the memory of a kind person that her heart longed to preserve. He was both a nightmare, and companion in the softest of dreams. She’d awaken, stumbling and fumbling around to gaze at his flashing over the surface of her shield. Nothing mattered whenever his name was absent from her hand. Artemis hated the tempo that trickled in the air, how had her life gone so wrong since that night? Was he ever aware that he died? Had his soul found peace? The reigns of her life had fallen in the final laps of a chariot race, and Artemis was left with only the option to use of her voice to gain control over her life. She held the ubiquitous strength in letting the tethers go. Her heart was at risk of drowning in the sorrow of such unpredictable loss. Artemis had needed to win a race by losing--closing her eyes and finding peace in depths of slumber. She charged through dreams; armed with the blind belief that person she had become--due to his presence and absence, would surely be worthy of his declared respect.

Artemis was tired of apologizing for the tears that streamed down her aging face: she had been taught the wrong lessons in self-efficacy...held to belief that being a Princess meant that public appearances triumphed reality. Social contracts meant nothing in this world. She had been groomed to understand that looks were everything--given as a frivolous gift from the heavens above. It had taken her over a decade to admit what plagued her heart: the reality of the such words left her perplexed and humiliated. It bothered her to be comforted with pity or bombarded with accusations as to her humility in vanity. The oppressive words would result in her sobbing without control, as she chipped away at the lone thought had been birthed at his death. "I don’t understand what’s happening." How could such an anxious and pitiful persons been left in the world alone?

Artemis had no choice other than to tuck away such mischances in words-the world would find it easy to bury the spiel of lyrics flowing from a woman that was easily overlooked, and easier to look over. She was helplessly destined for a chair with wheels; victim to genetic predisposition and a drunken mother. A didactic audience, could be bored by the topic of her looks. The decades piled on on her stare became more distant. Artemis longed only for the nothingness of pain relief; romanticizing the memories of standing in a sterile hallway--safe from the suffering that lay behind a door forever closed. The might of appreciation in mortality would gift her words filled with callousness and envy-the end result always being the same with each argument, as Artemis was left chained to gravity from the waist down. Cursed with paraplegic spells and the anger in knowing Buckles hadn’t known how much she would need his laughter. She was admonished for eternity-a final insult to the injury of grief flooding beyond the limits of what any person should handle. One day a single drop of carelessness fell over the brim of her heart. A stark decision; made by a single belt and a step over wooden surfaces-a light touch to the surface and a smile was all she had wanted to leave the world with. "Just let go." A disease of selfishness had almost left those she cared for with basins of tears and questions-a life filled with a fleeting spell of her sorrow. The blameless reasonings to all those with the laughter of a beautiful Robin; those managing chronic pain and the awfulness of life alone.

She was without parents to grieve the fate laying at her feet. No person(s) accountable for the bum genetics Artemis had chosen to be born with, evidently. There were no scene to be painted--of an adult stricken with woe, trying to barter with a medical professional on her behalf. No one had wept for her...saying "why her, and not me?". Her friend Buckles had been the first person in her whole shitty life to say protective things like: "I’ll always be there", or "It’ll be ok." She took great embarrassment in the fact that his existence wasn’t enough for her one day, and that she’d thrown herself off a cliff of emotions. Artemis resented the world and every other person in it. Nothing could soothe the evil seeds that fell freely over pages, and eventually the book itself began to make her unwell. She was chained to a shoreline; screaming into the violent ocean waters that roared and rampaged by the second--Artemis was cursed to stand as a Siren at bay, walking between world, and attempting to correct the mistruths of the world alone.

Now Artemis fought such memories of youthful friendships at arms length, settling words with spells of displaced rage and insomnia. Buckles had lied to her...he was gone, and nothing was ever going to be "ok". The violence held deep in her heart surpassed that of all teenage rage combined. Her smiles were tied by hollow words and a gesture of raised arms; silently pulling threaded bows loose and managing her lady secrets through tears and the skill in being alone.

A book filled with silly routines and manipulated time had brought slight entertainment to a war-torn woman. It had taken over a decade for Artemis to rewire and reiterate her feelings whenever she had wanted to scream--"I hate everything". A heavy veil of hatred had been lifted by the switch of expectations whenever she decidedly said: "I just don’t know what to do next!" Such simple words were demonstrative to any poor soul that had suffered at the invisible infliction caused by homicide, pulling free from a future that will never exist, and into a moment open to adventure. "I have to keep going, even though Ryan’s gone." Artemis felt so much guilt in missing her benevolent school companion--she felt shame in the fact that an elementary sentence could bring her to her knees and tears running freely. So few in the world could understand the brink of madness-the trial of a minute in Hades: trapped to each second in a moment passing. Artemis was jealous of those without such fear--how had they never known the dangerous thoughts whenever trying to survive the night? They hadn’t any clue what it meant to feel utterly lost--without the words needed to comfort a pain without a name, or the sensation of being truly unreachable: taking a leap in faith and stepping over a ledge, alone.

A legitimate stranger; had taken a knife and stabbed a blade into the direct fault line of the land. He had made an thousands keel over, reigning a duplicitous smile stammering through teary eyes and shaking voices until vulnerability became the brand of all those protecting the memory of Buckles. A man been born to protect those he loved at all costs. He had done an immaculate job in such a short amount of time. It had inspired Artemis to share his memory with the world. She had wanted to craft a tapestry on behalf of their friendship, so that his spirit in passing would never be alone.

The unnecessary loss of Buckles had forced his friends to wedge themselves adrift from his family--everyone was too afraid to feel the toll of his death. Even in passing, no one could find the words to apologize to him on behalf of the passing of his mother. Ryan had never complained about the fact that he’d had to play parent to his mum, and their community was unable to accept the unbearable idea of unaccounted blame--or even question as to how, and why she’d taken a loaded liquid weapon to herself. The Indigenous Warrior community was in ruins--stripped and hunched over in defeat, defeated by a single loss of laughter in the front lines. A sorrow only familiar and known to a man named Ishi; cursed to take his language and genome into the darkeness of time...a lost husband; surviving genocide-alone.

The power of silence made gave the community a chance to mend. Speaking of the homicide would ultimatly mean it was a real event, a problem with no visible solution as to how to bring about much needed closure. Their Trail of Tears continued on. The seedling of her hatred of man was the base denominator in this problem. His loss of life had been represented by a zero, and she was the one left standing above ground...touching down on un-nurtured soil, a rotting pile of rubbish; eroding beneath each step and building anchor as an floating island. Grief for failing on two fronts immersed each waking moment, her eyes forever out of range..mesmorized by a single moment that had ripped a piece of her soul out of every breath, and detracted depths of sincerity from a once real smile. Life seemed so barren--withstanding to the unique sadistic torture found in listening to others recalling memories of Buckles; the words that she somehow didn’t deserve. Artemis had been one of the last people to talk to Buckles, and it left her apprehensive to the unfounded belief--that she had let him down in some respect.

Artemis had lost her competitive edge, trying to forget the affectionate words that Buckles tossed around selflessly. He had once announced that a few bullies were jealous of her talent in sport: handing an orange ball and pulling her into agreement as he said "no, you’re really good." His tone meant she wasn’t paying attention in a way that satisfied him. He’d make her stop and acknowledge the select words, and then Artemis returned to being shy--he was so discerned with getting his point across and she wasn’t sure why. It had always been up to her to wield such talent, to be humble in such talent--with responsibly, and to outperform her own peers with a silent, but deadly respect.

Sometimes Artemis had to pretend Buckles had never existed, as a temporary solution in surviving the day. What bliss it would be...to close her eyes and arrive in a moment, a day, or even a year before such a life altering event. Artemis hated the childish version of herself, unable to admit that she missed the guile-shades of such a beautiful world. It became unbearable to waste such moment to further the vulnerability to daydreams long gone. She was unable to ablate the bruise upon her heart--unwilling to partake in the act of swallowing a pill of copium, unaccepted to the concept that he was gone. Artemis had noticed a gap in a shelving system, a "lack-of" in a genres one could say. It became bothersome to notice that there were no stories written, in which the leading character had died, and the lowly best friend was left to pick up the fucked-up pieces--alone.

Artemis’s life was left with only one of two options: putting down an orange ball, and forgetting one of the last pieces of Buckles--for the sake or mourning...or, protectively holding onto the fundamentals of their friendship, and accepting that he’d never be in the front rows of countless benches. His heckles and laughter would never be in the audiences she had once cherished. She’d forever be left confused--avoiding familiar laughter of passerby, or looking for his spiked hair amongst the crowds. The issue of his murderer was the unmentionable void constructed into the fabric of her life, a hole piercing the center of her heart. The "mistake" crafted by a predictable perpetrator--had resulted in Artemis attempting to hang herself from a wooden banister. The punctilious characteristics she had cherished, failed her in the moments following the epiphany in which life was now destined to be shallow--surrounded by strangers that often made her feel perpetually alone.

Artemis shared her story with the gracious woman, and regained her composure through fits of weeping. "I’m so tired." She had grown so brave in the limited amount of time they shared, Artemis now felt worthy to take the bow expected to follow-up a deserving call for an encore. Artemis contemplated the idea of losing the woman through the absence of time, and began to grieve a fate of being abandoned once more. She worried of the moral work that’d be potentially undone if unatteneded, and the parenting that may go missing--due to her own chemical inbalances. Instead of saying something, the woman sat patiently: occasionally laughing at her antics in explaining nonsense that was included in the fine print of parenting one-o-one. Her warm smile was understanding and gentle, as though Artemis was a toddler--rambling on without formulated verbal composure. They took delight in laughing at the expense of the things passed, shaking their heads together, as Artemis explained the confusing childhood where rationale was rare. The two women had a hard time controlling such laughter, as she drew perplextion in recalling a pathetic life of a child--left in a house where sickness hadn’t been accepted as real. A place dominated by thoughts and prayers, too stupid to be real life. A building where common solution had been thrown out the window, to accommodate the belief that an unforgiving God would always be merciful enough to heal ailments and severe injuries. A cult that believed a child was worthy to be judged at the hand of a single uncontendable judgement alone.

Artemis began to look forward to the womans questions, and even smiled whenever some of her jokes lacked proper delivery. Conversations slipped into short lectures with a strange fluidity. It was fun to admire a woman firmly unaware that she was rarely wrong, and it tendered easier to just take a seat, front-and-center to such a grand insvisible podium and speaker. She had taught the art in shame--through verbal agreements and lack-of-judgement; assisting in the steps in morality and equity through words and attendence. Nobody had ever showed up for her before the Kind-Hearted Hunters. Artemis often held her head high because of the lady, proud to learn from such kindness was a rarity in a darkened world. Artemis had no one to thank, for the opportunity in caring. Rindy and Mel had believed that the life of a leader could be inhertited through mentoring, and Artemis had taken on the challenge. There were obviously worse things in existence, more threatening--than a stubborn orphan that aspired to be well-rounded and respected.

It was within the nature of her savage uprbring--that Artemis took it upon herself to hold polorizing views in the cannonization of right and wrong. The petite woman was the tallest lady Artemis knew--and they were both shorter than the average citizen. Artemis would sway in her songs, and yell “woo!” with sharp vocals that were without a fluted tone. She was the harsh reality that sat below the stages of a famed songstress: her biggest fan…that just happened to be smaller than most. Such important conversations were thrown into the fire of their friendship, as Artemis took it upon herself to occasionally worry about her health. It wasn’t possible for her to put aside her professional aspirations for the medical field, and to toss loaded questions and proponderences at an elder without children of her own. Their paring stage presence was one that tethered them together, as it was proof of their shared love of stage--basking in applause and rain filled with floral-filled approval and taking a bow, centerstage and alone.

Artemis had once pointed out the minor diognosis of body her dismorphia--and how sociopathy seemed to be symptoms of environment-produced depression. They wondered if there had been a genetic predisposition in play, long before the orphan-hood "phase" of life. They had shrugged: the theories given between those with privilege, and those without--stood broadly in statistics, before the added infliction of race being a possible factor. The fairness in silence lingered for moments--there was no shame in needing to disect all that the world screamed in their faces. They were both devoted intellects, artists, and willing to embrace the servitude of the human experience. Artemis was the lost child no one had ever thought to look for-- a youthful, misguided woman that nobody had ever sought out or corrected. The kind woman had single-handedly taught an orphan the value of hard-earned respect.

Artemis found herself in a cave that was dreary and sullen, and began to panic. Forgetting deeply as to the importance in the event that she had return to a bench and began retracing her steps out of habit. She had fallen ill: sipping an elixir that poisoned her every thought. The chaotic liquid sent to Earth by the Gods, meant to test the depravity of mortal compassion. A fragile glass vile; forever empty--capable of destroyed everything. It was a cursed hammer to her life: tearing through walls and destroying the foundation of countless relationships. The lost memories and shameless stares could implement her worst fears into action: sitting in silent hanging moments, forever understanding why Orion had chosen to leave her side--Artemis was forever wed to many, and married to a non-existing presence of an absent husband. He was forever in the background to a tragedy that had occurred before their introduction. Artemis had been so desperate to remain in the moments almost-forgotten--those tucked beneath the resurfacing of seizures and self-poisoning. It was apparent that she was too comfortable; wallowing in a lethargic grieving process-chomping on delicate treats and pretending that a hunched spine meant that she’d been destined to be alone.

Artemis had grown tired of waking up to the judgemental stares of people avoiding her, and so she had traded out the poison for a glass bottle of fermented tea. It was a life choice that would redirect her whole life--even as people around her seemed impartial to her efforts: they were now holding trials for the error of her ways. It became easier to stand beside the Palm Courts and watch as others did their own thing and it didn’t bother or effect her in any respect.

Artemis was entirely responsible for holding her selfishness at bay--expressed in a simulation by a bowed head in the still of the morning. She was forever haunted by the plucking of a string upon her heart, the moment when she’d neglected taking an abundance of caution--when Orion had taken the max amount of opportunity to manipulate time and tune; cranked-up to the ninth speed. The exposure of a night breeze and depressurization upon landing safely would mean a second chance at life; one where Artemis was comfortable being alone.

Artemis built an image of a woman obsrving a deeping crease in herforehead, poking away at one dug out by the softened glares she provided the barrage of women--those making fools of themselves in front of Orion. A cut throat depiction of a woman regretting her choice in loving such a cruel and indifferent form of destiny. His personality had resulted in Artemis standing next to her own husband as an outcomer--forced to sit witness to the spell of women; pretending that his attention belong to them alone.

Artemis had returned to a time before the chaos: the time before a ring and a definitive choice. She was left to rip at the fabric of time that held her hostage to a fate that was no longer stood in line with reality. Ryan would never be standing outside her door--and she had been indifferent to the rest; by the looks of the social experiment. Artemis had arrived at the second year of her sobriety, and began to gaze upon a door that was filled with static; settling on the idea Orion may have changed his mind. Maybe her love; was never really going to be enough for Orion. Maybe there was a better-fitting partner for her, than that of a philandering individual had offered. She began to worry that the pages of a girlish diary meant her actual husband was out in the world, wandering around and shit, unkept to the usual standards of men; wife-less and alone.

Artemis grew manic in the worry that she had miscalculated his emotions; mathematics were bullshit either way. She began to pace before the empty doorway, and one day asked her kind friend if it’d be ok to pass through it. Orion seemed confused as to the idea of a stranger approaching him in the wrong mask at the corner meeting an exit, and going about her day. An old neighbor seemed to be in denial that he appreciated her entry into his day, and Artemis had noticed his stature in shadow. The things that couldn’t be scrubbed or edited had let her beging to piece together the paramaters of a game meant to leave the players dead. She began to wonder about other men, a sinless sin to a woman living in a simulation. It would be torture for Orion to see her face loosen and glow rosey as she giggled whenever men fumbled, or fell clumsy in her presence on the seasonal occasion. Artemis was ready to let go of the culpitory guilt that came from longing for a man that was unable in chasing between unattainable riches, and a bottle filled with empty promises. Artemis stood beside both of those decisions, in every respect.

Artemis pointed at the rustic door as she and Rindy sat in the park reading a book from the magical Library that only appeared at Midnight. She was unsure if it was ever a good time to point out the frame’s strange ability to follow her…at the heightened risk of sounding insane. The woman began to walk around the squared arch that stood in the middle of the lush greenery and traced the area with calm precision. The door was beautiful and mysterious…just like Artemis. The woman asked what could be on the other side of the static veil, and Artemis just sighed in relief that the woman could see the isolated door standing upright in a forest. “I don’t know, but it’s been a part of my life since I can remember.” Such words were the sulking admittance of an orphan destined to be plagued by depression and substance abuse. “I wouldn’t mind getting married someday, and I’d like it if you were in attendance to all of that formal stuffs muh lady”. Artemis had learned the craft of saying the things she meant…when she meant them, and the door held a luring desire that would be subconciously related to whatever random dude she chose to marry, eventually. She began to wonder if it was considered self-righteous to be annoyed that her husband was late in arriving into her life--or, if that tick of agitation was just part of the gig called marriage. All she knew, was the fact that somewhere out there in the world…was a petty, brooding man upset by her absence somehow. What type of chaos had he caused; by convincing himself that Artemis’s was without his ring settled upon her hand intentionally. Hoe was probably sitting on another bench--aloof, capricious and unaware that she had been busy crawling around in the darkness alone.

Artemis had dreams where five men would take turns arriving at her side: laughing that she grew upset at simple things like losing a wedding band--out of pending annoyance to the onslaught of neverending words of a sharp-tounged husband. She lived a blissful life in her dreams--lives lived through formulated memories that followed over from a past life. Artemis had realized the torturous fate--cast in loving one man and admiring another: where commitment to either meant a life dancing by herself; alone.

The curse of lucid dreams meant a curse of exhaustion beyond-all-belief, and the tapping and hacking into a retro-dated simulation. Artemis awoke in a dream, covered in debris and clothed in textures to delicate to describe. A handsome man with whiskered eyes held her up, and lecturing her for taking up the challenge--answering an acient Sphinx’s riddle; in order to retrieve a tesseract. Suspense lay in the somber tones of settling dust and an invisble orchastra. O my gosh. Love had been the meaning, the secret to immortality all along. The immeasurable damage to the loss of love; had been its own trial alone.

Artemis compared loving two; nine-tailed foxes, to that of loving two mercenaries--both were emotionally unattainable: grimly to her emotions and forever searching for answers in the inky darkness. She buried true depictions and feelings in a place known as the Silent Sea. The presence of the two men existing in "her world", were the variables in motion that brought the Church-Turing theory into existence, and her indecisiveness had been the evidence that the mind and heart operated on sperate systems. Artemis provided endless entertainment by projecting daydreams of whatever bias served her needs each day, but most she just prefered to be swallowed by pages of books-safe to be in love with thoughtful ideas and concepts, untouchable and alone.

Artemis had once sat down, and regretfully told the Kind-Hearted Hunter; of the misdeeds of Orion: and felt the shame brought on by the erratic behavior of the cowboy-ish Indigenous Warrior. Such confessions were those of a childish girl garnering the strength to face the music, and attempting to prepare those she cared for…for a predictable storm that with unforeseeable damage by way of affiliation. Artemis had grown embarrassed in her inaction to the invasion of privacy experienced: having allowed a man with a handful of nights under his belt, to steal a golden portrait of their shared intimate moments. The woman assured the youthful confession with soft words, lamenting that such instances are common in the modern age. Artemis felt little reassurance to the swelling of confusion that may follow the hypothetical day the man decided to use such a digital weapon as revenge. The newer generation of men seemed so desperately determined to be alone.

Communicative respect, united generational differences in understanding. Artemis had no choice but to ready for the rare chances inappropriate images became a battle, and settled for dismantling the blindsiding part of intoxicated mistakes. Artemis’s shameful silence meant that the two woman could arm themselves for in peace. She had foolishly believed Orion understood the important boundaries that came with the ambitions to be a public figure. He hadn’t. Her illusion was irreparably shattered when hearing he had shown other people a few moments that he had collected: she was too embarrassed to ask if a handful of men had seen her in action, and fearful of what it meant the act wasn’t something exclusive to their closing in on the next steps. Artemis had taken the steps, falling back into the daydreams of false exceptions and a romanticized script that kept her holding anchor on the top of a few stairs hidden in the clouds; alone.

The immature belief that had been placed in a redwood-of-a-man, now served as ammunition to the future prospects of her ever holding the title of a public figure; insecure to his methods of cruel reward. It had been a wake-up call to the fact that most men were hollow, useless, and had an astonishing way of letting her down. Artemis had known Orion was flawed as the next mortal-but, she hated the fact that he had taken the mickey to the assessment of her being a woman that wasn’t worthy of privacy, basic common-decency or respect.

Artemis began to scream into the void: wondering if her husband was busy, lazy, or attempting to discipline her with his absence. She found it pathetic whenever grown men would whine, so she often shopped around, seeking entertainment and occasionally running into a hallway crush. Life was easier casually holding relationships by the night; muting their endless words and opinions, swishing a hand to the left with gentle flick. Nope, nope, nope. Artemis was a part of a new generation of women that were too educated to put body and soul at risk for injuries and STD’s; those that called themselves rich aunties...understandingly progressive and comfortable fashionable shades, flaunting travels and fine linens; a woman defined by herself alone.

Maybe there would be no need to stay on this side of a static-filled doorway, just as...maybe there wouldn’t be a need to prepare for a wedding without a groom. It seemed like a waste of time to try, and she physically became weaker by the day. The world had a funny way of proving that she didn’t belong here: it had found a way to demand that the woman with royal blood bow, and grovel at the feet of corrupt and inept leaders. Even with disaster on every horizon: Artemis only feared an unfixible moment where Dianne’s mask of comme il faut slipped away...to be hunted and left abandoned and alone.

Artemis had seen Orion standing in an empty door frame, and instead of alarming those that pretended to care of their romantic past: she whispered a single phrase for him to absorb. “I can’t love someone that doesn’t even love himself.” The man reached for the doorknob with confidence, but always remained fumbling the wrist-ing motion of turning the handle. There was a lot of clumsy rattling and cling-clacks holding his palm at bay--a glass bottle obscured his ability to anchor his palm in turning the rounded knob. Artemis had liked the saying “If you want to go somewhere quickly….go alone. But, if you want to go somewhere far…go together”. Orion had been the example of a man, often left to be; wandering as he pleased--committed to being alone.

Artemis repeated the same spellbinding words to her friend BamBams, and watched as he took the lead, and secured the other five men that had once cheered on the pairing. Artemis was successful in checking off each of their super-secret sine que non somehow, and granted approval to a quick-witted Prince in blaring white linens one at a time. BamBam had single-handedly led the parade, by being his beautiful self and branching out as a solo-artist: proving that six of the men had nurtured and protected him just enough to help grant the maknae a career built upon accumulated respect.

Artemis was left to stare at the door in conversation, and given agon in the manifesting possibilities it held veiled to her. The self-assurance allotted by sobriety made the door to be of the lesser priorities; to the tangible problems that were present in her life. Artemis took great joy in complaining to Rindy of the struggles in boredom; when watching others drink with added pressures of social de riguer to do so heavily. Life was less messy now that her focus was travel, education, and appreciating the silence and sleep that was provided to someone living alone.

“Why had I been born an orphan?”: the words caused life-threatening aching to brim the ridges of her heart. Rindy hardly had the answers to such loaded questions. Had it been because her mind was without empathy...had her frontal lobe always been slacking? Or was it just the fact that her hippocampus had been lacking? Artemis was afraid to know the answers, but felt proud that she had finally asked the one question that had always held her back. “Why didn’t they want me?”--her truths began to flow from her fingertips. “What happens if I have kids, and I can’t feel anything for them?” Artemis was now afraid of the person she may be destined to become. Such unexplainable torture left her feeling unworthy of the trait of motherhood, and forced to hide her broken self away from the world: suffering in silence, and believing that the harm she could inflict on her offspring was going to be irreparable, meant that she served the world better by remaining unwed and forever alone.

One day; Artemis arrived late into a bleak room holding a steaming Mechanical Boar...and an honorable judge. The conversation had gotten out of hand, and Artemis interrupted the scene; to ask a patient leader who the aging beast was addressing his defense for evidence given on his requisite intent. The judge kept strict sight on the scene and replied "the Jury", with a straight face. It would only be a split second of darkened moods, those of conquered margins of a sporting event of a sixty-two point deficit. Artemis began laughing--grinning wildly as a moment of clarity allowed her to say less. The Jury was unable to be accused of criminally absentia; never to be corrupt--because the Boar had agreed and filed forms specifying the preference of a trial by Judge, and therefore his audience was blameless for their prefidiousness. True wisdom was passed down by a single Judge; casually holding down the law and providing order--patiently waiting for a caged narcissist to realize his bum was to a corner, and to tucker himself out; rolling around in his own shit. The aging con-man was unable to process the idea that accountability could be served and delivered to him, and him alone.

Checking in with the Kind-Hearted Hunters, could be compared to a high-tea time in a marble filled palace on the Broadway. Plenty of small talk occurred over a slab of salmon or warm garlic bread. It didn’t seem like an appropriate hour to bother the kind woman, and so Artemis arrived at their bench early: hoping for the chance where the vast majority of her sadness would drift away by the sunrise. “I’m so scared that I’m going to mess everything up…all the time. I’m so tired, and I worry that I’m just going to sleep away my entire life.” A silly spell of hopelessness that occasionally burrowed in her sorrows; one that comforted by the fact that her favorite number had been sixty-two since the beginning of time-a testiment to blind belief in her dreams and artistic skills alone.

The woman was known to Artemis for saying unfamiliar things like “it’s going to be ok, but whenever you’re ready to talk about it…” Artemis would sniffle: the encrouching tears would feel almost graceful as she attempted to collect herself and practiced such hopeful dialect. She would eventually fall asleep on a bench mumbling of her longing for a hard-boiled egg wrapped in ground breakfast sasauge, and caught herself gently drooling and smacking her lips as the sun rose. Artemis had awoken laying on a stiff bench: left covered in a golden throw blanket, alone.

She mustered frantic focus to her surroundings: looking for the woman with a beautiful voice and a musical bronzed cattle. A strange note caught her eye, as it was scribbled on a square piece of paper and tacked to the side of the door frame that held back her invisible suitors. Artemis read it in a hurry. “Had to go, but I’ll see you soon. Its been good talking to you. -Rindy” The woman had passed through the door without the slightest bit of fear, and had left Artemis with only a blanket and a shitty note. She began to laugh, with the dawning of conclusion that the only way to ever see the woman again-- would be through the entry of the ominous door. A plan that would’ve been implement only by Artemis, alone.

It had been the key to a book buried deep within her sorrows, and the regrets that weighed heavily upon her life. Artemis had been lost in a book that had been checked out from the Midnight Library, and Orinda had been the librarian that demanded she returned the book to the shelves of possibilities. Maybe, Artemis had burnt up the article with the intentions of hiding from its contents--by agreeing to hunt a Mechanical Boar, and forcing herself to rewrite the worlds longest book. It became a fourth wall of reality, to be trapped behind a wall of static in a simulation easily described as "the bad place." A theory that was open for debate to the reader, and the reader alone.

She had come to terms with the woe-life, and still managed to make the room to polish shittily-timed-jokes. The woman had guided her woeful soul through life, and assisted Artemis with crafting its replicated replacement with ink and boxes...through self-sacrifice and discipline alone.

Artemis stared at the door--for what seemed like hella days; wondered of the health of a departed friend: wishing and regretting only the words left unsaid, as any true introvert would. Artemis had awoken to a rare day that was without wishes, but only the regret that she hadn’t the actions to display how much she prized such genuine company and elevated exceptions to accommodate such fine company and build diligent respect.

She took moments to look around and appreciate her carefully crafted life, wondering what universe had been so delicate in its balance. Everything seemed wrong, but her life was going alright. Artemis loved her life--surrounded by people that cared and a new crew and boat to keep her party gucci-and-a-go. The book became less of a burden, and more of an awful grimoire meant to be framed with a reflection captured by the actions of the citizens and their commitment to preserve the frail fringes of democracy. Artemis was unable to hold arms or council, bound by treaties and the rare chances that the Indigenous Warriors found representation to demand reparations for the last two-or-three generations max; weighed on a scale of Justice alone.

Artemis was able to forgive herself for the lack of caring. She took pride in a day where she’d found the self-worth to roll out of bed...saying words aloud like "hygiene is important", and tasking herself with minimal routines that maximized the efforts in overcoming depression. This had been the universe where privacy was real--there was no Princely man with judgemental eyes, but there had been an Indigenous Warrior walking off into a recent sunset. Artemis couldn’t tell the men apart from the crowds of fine-dressed men--dawning shades and apple’d hair cuts, passerby randoms, that happened to be real in a world where Artemis was forever determined to create a better future. Artemis returned to dancing; filled with inspiration and a homey setting where she smiled and swayed, singing and lacing up her favorite powdered pink footwear alone. Dancing in a space all her own, content with the promise of decent sleep--one reserved for those not getting cheated on or thrown into an emotional fire, or beneath a chariot-painted gold with sloppy lies. An angst felt on a Sunday, taken back by the memories of such soggy emotions being placed on public stage; without one shoe and alone.

This had been the world where Artemis was an alcoholic by earned title, and recovering by the aid of the prideful embraces found with those that had saved her from drowning. A universe where a book had opened Pandora’s box; accepting that she’d probably been banned from Olympus for reasons of relapsed awfulness. Upon gazing at her own reflection: she regretted the state of oversight given to the details of blood in her hair. She had forgot how messy the whole "endless battles" thing went. Her pores were deepened by the shadow of a warm flickering light; cratered dents and ridges of ruby shades brought forth an indescribable depiction of her age. Weird week. It wasn’t her blood. To be seen by yourself; even if only for a split moment was profound, and somewhat frightening for a woman--content with being a reservists to a Nation; but, forever prepared to exiled on a whim. Artemis was the type of personality coveted to military forces that confused terrorism with medal-earning respect.

Artemis had taken the hand of a kind woman, and wept on a bench as she asked for help without asking a question at all. "I need help." The three powerful words had saved her from a doomed fate of self-poisoning and naked shame. Artemis had forgotten that the woman had been the summoned to the bench by pure accident, wandering by with a furry beast on a leash, and choosing to ask why Artemis were crying in the public. A soft-spoken female; unable to say nothing, unwilling to overlook the pain that was being carried by a stranger sitting alone.

This had been the universe where Artemis had taken a knee in tiredness to the flaws that held her back, and a handful of people had congregated together; to lift the burden of paraplegic fighting a bummer destiny. Artemis had hidden her face with raised hands, afraid of the world and the awful people that infested its lands. It had taken over fifteen years before the Kind-Hearted woman had cradled her in a motherly way, scanning a child’s face for scrapes and bruises and feeding a bottomless pit. Eventually asking about her studies and leaving her to nap it off; alone.

Artemis had never known either of her parents, so the gesture was foreign and intrusive to an extent. "I’m really sick, aren’t I?..." Any person would have felt embarrassment in discussing a love of substances, coinciding with genetic predisposition. The woman began to explain the many people she had witnessed in their rise to greatness, and how upon achieving fame--blinding fortune and artificial glory...each had eventually fallen ill to their own weaknesses. Each a mortal man, unable to overcome the darkness that swallowed its holder whole-trapped in their own darkened hallway; unreachable and alone.

It had been a sickness caught in its early stages by way of common conversation and diagnosis, but ignored by way of a timeline enabled by opulence and greed. They had each created their own apogee by taking stages by storm, and running away from their own reflection with only the master credits to their own words any hymns. The woman had traveled the world, watching the famed and wealthy succumb to the same disease Artemis had...but those people had chosen to stay kneeling; ornery to the shame of their actions and forever unable rise in respect.

Such kind words had been the reason why Artemis had chosen to stand, running towards a destiny unpaved by all those that walked before her. The Indigenous Warriors had thought that the whole honor and dignity thing, would force her to live in sobriety. In all reality; it was a tender-hearted woman with pale skin and an angelic voice--that had instilled the values of self-worth into a shameless person. Artemis began sprinting towards the fleeting door: needing to arrive and stand before the woman with her head held high once more. "I can fix this." Artemis had wanted nothing more than to thank her for assisting her in the burden of shame...needing to prove to the world that her orphaned title had unintentionally assisted in achieving the unknown greatness that was hers alone.

Artemis stared at the door that had initially been thought to hold the promise of lovers, and was hit with the reality that it had fulfilled its promise of love. Maybe both of the women had been tasked with guiding the other through the door of destiny, but either way…the door had been meant for both of them. Artemis had taken the opposite approach--to what would be expected of a homicide victim. She had wrote a tale of failure and loss, one that evolved around a slain friend: forever only found in concepts and memories, out of reach to an entire world in desperate need of his amazing laughter alone.

Artemis remained sloshing tears, and defending the fond moments recalling a warm voice and playful chuckle. She was truely herself in moments of silence; knowing the unsaid, and how inexperienced moments could easily destroy the strongest of people. Two Kind-Hearted Hunters had found her laying on a bench, and placed her over their shoulders: prepared to assist in dragging non-working legs over the race-track of scholastic excellence, if it meant a life built off of less-tragedy, and more respect.

Artemis had left home with only a blanket of childish admiration and a “shitty note”. The woman had given Artemis confidence by complimenting her larger-than-life affect. An instance of spells and chants drafting over papers unending had reminded Artemis to check-in with caring family and friends. Instead of drafting message or poem, Artemis had often resorted to wandering off--needing to better articulate emotions and life math in the range of a mellow flow of juice spilling over the world. The raw power of will had manufactured a profit worthy of endless accolades and acquired respect.

Artemis often said goodbye with full hugs, canorous tone, and flexing the art of casually throwing up gang signs in public places. She had left the woman with one last poem that had found a way to summarize the honor taken in space of their companionship. Artemis had loved the mentally stimulating company. The worsening nightmares had resulted in Artemis splashing words upon an empty canvas--in case the kind woman was left to pick up the pieces of Diannas rage. Artemis; had noticed a reflection in a cursed mirror--it expressed a fate where she had been cursed with the light of Barber, and preemptively decided to lure away the Caroline-ish individual from a home filled with scared children. Artemis left one last poem; stating the beggining of the end just in case she ever needed proof that the intentions of such sickness would/could result in those cherished having a better chance of surviving alone.

Artemis had found an artistic way to sing past the pages, brimming with pride and vaguely grinning, as she waved from the distance and yelled “ok…byeeee”. She left the familiar bench and stood in front of the static-y doorway. A ponytail placed high, and a shy glare as she turned away with a smile "Good morning, and in case I don’t see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night!" Words that were only meaningless to swine and culture-less turds alone.

Artemis was still committed to mitigating any damage that could be done a woman bent on terrorizing a community to fulfill a gluttonous jealousy with no cap. Artemis had only wanted to prove that her might was stronger than anything known to man--that legacy had made her immortal beyond all those that had come before. More than anything…Artemis had wanted to say a final farewell to all those she loved: beaming to herself and holding the sigh of relief--comforted by the idea of secretly finding peace, walking alongside her old friend Buckles again. It was the only silver-lining to a otherwise horrific story. She had drafted a final poem, to ensure that those that missed her--had solitude; a place to retreat from the madness of a fame that differed vastly from voluntary fame. A shit-show-circus that was a whole category of chaos; a separate genre of terribleness alone.

Artemis suggested they take comfort in the memories that had served her on a journey meant for no one person; pleading that they remember a woman holding audiences and flaunting fine threads. Each song had been sung with the undeniable strength held in her worries in attempting to change the world. She was ready to walk through a door of unknown without regret....ready to forgive whatever judgement was passed along to her heathen soul. Her argument was won by way of preparation in script and predictions, and backed by the fact that no mortal deserved such sorrow. An orphan today, an orphan tomorrow. The excruciating pain in paranoia and survivors guilt had meant that every fiber of her being had been poured into a labor of love that was meticulously designed and engineered; to make sure that nobody would be left at the mercy of the same sadness that had once made her feel unexplainably alone.