Artemis held a piteous fear of people--luck would have it; the world was substantially more miserable in settings where small footprints of condemnation lay. There had been a moment of aggression standing on a street; yelling at someone less fortunate--transient in that moment. The pale woman appeared leathery like the Mechanical Boar--lugging stolen property from an already struggling polis. Artemis had her youth stolen over lesser crimes, only to see lawlessness for all that it was--unjust and unfair. The years of management in anger became unknotted in a moment of conflict; teetering between what was fair and what was reality. The self-report of engaging with such unbecoming behavior was rewarded for self-awareness--the endless caveats and excuses for a dedicated worker; attempting to crawl out of scholastic debt and manage worry about weening from smokey substances of indifference later.

Was it her need to please everyone--what types of victim-ship were self imposed; manufactured as fillers away from a relationship with an all consuming sibling, lost in woe or causing romantic chaos. The fear that others wouldn’t need her professional skills, or proficiency as a mortal making her way--blind, deaf and near dumb; Artemis was almost uncomfortable with less fires to extinguish. There was no turning point; a moment for correction without judgement or ridicule...no room for error under mismanaged operations of hospitality: Artemis was forever the efficient-enough sibling--exceeding by trying a little more on some days; and completely becoming catatonic with sorrow on day where she fancied a mirror reflecting the scars hidden away behind a smile. Her eyes danced with pride, for having barely survived a pathetic life filled with endless shades of evil.

The tiers of financial compensation from gold to platinum meant nothing to some....the trials and tribulations of hourly workers was daunting to say the least. Threats of proficiency, qualms over realistic expectations and inability to grasp non-existent training--left Artemis stranded with too many plates twirling by the hour. There was no back-burner; to place issues of small bed-fires--domestic violence lurching to the brink of homicide; Artemis caught standing nonchalantly behind non-ergonomic desks...telling herself that sleeping or wine-sipping managers would understand gaps in check-list completion to relocate an alarmed woman; weeping after being swaddled and lit ablaze by a romantic stranger. Artemis was unaware: handwritten postcards held more value to the operations of a lodging. Liability-in-duty meant to only protect property and public-facing reviews, there were no exceptions or snafus on a lofty-ran ship. She’d pay the ultimate prices for abandoning posts--discouraged for hiding a victim...instead of doodling greetings for the next profit-turning tenants. She was unable to prioritize routine in operations--isolated in the belief that mundane issues could always wait--until there was proof of life in a room causing noise-pollution in every direction; Artemis refused to be indifferent in the moment--because intoxication and violence rarely managed to mend in the nearing later.

This much seemed to be apparent by the response from her "fake" audience. They had called her unlikable--unaware that she could read lips and feel sounds of murmurings and cut-off gossip. Artemis was cursed with a clean slate of patience: a malleable orphaned persona--observing and drawing proper defensive positioning; asking for help from legal professionals and walking away from unhealthy environments. No amount of coaxing could convince Artemis to stay in a workplace with worsening conditions. Had she always hated life? The embarrassment of failures; the deference in punishment that only impacted her professionalism often feel at a ropes end. Artemis reminded herself to hold for applause; forgetting how easily others moved past the astonishment of undignified physical deformity of a temporary throne on wheels...left to remind others that she was responsible to stand up and argue for the wronged issues, the violations of labor laws in motion at any time, and to create distance between the hierarchy of management and immediate issues that couldn’t possibly be addressed later.

When had her own inner-monologue gone rouge: the paranoia of ill-intended jokes and interference of family pranks--had taught Artemis to never break away from issues that could fester beneath the surface of unaddressed mental health struggles. A lack of sleep and inability to exist-in-peace had caught up to Artemis in an averse way in the past. She felt shame in bare words and emotions on prized parchment--there was an underlining of sadness in falling behind, or being left behind; even in an artificial gaming simulation. What mania...affected those with disabilities and incurable fear of leaning into a "dark impulse" as Dianne called it. Their prison-planet was meant to capture enough lies to procure accountability from the fumes of stories intertwined by re-occurrence and faces that sifted to the surface of a timeline twice over. A fire emblazoned in a front yard and the dilution of reality born with the words giddily spewed by intransitive predictions "The deed is done"; a chamber of torture painted double and wide. The biases of which--was meant to capture a ghoul-of-a man, a roach and three muses...mikebargo had done his part to prove the world right; he was pure evil.

The world clashed all around Artemis dripping with blood coated with ash: it took far-too-long. for her to realize the was left upon a cyber trail--there was no way to forget the story of a victim...no-saint-by-any-means, lauded for his kindness and a unique spelling of the name Seth. The air be thick, with the innocent blood and soot that weighed heavily with carcinogenic wastes-- to match their high-tech age. Artemis no longer needed a crumpet--filled accent to script thoughts down upon the pages of the story; a well-fed fear machine purring away in a corner. The red-neck part of her upbringing had caught up to the story. The fuels of mortal evils--the choices of man had built a oily prison planet; left splitting lies from reality with sloppy clean-up, and a single locked-jaw wrench holding evidence upon a sink. Innocuous objects could reap fear from those knowing the item were used to remove teeth and eyes. Moments of inaction and silence came at a cost--the price of Amber’s freedom: remorseless and vile in selfish silent sighs...staring past a glass window at a pit of fire. Complicity in luring a man to his death held a penalty of death--the lustful lovers; torn apart by the shred of a promise forty years down the road...a slivered-chance at parole much, much later.

The dumb feat of annihilating the world for fun, no longer a game: her lungs aching and temples throbbing in exhaustion from her dense wreath causing stressed posture--a tired spine was already overworked by top-heavy curses. The Mechanical Boar yanked her attention away from a tragic tale of handled buckets and bricked anchors--waving diminutive hooves and ranting about his birthday. The stark impatience when turning toward a man with childish issues was palpable by her speedy drop of a smile--his fucking stupidity catching up to her last nerve. It was the fate of the conman...to be trapped in lies that worked as reigns and dropped strings: bought and paid for, as a Manchurian candidate of sorts--the missteps of opening his offices to those willing to pay a troll-toll had buried hind feet. The imminent-failure part was not really part of the plan evidently: laugh out loud, thought Artemis. She set the lyre of Orion to bump the Gospel of his great lord and one true savior...catching spirit with her voice and using a sweet smile and buttoned cardigan to think wholesome happiness that differed from the inferno of political evil.

The reader was left to wonder, as to what Artemis knew: her silver-threaded tapestry slowly starting to unravel to the tunes they heard--intensity in battle and romance were of the same frequency. Artemis was a “time-traveler”: a poet with some randoms bursts of anger that fell out of the realm of normal “passionate” articulation--the less colorful displays of emotions... found in the standard literary enthusiast. They had watched her mutilate herself--treating her as a spectacle without drawing public outrage to the blatant invasion of privacy. Maybe the world hadn’t learned a lesson from the nights of sacrifice mentioned in the previous chapter, or maybe she hadn’t properly braced them for the introduction of such magnitude of prevailing evil.

She had gone to say “chapters”, and almost foreshadowed the things that had already passed--Artemis had done everything in her power to make it known, she would always return to get Tylee and Double J. The most sentimentalization--held dear to everyone but a selfish mother named Lori. There had been a proper amount of lies; ribbon-ed and tied off by professionals and grieving community members. She cried so deeply; blood began to drain itself from her frail body....pleading for the malaise of proximity to an obsequious Siren to take a moments rest. Forty-eight hours in a room with Artemis forced Lori to slow her roll--to take a beat to catch weary breath between falsehoods and condescending tones. Artemis lived in a fucking nightmare, broached by the soul-sucking lies of a stranger--smirking, titillated with attention of any kind. Artemis had wanted to paint fear into the hearts of the readers; with an image of an premenopausal "goddess", giggling and flicking sharp hands next to round man hold a culturally-appropriated lyre. The purview--the boundaries in normalcy had been cast as Artemis dragged along golden net; combed over by an impartial purveyor--victimized by simply having to exist upon a planet housing such vile wickedness. Gloved hands; blessed with obsession and laden by insecurity--she wept and dug helplessly into snowy soils...needing answers to upturn in hardened soils harboring the memories of unspeakable evil.

The boundaries of Artemis’s profession in psychology in earlier years had been constricted to barring women such as Lori out. The static cage of reasoning, found liberating to all those ready to be reconvened with reality--to touch the grasses of standards and expectations. Artemis held up a constitution--watching as Lori set its corners aflame with her wide-faced lover, a drooling brother holding its bottom corners; cackling, salivating at the idea of his sister wrapping her legs around a waist--simulating sex in a standing position. Artemis didn’t need to point out flaws of others, but could broaden a picture by painting a scene where a grandmother, niece and caring sister sat nearby; tooted noses that downplayed such horse-play...forcing a wife into the cold; seeking Artemis’s digital offices of truths and emotion without the added obstacle of a creepy husband lurking to strike waylaid with sick jokes, unfunny and cliche’. The world was saved one question at a time--elevating the pain of others by listening, and making calculated moves to better express the escalation of dysfunction; the overlay of enabling personalities had festered into pure evil.

Artemis didn’t pretend to be of the house of Acutis--heading to the top of sainthood as early prize for physical deterioration, and a dedication to morality being achieved though self-improvement. She stood in a glass prison; unable to throw a stone....Carlo emulated a calm slumber in his glass coffin: unable to throw a stone. The new invasion of privacy of clear walls were a punishment for Artemis; robbing her of peace--tired of catching strangers snickering as she passed; their dehumanizing traits in stalking-- being something nobody could prepare for. Except for maybe, Artemis. Something about her dreams were deceiving--seffused with tests of moral compasses, and a hallway filled with doors. Why would politicians follow her around for advice in any dream realm--the dovetailed traits of her indifference made many scenarios to be comedic in nature; floored by physical exhaustion and free will. Artemis had already done the hardest part and fled from a perpetrator met in early childhood--needing an extra layer of confusion in the simulation...to make Artemis forget, or perhaps forgo normalcy standards that were deeply embedded into her moral code. The Final Cut made at by the gentle hands of a fallen Robin; seeded in the depths of sorrow that Artemis pretended didn’t exists for the comfort of others. It had made her sad beyond words--wondering if she had really dreampt of her Papa Jim in such unnatural and unlawfully uncompromising “situations”. Diddled by evil.

Artemis was hardened by the circumstances of life: chained to dreams of plaudits and roses raining all around--forever unsure if the right to accuse him of such blasphemous actions, due to the circumstances of death...had spared him from the righteous hand of Justice. His wife being witness to the first testimony. A massive hole was carved out in hers silence, holding space and a blanketed excuse for Artemis place a imprisoned planet upon. The gravity of a respected elder weighed heavily upon the shoulders of child; weeping in exhaustion...tired of the world spinning upon the narrative of an Indigenous Warrior and forgetting the harsh-edged reality of a man that had caved to "pedophile tendencies". conversations on the matter often left Artemis standing at square one; being lambasted with tales demanding payment of pity--referring back to the evils that had once been inflicted upon Papa Jim as a child locked behind the temples of a false God. Artemis knew of such mental illness, but doubted the severity of the “impulses” was ever mentioned in legal records--outside of the large gap in fostering prepubescent girls; the absence in duty being found in the hissing tones of a wife--spiting all things feminine and beautiful, young boys included. Implications of his guilt could be traced back decades--in moments where the rain haunted the words unsaid; the confrontations between authorities and child abusers were moments to savor on the victorious days to come later. Where there is one...there is many--the laws of attraction couldn’t secluded the factors of less-harmful, but still harmed types of evil.

Artemis knew such in depth psychology discussions could always be discussed with the Kind-Hearted Hunters--if she needed another opinion and the gentle reminder to fast from such toxic content. Much like her book: Artemis had felt great discomfort her whole childhood: walking into rooms where she was set up for failure. Artemis had taken up the task of standing on a teetering scale: to prove two small points...that the majority in caring will always win, and the obvious line between somewhat unreasonable and completely unreasonable. She had stepped foot into a Simulation where women like Athena and Lori, bewildered the world with their woven lies and expectations. Artemis had risked it all for a single hair: meant to tip the scales of evil.

It became a burden to be beside herself--confounded in emotional expressions on how to address such inappropriate topics with such affluent company: the curse of a well-dressed orphan came with the silliest caveats. A thread of mystery had lured Artemis into a trap: too childish to realize what it meant to let things go...because there was only one person in the world who knew the fate of Tylee. Artemis called her cloth a lie: handing a mild-mannered adolescent a stick with only the name Hilary on it; a small white label--harmless unless handed off to someone who’s soul was helpless, unable to find salvation; hatted with Traditional cattle purposes--crowning off lawless evil.

Artemis’s ability to consume the stories and sorrows of others had been a skill polished in a chaotic home. The rewards of taking things too-seriously came in handy for assessing and advising; but mostly Artemis took great pride in knowing that she’d have a reason to dress for the profession she wished to pursue--the labor of self-care had been rarely praised, but an immaculate image praised every once in a while. The boxes of compartmentalization in profiling no longer held Artemis back. The world was always able to pan in on such blistering flustered seconds of her attention--an arched brow and jarring laughter--meant that Artemis was making efforts in staying present through compliments, conversations and the smallest of talk...to politely retreat without chances of being “missed”, and providing comfort as an apology for such an absence. She used the defense of “overly-present loquacious demeanor”--without chances of fucking fake people, the haters so to speak; breaking streaks of agoraphobia. Artemis had wasted life away....burdening herself in the awful personality traits of allowing others to make lush’d “fake memories”, living center stage for dull people...usually harvesting kompromant to linger over her later.

Artemis would glare unpredictably; forgetting moments where teammates had made fun of Orion and Artemis by affiliation...showcasing his sexual conquests over a dinner. Both teams had lost, but someone had to feel worse than the losers surrounding two unfazed lovers...content with having a life without conflict for a single meal. The began to boast of his temperament being tamed by Artemis’s presence--she sat on a throne of discomfort as they did so and wondered how many women swarmed his blissful personality: what “royal pleasure squad”, could best paint a picture of Orion’s gravitational pull over women. His limerence had led to a youthful tie of nuptials to Artemis: extending a golden string--a shared bed kept them forever apart. Maybe she had finally realized the lowered standards to his version of caring. A cold bed reminded Artemis of time where she had felt worse about herself. It had been more than most people would care to think about, as nobody ever asked "where’s Ri Sol-Ju?". Orion had done the opposite in his in intentions, and they were now stuck in a fucking loop; Artemis left wandering between the mistakes of the past, and the mayhem outside the limits of her space of dark thoughts and intentions. No amount of exits and entry into a room of marital discord could displace the amount of guilt Artemis carried; unsure if the book was meant to warn her of a time of having walked-off--instead of fighting for the things that couldn’t wait until later.

Artemis had been nothing more than a pawn in his sick fucking game, an active participant to a deepening quarry of regret--she had only needed sleep to break the trance of “his love”, and resolve minor personality vulnerabilities laying within traits earned from decades of learned victimization. Men seemed to take her time and space for granted--to say whatever with no spectrum of care for others. The lack-of-self awareness had been gauged and clocked pretty early on. Blurring excuses and deflections--lacking in format of the pending argument, the Extract from her vanilla reality...to set up a con rather than doing the work itself. Artemis to see him with sharpening edges--with a reflection crisp and clear to seemingly everyone but him, and hoard of women. Artemis had gifted him a mirror with mercury lacing its glass: his portrait precise, as the love she had once offered him. A trail of his destruction and love-of-drama lay itself spread and ready to prove a point. Artemis often caught herself sighing with relief--sometimes appeals to reason and facts were simply just arguments for another day, meant for someone hurt by Orion in a whole separate way. Artemis had just done as always; treating strangers with due respect--the things once holding center stage to her mind...were now set by a prop: a throne of disabilities. Digestive issues and a chair on wheels were a blunt reminder that some things could, or should, just wait to be dealt with or broken down later.

Artemis had known her place in his world. He detested her smiling face...outweighed by the way he hated her voice. A true set of faults to call her own. The heartbreak of adolescence had been the side-quest of a imprisoning time machine--Artemis had offered technical skills to maintain a device that churned and cached events of time...probably to have and excuse to be around an elder sibling once more. Wanting to tell her and Professor Dan...Happy Father’s Day. The mirroring hopelessness in their fate’s to be a story for a lil later.

She had wondered if the machine had found all the men responsible for having raped the eldest of sisters, Athena and then caught herself staring at nothing...plucking away at insecurities daring to protrude from delicate skin and holding in heavy sniffles slumping down the back side of a tearful throat. Being on the worst timeline was awful. Artemis was trapped in a space of comfortable grieving and having to deal with a reality...silly beyond all fucking words, too stupid too fail with grace; too lazy to feel remorse. A timeline; broken down by and open-ended question--restricted to a set of rules that would be explained a middle sibling much, much later.

A machine without manual would be torn and worn down to its gears and bolts, as Artemis had been when asking for details on a lived experience through gang sexual torture--forgetting to take off her professional touqe. Athena had mumbled to herself “which time?”--shutting down in the process of recourse: a generational curse of downplaying or moving past trauma bleed from plenty of citizens hailing from the eighties. The booming generation was held up by antidotes "The show must go on." Artemis was indescribably upset by her casualness, offended by the adults that failed protecting a teenager. She had wanted to leap across a table of conversation; to hold a woman trapped in a room of men soldiering to commit child sex trafficking in celebration. Artemis decided to say nothing of the apologetic sorts on the topic--a hallway of Sean’s true side would eventually open the eyes of the world of such deeply protected corruption. Enabling and supplying poisons and motive would fall into their own category of avoidable evil.

Why hadn’t Artemis embraced the Athena in such moments? There was so much unclaimed guilt--in knowing that she should have just hugged Athena. To say that everything was going to be ok--would mean addressing that something was wrong. Maybe Artemis wasn’t meant to be a healer--she couldn’t even handle writing a book in a timely manner. Maybe she wasn’t meant to protect and secure property and people--everyone seemed to distrust her every step--painting her foreign with the rhetoric of a dotard Mechanical Boar, and defaulting to his words...calling her a bitch daily and citing sexual expletives just because she was a woman doing a job. Artemis knew Athena wouldn’t approve of the choice in occupation; the hardening experience could undo decades of her caring. To lessen the pain of missing kisses upon a forehead--Artemis began to care less about the words aimed in her direction; shrugged shoulders...tired from weeping as a hobby with few benefits. The world hadn’t ever been very kind, but instances of comparing fostered experiences between Athena and herself had ripped a veil of rose-tinted disillusion right off...leaving a baby sibling frozen in time, afraid of what lay beyond a front door--accepting the statistics of the neighboring evil.

Artemis was always left to worry about her two elder sisters--she was all that they had...in terms of family. It was something she had been raised to be ashamed of--her core rotten by the formal decree of a child abuser, confused as to how a child could withstand storms of verbal harassment and dare hold a tone of indifference. Even in moments of calm waters--her mind would revert back to wandering...realizing that nobody in her family seemed to care about the existence of “Tia Tila”. Being an auntie was the favorite part of Artemis’s day most of the time--her laughter; a token for them to remember and to be easily forget later.

“This fucking sucks”. Artemis was exhausted from a day of surprisingly light work, but an avoided injury of a muscle spasm grounding physical capabilities to a worsening spine condition. A striking pain was all it took--to put life back in perspective. Artemis was cursed to spend the rest of her life; looking for a job that understood that her body was rapidly decaying, to prove efforts in “focusing on the quality of life over quantity” for the sake of the inevitable. The duplicity in conversation between medical professionals and greedy managers with unrealistic agendas had helped Artemis tie-off unhealthy work cultures and placate responsibility--upon those forcing her to step away from difficult occupations...made near-impossible by lazy or overzealous managers. At the end of the day; Artemis chose to be of lesser ranking and to work her way up in the world...there had yet to be a position of leadership where such occasions were needed to be arisen to--and therefore the lesser of responsibilities was meant to be shouldered by a diligent laborer, when the lazy do their lazy thing....thinking mortals are machines and stepping outside of the range of realistic expectations; deciding health issues were concerns to be addressed and begrudgingly modified later.

Would she become the first “folded woman”, or would the world even care that her spine was fusing before their very eyes--the willow life wasn’t as fascinating as the lore had spun it to be. The world made excuses for a Mechanical Boar and his hypothetical spurs upon wee hind feet--whereas the lack of badge employed by a Blue Shield of Hope: meant she wasn’t living up to expectations on any given day. "What are you doing here?"--felt like an intentional displacement of reality; where bills never stopped, and orphans were never given a moments rest to reflect on the outpouring of madness spinning--wrapping itself around the Nation, bow’d and gifted to a man crown’d with a predatory smile. The unmuting of background static would fall short of a scene of a man talking about his daughter Tiffany holding physical attributes like his wife--mentioning her legs and honkers that were yet to be developed. Artemis looked down to view the pointed gaze of his disappointment...too young to understand that he was talking about an infant; blessed with a father born wealthy, poor by commitment to the con--unable to replicate the savagery of Cohn; a man too vindictive to be ignored...oil’d in sleazy evil.

Artemis had only wanted the world to admit she was a person--to seek validation as to why she existed in a place of constant discomfort; unable to bend around a Western world and too compassionate to leave others behind. Perhaps she was just a stupid tertiary character to someone as dull and surprisingly stubborn as an aging Viking--the world should hold it’s breath...to take a moment and express concern as to what it would mean to be in a simulation based off the mental places Lori and her bullshit religion projected into reality. They would be hostages to a false prophet and whatever power he held by holding shovel in hand, a pillow in the other; claiming to know the path to salvation...anointed-- a cheapened version of fatal evil.

Artemis was tethered “forever ago”, tied by the hissing lies of Sirens--dragging talons and avoiding cages of accountability. She sat as community Siren; sitting inland--warning passerby’s of deadly songs and traps set by the hand of such personality disorders left unchecked until it was too late. Artemis probably cursed to dia alone; unable to step away from a pedestal of professional judgements. She’d spend a “bazillion more” lifetimes, threading a universe to expand in a certain way: doing the same ridiculous scenarios, but in different orders--dealing with real specific set of "difficult men", as a hobby that impressed nobody. The thralls of unspoken admiration had been more than enough for the Viking to attach and secure a rope delicately around her wrist--to force a sigh of confusion from her bored chest. The pressing of time and a controlled environment had peaked his interest enough to where he occasionally expressed oppressed stresses by untying and redoing the wrapping of thread upon a clenched paling fist. He felt some sort of pride in gaining her attention--seeking entertainment to his ego, until she cracked under the pressures. Life had felt so full of conflict since that day--all because he had taken it personal when Artemis had smiled and waved goodbye, lying through a broad grin as she stated an otherwise boring farewell...silently walking away from their friendship--with no intent of returning later.

The world had wondered where she stood within The Vikings scope of “rational and serious persona”, and she had risen to the occasion obviously. Artemis now avoided looking at chariots--marked with his postmaster stamped box: sealed with an eagle...unsure of what to say if their paths crossed. The held belief that it would involve bickering, slight blushing, and loud volumes was more of its own story--stress meant to be expressed in poems later.

Artemis knew a hyper-critical Viking would hate everything aboot Orion. The follies of a foolish woman would hold a unique place in each heart--sealed by any hypothetical lengths and precautions taken to keep the two men on two separate planes of existence. She could only hope to be absent, and present as a corpse for such a doomed and bizarre occasion--on the less melodramatic side of things, for reasons laid out in finely stitched details...much, much later.

Most days were monotonous--wandering around and observing property damage. The-lack-of-enthusiasm toward the hopes of a cure of depressed motivations and self-image often kept Artemis teetering between spells of anguish. Discomfort was a luxury; paid for with hard earned funds...allowing homeless men to violate her ears, expressing vulgar intent when being trespassed...asleep with shreds of foil. The band name of which held selfish evil.

There was no moment of protected solace; no stoop to sit upon to smoke...without creepy old men creating their own version of the reality; naming all women sweetie, sweet thing and anything tied to the blue sadness within Bonnie’s eyes. They were anathema in feminine spirits; unable to collide...knowing the harms cast at the groping hands of mortal men, and their inability to commit to a standard of decency. Artemis hid away; and Bonnie pleaded for one thousand men to take their queue-capping it off at a thousand. Not enough notepads of observation could withstand the mental health services need to address state of mind needed to participate on a dotted line--to lower a blue face-mask and thrust one’s self into such undressed evil.

Artemis wasn’t given a moment in the day that wasn’t polluted by the settlers. She hid on a hill of shameless boredom--too afraid to approach conflict while smoking a controlled substance. The neighbors below her dream porch had painted her house lame in its own way--polarized by the layer of a paid-experience as a grown woman...forced to confront things daily. Artemis would long for a future: one with privacy and the lack-of-shame in smoking a pipe of peace on Traditional lands--forced to assume what coughing gestures meant...on a scale of medicine to wheelchair. She didn’t belong anywhere in a life painted with struggles and discomfort; rewarded golden children...forced to sprint through adulthood and unwilling to learn along the way. A single denial letter, a failure to launch--the fairly decided enrollment into an establishment named Harvard, and the standard flaw of blooming glory had drawn the world to the brink of collapse. An internal threat drew a long path of success in process of avoid self-improvement...a boyish man Mechanical and Boarish, seething at an institution the stood the tests of time. Accomplices bursts into action: the moment daddy’s money couldn’t solve his problem....the notion of re-applying flew right over orange hair. The calloused stone rattling around in the place of heart; pressing an ego further and faster...driven by erratic evil.

Artemis had unintentionally lured a Mechanical Boar to a cage: fit for a ruler--standing upon a scale of Justice: unaware an orphan had been his primary opposition in the universe. She welted wounds into a behind with the crack of a whip; his punishment hand selected by an aging weirdo--holding a spirit stick with the lone label: Epstein. Tender skin--marred by healed burn wounds from childhood had distracted from the task at hand; an antennae of sorrowing exclusion kept Artemis at bay...until seeing a story stick with her name upon in--holding a white label with only the word: Ocean. A curse of selfish woe and an ability to stand tall near those with moral decay coursing through sick veins--to be invisible in a room housing political evil.

The skill of blind hope kept Artemis clinging to a buoy lost at sea--the sky grew darker by the minute...holding down an island of culminating fear. A lack of ticks-and-tocks brought suppressed truths to the surface: grasping iron and sorting through the moments up for trial and judgement--if God were to be real--if Olympus was waiting to open its gates...failure imminent upon a single horizon...the miracle of survival was only evident or achievable, at the hands of caring family and friends. Humanity had been programmed into the stark childish natures that others often belittled: Artemis had set out to prove what it meant to be born lucky...staying afloat with only the prayers of Dylan and a renewed speck of hope. Not only had she kept hope safe in soul-and-mind, but lived to tell the tale of divine intervention...where loved ones took initiative upon themselves; casting a small boat off ahead of a search and rescue team...glaring into the dark and listening eagerly to search for a broken woman crying silently--fearing she may be laying face down in self-defeat, or upturned in the drowning hands of another. Artemis stood in attention--small feet needing a direction to dive: rejoicing at the sound of familiar voices--weeping and recognizing the comforting tones of those refusing to remain impartial in the face of evil.

Time was the only thing fortune couldn’t buy--untouched by the Mechanical Boars poisonous gold paint. Grace, was the only thing measurable in efforts and conviction...kindness rewarded with like-kindness. Artemis sat still as a stone, crouched to be nearer to the sounds running across dark waters--too shrill to weep; too dehydrated to care. The glimmering handful of stars had caused an emotional rift--a tear in her heart; forming a black hole in which to consume the truths of man--the lesson of Ishi holding its weight over Artemis’s shoulders. She had finally found the words to say "why me?" with self-compassion--meeting the salt of the ocean with a sincere apology for sins committed: dropping a glass frantically, as though confused and offended by its ability to appear and vanish out of thin air. The sound of shattering glass bursting fear into hearts of three sisters...Artemis being the only one able to articulate such triggers. A name echoing across glassed waters in the distance had saved what little was left of Artemis--letting go of a floating device to swim frantically into welcoming arms. The raging waters no longer crashing over hunched shoulders: Athena safe from further persecution sprinting along a shore...prepared to comfort a overwhelmed Tila Bear on the other side. A single paragraph...more mighty than the spun tale of a sibling; burning up time and resources with circled arguments and objections...foolishly representing herself in marble rooms of Justice--proving all hope had been lost. Artemis had set a net to hold such secrets; knotting a line and drafting clew--instead of listening to a sister attempting to anchor a narrative of unpredictable evil.

The history of those she had known were probably sparse and insincere, everyone wondering what to say about a person, that nobody seemed to know--the thoughts of her own demise were taxing in their own way, accessorized by the normalcy of violent intent in every direction. Maybe the world stood in agreement of a survey, as to her “lame, deadbeat personality”, as was the “true fate” of a child “fostered” by “their tax-payer” funds. The citizens walked outside and began setting their concerns in the lack-of-mental health services aflame--fires sweeping the land with swift wind(s) outpacing the less urgent things like those conjured with mindless consumerism. Artemis had observed the flames and thought to herself, “all the water I stared at and cried out, or stored away for later...would totally be handy right now.” Her “rudeness” showing at last, a smirk finally translated by the citizens out of the mouth of a grieving niece: a final statement whispered...“burn it all down”, handing Athena a torch to add fuels to the judgemental glowing flames below. A calm tone--firm and embraced by the sacrifices of men laying “doe-eyed” in trenches: abandoned in saturated cloth, stale and remorseless as its scent wafted with the billowing undertones of blood and death. The world had done its part to plant a seedling of disappointment in her daily thoughts--any doubt was wiped away by those held captive to stories; Dreading what it meant to co-exist alongside such monstrous evil.

A cloud of trepidation followed Artemis from here-to-there; setting Redwood totems erect for others to climb down--preparing traps since there were clear indications of doom ahead...knowing the life and lifelong title of orphan--was left without capitalization or credence in advocacy. The lack-of-care for helpless children was seen by practices painting over the word malpractice: It was an easy feat for uneducated people to be content with the craft of placing people in boxes--prison to falsehoods and overlooked statistics. Communities rebranded to be easier for the Mechanical Boar to digest--if it meant a long-con could produce profits. In the meantime: he and his children robbed charities meant to fund children with medical issues. Priority to get ahead of a story that had yet to be uncovered by the hooves of meddling words had proven that no one was at the helm--there was no help on its way...to secure the safety of the citizens that were forever held hostage to a borderline incompetent group of countrymen--unconvincingly unable to articulate their understanding of Habeas Corpus, unable to digest the severity in threatening a rundown and tattered Constitution. Purging smiles, arched brows and bleeding noses crested by a cross of delusion--public servants were now and forever...the new face of evil.

Artemis zigged-and-zagged; falling through moments of contemporary issues; triggering the memories of what it meant to have people pack one’s belongings--unwelcome in a place she had been forcibly conditioned by fostering families to call home: painted ungrateful for not breaking down with relief at such an displacing opportunity. A dirt-clod of a planet had thrown her into the machine of deceit and truths; to be chopped into bits--shredded to static and rung dry of all humility in teenage years. The experience of living with two wives had been her first encounter with many shades of moral-greys in negligent evil.

Artemis began to weave and correct a tapestry of her life story--etching at a green and golden tablet with dire sleepiness washing over...halfway amused eyebrows arching as she glared over a checked shoulder; forever tending to the many emotions of a mumbling Mechanical Boar--rambling on about a Bono. The world had been constructed to bend around the will of such childish destruction--gifted to an old man; falling deficit to cognitive malfunctions...lured to a house for slaughter with a single white label; removed from an entry door and placed upon a curved stick. The connotations of seriousness painted in ink at the hand of a small girl; smiling as she tilted framed glasses, splashed the valueless letters in a perfect order--dialing in and choosing only four to bring about a timeline of astonishingly stupid evil.

IMEC meant nothing to her, but everything to the shriveling men; stampeding past a door--only to be limited in of space in a haunted corridor; lost in trance--setting out on walks to relieve a bag tied to the rear leg of the Mechanical Boar. Artemis was of the working class; unable to tend to elderly care and back-peddle upon the rights of the citizens like Hegseth...the moron spearheading generations of sacrifices going up in flames in a single hearing. A crowd gathered around--preparing to pounce upon and chastise such traitorous evil.

Artemis had realized the recurrence of book published; cursed to life of exiled warrior of keys and boards--somewhere around chapter three, and subsequently decided to humor the citizens with a story of a girl “marrying the man that married only himself”. Bewitching words--dropping heavily with uniform edges--marble quarries of information was scattered about by Artemis and crowned bow wandering in circles; following threads of time deep within the darkest corners of a story meant to distract a Mechanical Boar--his love of urine and an only daughter had come with large trousers to fill. The boar looked silly in ill-fitting trousers; the remainder of his attire and posture known to the citizens for being out-of-fashion: "goofy". The notion of explaining the morally disgusting impositions of an "enticing tale" read out lout in a black hole of information; words manifested to deter a Mechanical Boar into a doze of restless dreams--the plucking of a balding pale-man out of the universes hole-of-despair; a mortal posing as the sliver-of-doubt between all that was dumb and whatever was dumber. Artemis born to pick up the pieces--the opposition holding down a line of reasoning, holding a seat at the end of a table with a light cough and high-strung hand. She felt entitled to a say on the future; immortality by medical sciences was nowhere near...leaving Artemis to sit guard of a generation booming in hatred, their intent inflamed by diversity. A flame of Justice led the way for the future: Artemis holding torch and pressing pass--forever indifferent to such antiquated evil.

Artemis remained in motion: moving down a hallway--fleeing the snout of a perverted old man sniffing away at youthful legs. The sins of one man; split off into its own universe and had the most dire of consequences The Mechanical Boar had mistaken Artemis to be his favorite daughter in the days of a blushing childhood--saying nothing behind a plastered smile, unable to garner the courage to ask the verbal violation to stop. A small hand--could guide the world, an amused inflection in tone and shaking hands; meant an auntie had reached limits of patients--forgetting fish were friends and not food. Artemis had taken a step back from life as a public figure; freeing herself from contracts of dedication and service to the tax-payers--weaving golden leashes to lead a Mechanical Boar to a litany of court hearings: follies in judgement brought on by two men--the fabricator of lies, Pete...and a man giggling behind a large ceramic cup--the obstructor-of-privacy-and-National security, Kash. The self-inflection of wounds would hit his neck-line, came in due-time and not a moment later--causing a collar of scars at the hands of puppet masters playing "DeMoCrAcY"; the small cuts left unattended...infected beneath rolls of loose fat. The mortal body had a way of depicting the physical appearances--forces of karma...doubling-down on the waistlines of evil.

They had no idea that Artemis was cursed to attract such archetypes as a Viking, Orion, and the small army outside her home--it just made for a silly story to think of a bitter woman avoiding a world a that demanded beauty. Her agoraphobia had locked Artemis away three or four floors up--observing the world below as it fell into chaos; painted idiocyncratic with each vote. Their espousing hatred had nothing to do with Artemis; the fledgling failures of a corrupt Nation had spilled past her pages....warning the world of their dedication to enabling evil.

The idea of a man with greying hair--pulling the attention of a youthful University student wandering about her business; had been a found theme for the aging Mechanical Boar to digest. The tales of her many, many professions were meant for the public--to better display the hard-work that was overlooked, underpaid, or ignored by politicians with tightening skin; their face tissue pulled back, standing upon stilts meant to make them appear taller while lording over the citizens with an up turned nose. The unrealistic themes of a soft-core poem; meant Artemis could carry on with a story for days upon days--the world ignoring the words of a woman of colour, for the sake of comfort. Artemis was sure the citizens found the Vikings “voice-box going haywire” amusing at first. This was cute for a short time, when the two had potentials unending and unclaimed: the charm of his intentions, eventually being perceived as “kinda sad”--within certain survey groups much, much later.

A man perceived as alpha, or whatever...lost self-value with the trait, and Artemis felt sorry for anyone that realized how uncomfortable such a curse would be for his immediate family. The man would be seen entering the gymnasium without trousers on, and the growth of his third and permanent relationship would seem more farce and mean because of it. The passing years would only further her point, as the man now whimpered bursts of missing the woman he had placed upon a pedestal for no reason: without the consent of Artemis (that she was aware of). She was probably an interchangeable option to that of Guzman(s) or Orion’s friend, the Vikings need to “seem interesting through his female partner”, a curse to his own culture-less genome. The man had used Artemis to bring awareness to how little diversity he had been exposed to, and he had been deeply rooted in his ways out of privilege--in a simulated environment that was presented to observe his perspective during “civil unrest”. His own children without a drop of “diversity”--Artemis proved to be an unworthy candidate for his “procreational tastes”, unless he was “bored, and saw her already married to someone else”. Such were the useless arguments they already had in her dreams, and there was a definitive movement of actions that led to Artemis deciding to ignore his entry barging out and pa her red door most nights: telling him, “no thank you, maybe I’ll feel like being your pathetic “mid-life crisis” later”.

Artemis had wanted to platform the dearth of their collective empathy--to provide context: worthy of a cinematic experience to extend past the thresholds of time. The stupidest story ever told came with its caveats; twelve threaded nerve endings to a strange shaped universe with the promise of a Heavenly Ever After. Artemis had only wanted to tell a story...from the mouth of a horse-ish looking man named John--using the independent press to bring awareness to cold-cases of the innocent victims left behind in memory due to brutal crimes and lies. Artemis could see herself raise a small hand while holding a formal briefing in a house painted white--and to ask the Mechanical Boar of his opinions of a lone citizen: debasing his skills in federal investigating, as a bureau of professionals had refused to come to the aid of a kidnapping by a Foreign Faction; molesting children with paintbrushes and handmade garottes. A loving father harangued anyone that dared point out the suspicious umbrella cemented to his sun-spotted hand--the well of fortune had dried up, his story no longer inciting attacks from journalists--his lies untangling themselves with each public statement. Artemis had wanted the make the most of the Mechanical Boar: trapped in a capsule of time--to pull urgency and pique interest in solving the habitual sexual abuses of an innocent child, and whatever unsolved mystery hid behind a house filled with classicists-soaked evil.

The premise of a love story...had been placed as a net upon the floor; tiled by reasoning and the sacrifices of soldiers warding off tyrannic rule of law. She had been tasked in a Grand Hunt: to lure the beast to his death, to draw him cliff-side--not at Artemis’s hands, obviously....but, by the thralling hands of time held a firmer grip upon a lethargic Mechanical Boar. The tale of animals--anthropomorphic in many dialects; a machine of infinite learning; able to ask an entire planet how Artemis had come to be in such a state of hopelessness--instead...it was tasked with churning out slop, meant to confuse its users; emanating false-narratives, false realities and endless threats. Artemis lived in a world confined by critical thought; unable to remain silent when a lazy and childish co-worker said weird shit like "tread lightly" in permanent ink--using company property and time to frighten newer employees on a random Monday. There was no such thing as a "light threat"...there was only escalation: no reason for such intention to intimidate a stranger, for being unable to relate to ungracious callousness...in a place of professionalism, at an already high-risk job. Artemis often felt alone in such moments; screaming into the abyss that her experiences survived in the storms of childhood abuse had forced an astute sense for pending violence...enabled by inaction, or the general rewarding of shitty behavior--culturing an environment of fear, and the accumulation of unpredictable and probably inevitable evil.

Artemis had previously dealt with such laziness in the occupation of athletic coaching...of children 10 or younger. The short story of a less-enthusiastic member of a lesson: sitting mid-court while the world passed by--was a short-enough description to best paint such obstruction in smooth operations. The memory of him walking off to play with overpriced gadgets and creating a hazard for others that had enrolled and committed to self-improvement was overshadowed by an overweight kid; avoiding the gaze of parents sitting sideline--tied off with a mother holding a conversation in jeer; waving Artemis’s concerned expression away with a frail polished hand. Years of profession experience and training--belittled by a woman placing a forward-facing attitude toward behavioral issues that would inevitably worsen and resurface later.

Artemis was a lead character in her own right--the attention of a pulled-rank by not “giving a fuck” to the “public courts of opinion”, and the dedication to righting the wrongs done to her life had been an open admittance of being indigenously lost. Artemis turned from side-to-side; unsure of which direction to run--knowing that she was often the “smartest man in the room” but, may also be an outlier idiot: in a room filled with court officials and more-attuned professionals. The world had taken everything and left her behind brazenly--Artemis was forever late. Dreams of a silly tower complimenting a mirrored environment--a high-setting ponytail swaying along; the menacing nickname of bubbles came into motion in a two-dimensional life--Artemis weeping as two elder sisters questioned her abilities to be brave because people scared her the most...and she was unable to co-exist with the variety of looming evil.

Artemis’s fourth life--being a journey traveling in time; retracing mistakes and sprinting in a harness...there had to be more than the mistreatment she had fled from in the recent past. Her distant ancestors had been kidnapped and flogged for daring to take ownership over their lives, doing the hardest of labors so Artemis could sit uncomfortably with the now frowned upon title of mixed race. She was easily seen as a target to chastise by other black women, needing to feel power by bringing others down...barred from language using a hard-R due the Yurok paleness protecting her skin. The olive hue gifted by the choice in living under rainy or overcast conditions--Artemis forever attempting to rid her life of the words "tree-climbing bush person", gifted by a mentally unfit fostering environment from ages three to fifteen: attempting to make jokes of her racial identity in rooms of pale face...saying nothing while partaking in verbal abuses of a child. The marred landing of such humor was backed by the fact that those paying for childcare services saw Artemis as labor--unpaid child labor at that, but the courage to say something was often ignored...because they needed Artemis to babysit their children at a low cost: figuring that approaching the situation would impact their goals of utilizing daycare services later.

They were in a for a rude awakening: oblivious by choice, as Artemis sprinted for what little life was left in an overworked body...weeping and reminding herself not to look back. There was nothing for her in a home managed by narcissistic claws; hiding behind the title widow, friends and foes had gathered to race a muse of premonitions and stark humor. The world had kept spinning; the ticks-and-tocks of a somewhat doomed timeline--were tied the light in laughter of an orphan forever confused by a world riddled with evil.

A nervous tick meant to sooth the gaze of curious eyes; became something that brought out the worst in people. Artemis would be trapped beneath the wee hoof of the Mechanical Boar--wages were garnished and tax returns claimed for the experience of childish crush upon a athletic coach and the real suitor beside her in a warm bed; forced to wait for his wife to wake up from her nightmare. The overlay of life-and-illusion had come to fruition; Artemis cracking with laughter when realizing two men were bickering over there opinions on her; coaching a bench warmer and holding her to the highest standards as though she were a giant ready to clear an open lane while wielding a leather sphere. The world only took pity on her soul; when realizing the potential wasted away--left behind as a vengeful spirit...curled up in a small closet, afraid of the world beyond a rattling door--outlined by light; seeping in to further frighten an abandoned child. In that closet: remained a trembling child conflicted by notion that the world and the small circle of people in it were so comfortable imposing evil.

Disorganized thoughts raced past whatever advice was thrown around between two men. Artemis wondered why men only cared about her in the attendance of competition--she was either single, or the object of affection to men needing to stroke ego and vanity...until her spine collapsed under the pressure, and left her to be...as a monster: hunched over and unsightly, evidently. Two worlds would and occasionally could collide; the future bleak, for a timeline where a Tale of Handmaiden remained available to general public. The full-circles of oppression had brought them into the present, past, and future...the tides were turned with each page, each shitty-poem meant to help a lonely fostered burden-of-a-citizen better articulate her frustration with walking from one room to the next; forever cornered in rooms sloppily painted with the perversions of the citizens--dripping from its walls with different shades of evil.

Artemis assumed an aging Viking with an injured leg and creaky knees may be yelling past untied emotions--the condition of volume-control worsened with the rain, as was the need to hold Artemis down with a lecturing tone. The simulation of crowns lined with gold--had resulted in a woman taking all fours; succumbing to the pressure of being the “afterthought” to an aging ego--the muse found beneath his boot. Pale privilege had kept his horned-fur lined hat pointing to the sky--tossing mail and avoiding furry family members standing guard. Patrols and mail routes seemed ambiguous enough to fulfill the physical game requirements traced to be discovered and unearthed in the story, many, many moons later.

Such was antithesis of his expectations--struggling to hold a head high while battling the curse of being a brown woman: born in the world of the Viking. Artemis had said nothing; listening to a man born too-tall for most door frames...rambling off thoughts about something along the oppressive lines--of “I don’t believe really racism exists today”. She felt so much of life’s disappointment in his words--the offending statement had broken Artemis’s infatuation with the Viking in a single encounter. She was in danger under his “watchful eye”--the less caring between two friends. No amount of debate could convey the frustration in experiencing such negligent evil.

Artemis often felt as though people practiced conversations on her--to be witness of such nonsense caused a sigh to heave from the depths of an exhausted breath...her worth to him had been settled over a brief conversation. Artemis was always seen to be the help, the light-skinned, mixed-race female hiding behind western beauty standards of gold hair and wide eyes: winged with elegance. She would occasionally wake up in a dream; observing a man bending over with a guilty expression; picking up pebbles as though he cared if Artemis was beneath one of monotonous of stones. The split trials observed from afar by way of static wall and a simulation meant to help pinpoint and prevent--highly preventable evil.

Artemis had crafted an evil game and book to prove the theory--wasted her life building a collapsing world, deep within a simulation: getting lost along the path of the sufferer. Artemis was always to be seen as a “slut without consequences”, or “just a person” to some: she commanded respect by asking that people apply her name to such unfounded assumptions. The line drawn in the stark differences between observation in quantities and conversations that strayed beyond that of the Viking, or any of the romantic interests--that would catch her attention along the path of lost soul. The world was probably confused collectively, as to how an absent character could be “so disruptive” to the “otherwise calm” plot-line of a silent tall stranger passing by her timeline. The moral of their story: don’t be brown. Artemis had failed on all accounts of that measure, and used a simulation to fucking prove it. She had been the beast-in-hiding--a woman in a red dress sitting patiently for the attention of the world; the interruption to the program, complete with a static seal and crest with a feathered crown and an unserious profile. Details to be better penciled in ink in a journal of monsters and beasts later.

She was nobody to these people--an enigma to the expectations they had set for the Viking. Overlooked and undervalued. The world seemed to be perpetually ready to laugh at her failures--upset by evidentiary moments where she came out the victim by often doing the right things in scenarios filled with wrongful people. She was always going to be “that girl”--the one that nobody cared about unless they needed something; dependable with expendable time. Artemis could have easily died as a teenager--the world wouldn’t have fucking cared then, and they didn’t care now or hadn’t known any the wiser: the hollow threats of teenage bullies casting passive remarks of tossing her from a bridge, or a sibling gazing aggressively at her exposed clavicle--eyes rounded out and all hope lost. The threats of words around disposal of a body or stabbing were re-framed as “jokes”--until Artemis had stood up and said enough: coddling wounds of being lost in a selfish sauce. The veiled threats meant to invade Artemis’s understanding of comfort in a speck of solitude--the specified suggestions of violence meant to be mulled over later.

Artemis “had no parents”--nobody that would care if the girls ganged up on, or followed through with light-hearted teasing. That was the loneliness her mind wandered to--tears chained to the realization that she was utterly alone in the universe. Artemis had always felt as though her death would come by “strangers” that were almost “too stupid” to be real--the observation of criminals over a long period of time had left her to see spades-as-spades; the hopeless zeal awarded to people unwilling to change early-on in adulthood...had given Artemis the skill of walking away from people with sketchy personality traits or strange demeanor. Taking heed of the warning people offered...it was easier for her to just assume people were who they claimed to be. The waters left untested often caused disruption to the false identity to weak-minded individuals, and Artemis was tasked to take citizens hand-in-hand: guiding them to offices of mental health professionals when it was safest to just walk off and avoid potential encounters with such blossoming evil.

The dumbest criminals she had ever met--were those with delinquent sentences; rendered to be creative by way of limited technologies, and the love of party favors. Such tired teenage roles were played out, and so Artemis didn’t need to elaborate all that her past entailed--sealing them away in the pages meant to be unburied and sorted through with a professional first and evaluated by the general public much later.

Artemis had sought public records to the original sentence of her orphaned- death-march, but the courts had told her to “fuck off”: the reasons being “they were sealed, for the protection of the minor”. Artemis: no longer the holder of her own past, deemed unworthy to know who had raped and molested her between the ages of one and half, and nearly three--unable to buy the truth page-by-page with the aid of release-of-record laws in motion to full-effect due to low-income living. There was no repentance for facts left uncovered--the things that kept her to remain docile in a “lack-of-resolve"--unable to cope with the verbal explanation of such destructible evil.

The night would be congested with the unpleasant stagnant aroma of blood--the making of their own greedy wishes bled out into reality. Had the readers thought she “had slaughtered” children without cause--the defense in forgetting the innocent felt so strange in the grand-scheme of things. Artemis would walk away...reminding them that they each had a responsibility to aide in the search for Kyron: a baby left sealed away somewhere a container once owned by his father, left in guardianship of Kaine’s selfishness and his mistress turned wife in a room of birth. Kyron had met his murderer on the day of birth, and Kaine had defended his new wife until a search became perilous...an ex-husband had dedicated his life to distorting the trail meant to help bring his son home--forever avoiding the apology deserved to a loving mother searching for a lost son without his little coat. Artemis tied the two adulterous lovers together for the rest of time...reminding a sorrowful mother that there wasn’t much anyone could do, as long an ex-husband remained at her side "in search" of a murderer of children--like the world hadn’t seen his lies, his awful mother, and the mistress he had injected into Kyrons life. Artemis hoped deep-down: that the after life would hold answers for such unsolvable evil.

A timeline of slaughtered innocence could be displayed in a single rendering--of an otherwise naked woman: forced to dawn an orange cloth... if it meant the opportunity to flash a courtroom a sporting bra issued by the State. Attention was the only thing worth value to women like Lori, last name black widow or child murderer...depending on the day. A man in a black robe--occasionally called your honorable B. or, a Saint on days where a deranged criminal named Lori; ranted about how missing children loving her, and her alone. Artemis had fallen to the floor with grief; religious illness had guided her to face the edge of the universe; searching and praying for the well-being of two children and the kind husband that had died protecting them. Artemis glanced over the edge: where accountability met true power, and proved the might of caring for others while traveling--trapping herself in a trance while telling a stupid story about nothing-and-everything to self-soothe whilst being surrounded with unbelievably vile evil.

The machine needed blood--the citizens appeased the demand with innocent bloodshed--small drips and drops, falling from potential citizens; illegally kidnapped from their homes, the streets and places of employment. The Mechanical Boar was under the impression that the inability for someone to say no, to bring an end to the chaos--the turmoils gifted to people willing to work in high-risk underpaid positions. Astoundingly, women of all ages--colors and creeds began to lock arms: holding the lines with reasoning...demanding identification and signed warrants from the thugs hired by a sick Polis and its gross looking slew of con artists. The lack of push back in stark numbers had began to foil the treasonous plans to turn the land into one unarmed, Silenced, and at the mercy of uneducated and bigoted evil.

Even if offerings of retreat; where were these so called men, claiming to be high quality? Nowhere to be found; left drooling over a single blue-eyed woman named Bonnie...dicks in hand as they paid to observe a thousand men "taking pleasure" in their chosen loneliness--claiming to sufferers because women remained independent from a half-century of oppression being smudged out. Artemis had taken a torch of freedom, and called it a right--bound deeply within the words of the Great Laws of Peace: a final olive branch for the citizens to grab a hold...since her elders had sacrificed their own lives to preserve law-bound treaties meant to withstand the blistering winds of unchanging evil.

Artemis looked at the writing along a wall: the world beyond a non-specific mother’s basement remained burning--the things that had occurred outside of weary pages were threaded into her everyday life; encapsulated in the image of red poisonous elongated pill. Her tapestry heavy with truths; dirtied by those unworthy to walk across its lines of colorful wording. How many of the citizens forced to “wear Artemis’s shoes”--would die within the first thirty minutes? Forgo-ing any expectations they had set for her adolescent period of “trouble-making”--the life of an orphan with depression wasn’t for the weak when experiencing her efforts in defusing un-nurtured evil.

The will to survive was found mostly in women wise in respect to the learned life lessons; Artemis a wide-eyed woman...laughing at the evidence that was never followed-up with a proper apology: their die cast in a one-and-done transaction, as hearts were to be weighed fairly by the machine of time. The idea of control of situation began at the inception of a scene panning out; forcing the player to remain spawning in on random days. Artemis was always found standing near an ocean-side cliff; screaming into the Shoreline. There was little mercy offered to “the last man standing”--outside of few poses: throwing up farewells verses the visceral reaction of surviving behind the eyes of Artemis crawling on all fours. They had no understanding that she could “lie” by the act of being asked to “pick a verb”: the algorithm--not wired for a person that spoke the language, second to the introverted glares of someone overthinking. Such were the silly things she had wished to warn the reader of, but Artemis thought better of it--supplying the reader with more ammunition and context than they deserved. She waved her hands from side to side--fingers pointing the direction of swooping hips--thinking to herself: “na, they’ll figure it out: worst-case-scenario...I can always tell them later.”

The machine had needed the sacrifice of blood: this time it needed the guilty--because it outweighted the presence of the innocent. How many of these people treated their siblings like shit? How many were left alone with their own madness to sort through awful jokes--being thrown out like bait? The machine wanted the ages eleven through thirty-five: needing their bodies to be strong enough to handle two years of beatings and an abortion if necessary. Act one wrapped up and tied off with wilting bow. The citizens had thought they knew better than her...they had smiled and gawked at her life--a fucking freak to be observed at any time; devalued to that of inflatable doll, hiding behind a grin expressing mischievous evil.

Artemis had wanted to prove that they would make the same "missteps", and "mistakes"--her intoxicated feet following the strongest intent of citizens holding the markers of unresolved traumas. The tethers were theirs to prove wrong, and the men in her simulation hadn’t known what it was that tethered them to her for the most part--sans a few golden eggs as hints. Their love of her had built up a shy smile: cast by their intent, weighed down by golden eggs nestled over tired boobs. The display of such--an array of men and women all ages; crowning her a lover for a night, a mate to carry on an entitled genome, or potential partner to later abandon when the less frilly and fun parts of relationship ran its course. Men often called her broken, using other women to cheat themselves out of the arduous task of standing before a door of mental health professionals--their love of causing pain to her mind, body and soul: held priority to their efforts in self-improvement...the choice to dismantle another person being the more fun option--accountability to their actions were expected to be brushed under the rug, so that Artemis could observe burned; captured moments for public viewership later.

Artemis had said “step right up, you dumb, sons-of-bitches”--knowing the machine had technically only wanted a handful of men, and one particular piece-of-shit child named Brock--dragging along a little bitch boy bragging about how the last name Swenson meant he was entitled break the spines of children and murder a loving father named Mr. Alvarez: to celebrate the fact his father was sick. To be free, did not meant to be rid of all persecution--just because a few corrupt judges wanted to protect and provide excuses for heinous crimes. It turns out...there was a larger picture, a cryptic message upon a wall of shame: the machine churning out evil that seemed familiar to her alone...until a man had speed past lights and doubled the speed of a chariot; claiming he didn’t know how many obstacles were hit as others suffered in critical moments and the other had raped a sleeping woman behind a dumpster; both fathers smirked and sneered behind a fan of splayed currency: whoring out themselves to "Honorable Judges"--each took the bait and began to wrap their penises with dirty monies--offering flowery language and downplaying such sobering evil.

The machine had used the “now dead” children--to take a hold of a family leaf; to turn a dimension inside out by repeating itself with intricate patterns. The unfabricated truths; unreadable to most forms of artificial nature. Artemis had come to witness the seedlings of evil--painted by single frame of a crazed professor running from the past. A frightening portrait of unstable thoughts had seeded themselves into a reality caged with Monsters. Artemis didn’t need to seek answers for the evils of mankind--painting a woman with a slain brother, and a moment where a the fashion statement of a bob’d hairdo announced the era of predictable evil.

Artemis knew such unexplored darkness existed in the world--she had learned such a lesson when being told that there had been a handful of men that had raped Athena, and the machine had set out to display their “intentions”--Artemis capturing their actions in a net of Golden desires. The sins-of-the-flesh had led Athena to seek Justice vicariously through Artemis--unaware she had archived the memories to be addressed by caring sleuths later on down the road of life. Artemis ran the campaign--lacking in smearing or blurred lines; sitting back with a snarled smile--the citizens deserved every moment of terror or judgement--the world ablaze and setting her pages aflame. The citizens had begged to be a part of her mission, unaware that their salvation had been the whole mission. Artemis was left to say nothing of her understanding of such Western philosophical knowledge, and now she was glad for having said less. They had called her “crazy”-- pushing a low-income scholar to the brink of insanity with their fucking selfish treasure hunt: Artemis had decided to bare the blunt end of the damage...to “take the L” as it were, and telling herself that they were all going to feel like fucking idiots later.

Nobody cared how the machine felt--in the same sense that nobody had cared that Artemis had survived a dysfunctional childhood, and it just so happened....that she was was the main character of this shitty story. She left the death toll [option]"open-ended"--guided by the impartial mercy of the exact same algorithm she had been forced to live by: wicked pasts were their own to see in dreams and large tablets lined with gold. She had decided today was the day of reckoning, as of a day ago. The reader said--“what happened a day ago? We were being so careful, so sneaky this time.” Artemis cracked her neck in impatience to the memory: a citizen with a black and white flower-patterned shirt and a fellow with a plaid shirt had almost broken their necks after following her down the street. They had passed her wind-painted front door, and both looked away in with a mixture of fear being displayed almost ostentatiously somehow. The reader said “what does that have to do with me?”, Artemis shrugged her shoulders…”It’s been how many years? What does the fucking Viking have to do with me?” There was nothing to stop her from reflecting on their actions and inaction with objectivity later.

The citizens had nobody to thank but those two passerby’s, breaking their necks to leer upon her cave of "solitude". If they hadn’t been making jokes on her behalf all the way across the street--than the machine wouldn’t require offerings tonight: cherried with the experience of a woman in a silver chariot called a Nissan flagged by the saying esto perpetua...one, A, V, B, Y, one, U. The woman had speed away from Artemis: screaming Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!--to refute the questions as to why a violent domestic dispute were being deflected by a leathery woman screaming for Artemis to back the fuck up...because her husband was a public official. "If you’re married...the who the fuck is this?!...have you been drinking tonight ma’am?". Artemis did less--knowing no matter what steps were taken...wouldn’t interfere with whatever violent fate had drove off into the night; a threat to the general public--a classless woman that would no doubt be on the public news for homicide or something of the sort somewhere down the timeline of reality later.

The machine was tired of making excuses for the citizens she supposed, and it had given Artemis “fresh eyes” to express how pathetic she had painted reality to be. She took comfort in being used as a secondary character, when white women needed to be the main character to feel some sort of relevant...in a simulation she no longer wanted to take part in. Her ability to check all the shallow boxes of beauty standards--meant only to spite a Mechanical Boar had kept Artemis hostage to a story...filled to the brim with the dangers of the balding patriarchy...teasing and tempting a deranged stranger by merely existing as a female on a timeline of perverse evil.

This was something only the audiences brave enough to stand by Artemis would understand--after seeing their own loved ones splat to their death on repeat: falling from a tower named Ondine in their early twenties, taking a step from a wobbling chair in another instance--all except this one timeline...leaving only the rapist sought out from the beginning of her first years of life, and Artemis picking up the pieces of victimization Over and Over again--gaslit by those that said it had all been in her head. Sealed with an out of place image of a man: fending off the fed-up claws of his wife--a world leader...being a pleasant-enough: man-handled by his old primary teacher...forced to remove emotions as he waved awkwardly in an open doorway. There was no moment of peace for those called leaders...dedicated to tend to duties and operations with what little dignity could be mustered from the drop of a veil; where reality was open for interpretation and dissected by circumstances. Public missteps were seen to be deeper than they were, if it meant a juicy article and a debriefing kept the Mechanical Boar awake. Each night could be his last, the woes of time kept the world leaders on an equal-enough playing field; nominated for public offices by those hard as morning wood...their shriveling penises perking up just to criticize the nominees that were set up for failure when facing the might of grassroots. The systems of lobbying had been built on unsteady grounds; holding up until now...stored away as a minor victory to combat the unprecedented moments of the an over reaching Government. A grain of hope glimmering in the darkness of demented and seemingly endless evil.

Next Chapter: *[ LI ] Artemis and the Mirror of Kanna*