She had wandered in through the rain--frigid linen clung to shaking skin as tired feet led in the direction; out of the cold into an icebox of unattended emotions...those desolate of mortal understanding. The world was void of all authenticity: Artemis was the Swan; dark-skinned--exiled for excelling in two worlds at once. In the darkest of ages: Artemis’s generosity had been overlooked, rewritten by the guise of statistics of all those in neighboring Black Boxes. The virus was unforgiving; biosurety relied on the empathy of the citizens...resulting in selfishness sweeping the land--rewarded with death at the hands of another. The detrimental words gifted to those sentenced to lives behind bars were silenced; screams for help heard by none. Discourteousness came at a cost. How had her story turned into that of a femme fatal--to one of beasts and criminals alike? Life had been a bit brighter...ensuing the public introduction of the Watts family; a clan of disillusioned sick fucks, holding arms to defend an island of emotions. Artemis said less--observing the bombardment of isolated minds gathering from every direction. A mother wept on cue; the blaring lights of fame became too enticing for her to let go...lamenting the "loss of a son"--concerned of his health and opportunities in a prison where he held the keys of truth. The sins of ego began to trickle past sullen pages: the nightmare of second-hand trauma was all that was left for a traveling soul like Artemis, lost along the shores of an island of horrific family dynamics. Artemis had lived an already off-putting life: lost in occasional literary daydreams, pontificating how the citizens had painted new shades and hues of mental illnesses upon a blank canvas of opportunity--disheartened by the hand of fate, and occasionally longing for the suffering of the world to just be over.

Artemis stood in front of the entry of each cell--combing over records of citizens that were now called unmentionable--those deemed unfit for society: the concept of innocence was unfamiliar to those condemned by an easily-corrupted system. She had heard a story of a man; dreaming and boasting of the lost souls of his victims standing in his cell--burrowed away in dreams. She had been tasked in collecting their unrested spirits--to unmask the truths concealed for convenience and pride: to rip away what little antics the murderer had held near-and-dear, and carry away those left wandering in the afterlife to a door beaming with enlightenment. The nightmare of two toddlers slain twice-over, at the pudgy hands of an uncaring father needed to be over.

"There is a wicked human--that honestly believes that he is better than each-and-every-one-of-you...due to his ordained right to obviate children and pregnant women...a charitable "God" has supposedly forgiven him somehow: which makes him less evil...than the likes of you and I". Artemis began to quicken the pace of her Trident hitting the crack-lined pavement--the soft click of patent leather heeling deeply into the stubborn pavement; a high-set ponytail falling gently in agreement to the pages turned upon a clipped board...she thumbed past pages and pages of sins--each prisoner given a fair chance to be heard, seen and their cases looked over.

"The monster I seek--leaks "his truth" out to anyone that asks politely, and demands a fiscal price for coveted words." Artemis began to glare around each of their cells: searching each and every corner for the "loving father" with unabated glares. Artemis had an austere stare--that was occasionally called crazy or dangerous in the clasps of tedious moments holding silent judgement; it had been a gift the world had crafted and she had grown into over time....after a six-foot-man had stomped upon her petite spine while falling over in a fetal position; needing only to protect an unplanned pregnancy and hoping for the moment of public shaming to be over.

Had enough men gathered around her to understand the lack-of-patience, did they gather the notion of anonymized aggression that began to trickle into their seemingly dull lives? Vile Crimes that were larger-than-life had nowhere to go, outside of a line meant to be met with a firing squad: the perpetrator of such judgement seemed jarring when painting a portrait of a woman holding a bow and arrow like a sniper; leaning a walking stick along a wall neighboring a metal door...saying less--behind a pink or black silk bow. Nothing good came from a woman conflicted by the evils of the world, too exhausted to speak...too bored to care or pluck away at endless questions. How many knew what it meant to be truly without sins; held hostage to circumstances? Artemis let them in on parts of her past--knowing a few men were simply the products of a fostering system that had failed them in their youth. She had survived a childhood, chapter-ed with the most chaotic violence(s) alone; serving seventeen years for the sins of negligent parents--left to fend for herself, when her rapist walked away free around the same time a teenage sentence was over.

Part of being a criminal by nature--is understanding that nobody fucking cares what had happened before, or after leaving the confines of black-boxes: Artemis needed her new-found army to understand that she could go toe-to-toe with the ugliest of mankind...she was unafraid of their sins; accepting that men were capable of heinous crimes at an early age. She lived in a mental state of hell--because a grown man had raped her infant body: blaming his actions on intoxication and a privileged upbringing, and a shit judge had agreed to his terms and excuses--resulting in a sick fuck wandering free as Just and overdue reward, for having won the court systems over.

She felt reverberation of a wooden staff hitting the floor--its echoing, implied the cells were cold and empty--those with no God to turn to... accepting that their souls weren’t worth saving or abandoning. Artemis began to smile with wicked delight in moments of death: the prisoners were finally equal in evils to their "protecting guards"...the rage that had fed the machine became synonymous with internal corruption. Artemis waited for men to congregate and hear her story at last: "I am hunting a citizen--that truly believes that he is too good for the title of Felon, and I require your assistance in gaining entrance to a visiting room; in search of the truth, and needing his spells of wicked lies to be finally be over."

Artemis stood outside of their black-box and begged the fellow criminals to help her bend-over a murderer: until he begged for her attendance upon a list of approved visitors. She asked that they refer the man named Chrissey-Poo to "the Doctor", and that they send him her best--most kindest regards, as they modified the word consent to fit his many crimes against humanity. He had left two toddler in crude substances; their flesh falling from small and gentle bones...his wife of almost a decade: discarded with an unborn son expelling from her body in shallow grave--because the loser wanted his marriage to be over.

Artemis had the blatant plan(s) of sharing his "brave moments" in slaughtering the innocent--to paint a fair picture of his sins...to platform the unspeakable evils of man: until their shared cell walls bled over with red. She had the intentions to interrogate him, but only after he got a proper house-warming party in his black-box--A triad of two penis’s being his favorite position, according to his log of sexual proclivities. Artemis had found him using trolls to bash the slain pregnant wife--placing bare hands around a sleeping woman with a preexisting spine injury from behind. Christopher was on top of a woman--that had refused to die on his terms; wiggling to break free from his ill intent: having already overcome an intentional poisoning meant to abort a planned pregnancy. A manly looking accomplice named "lil mistress" had handed him poison and words of ammunition to win a shrill mother-in-law over.

Some days; Artemis woke up--with a renewed vengeance to defend the wife he and a deranged mother now spit upon as a yearly tradition. She knew of his many trolls, and small collective of weirdos that blindly took his word to be truth--stripping all power from the actions documented, found wrapped in the sheets left lazily at a crime scene...his wife swaddled in hard soils, soaked in blood of an unborn child; fleeing his fate of death by hiding behind an overbearing mother. Artemis needed to separate herself from them and their self-claimed title of Indigenous, and selfishly lay accountability far-from-range; of a deceased mother--to mark a firm boundary in the ability to profit from the endless lies perpetuated by a Felon named number six-seven-four-seven-nine-six. Her skills in working with humans--and occasionally obfuscating rules; twisting the pale privileges to work in her favor, if it meant an entire juvenile life-sentence aided in strangling, or smothering the truth from the murderer that whole-heatedly believed that his guilty plea had meant that the case was forever closed, forgotten and over.

Artemis crafted a sweet hymn for her fellow felons to admire, set to invite an audience to admire her stage and Picture her Rollin. The slow beat, palpated her aching hands with a warmth: found only in the desperate, the tired...the impoverished artist. The world had kept turning, and returned to spinning on its axis with ease; a moment of concern for those in black-boxes forgotten entirely...the second the wave of death--the age of Corona was over.

Artemis had needed them to feel her sullen tone--to take the reigns of reality into their own hands, and ease a frame of reference in which to fairly lean on. Artemis needed solitude--gentle instruments to prepare lyrics to match her beats, and hide within the crowds fluttering by. Her smile meant everything to the world--now that the most uncomfortable part of it was over.

Even as a delinquent she had hid behind music, and mathematics--creating melodic poems in her mania and boredom, spinning probabilities as to what the world outside had to offer. Artemis had once omitted the truth--surrounded by violence, unable to admit to her unjust sentence of being condemned and abandoned as an orphan in an unforgiving world. There was more truths to be had and mulled over--sitting in silence while they called her weird and quiet: convinced she had been the viciousness that institutions were built to detain, dealing premature death as a sport...when in all reality--the loveless state found in such a bleak reality was all that she had known to be real. To live day-by-day, in hardship; weeping in early moments of the morning, as she dreamed of hugs from parents that never existed in the first place...managing an environment-induced disease of selfishness that begged for such suffering to be over.

Artemis had allowed the other inmates to believe such tales of unspoken crimes--hiding behind books and sarcastic remarks. They accused her of injuring people in public settings, of attempting to hurt infants by telling their stories: because that’s what her neighbors in other cells had done by refusing to hold such truths in their uncaring hands. Artemis had survived a den--filled with a violence without proper name, and came out the other side “rehabilitated”, for her crimes in being born to a selfish mother and loser father--being left unattended with a stranger while she and two older sisters were left to face the sexual violence of a monster alone. One sibling had been rolled away in a large rug by a brave elder sister for safety; told to stay quiet to survive in a worried tone--two others...held at the verdict of a maniacal stranger; one sister maybe five years old, the other--one-and-a half...staring up at ceiling and wishing for the unmentionable to be over.

The world had taught Artemis that she deserved all the pain that ravaged her spine--an honorable judge had said so, by letting a monster free in the world with a single signature; when no such freedom existed for three sisters. Artemis felt the angry words of the citizens--whenever her shoulder disc blew out, and a hunched back forced them to witness all that had transpired with the aide of the tax-payer. Disappointing others...was all she had known, and now it was all she expected from a cruel world--this was exactly who they had always been...carved out as a legacy of sick fucks and abusers of the mortal soul. There was no escape from the pain--no appeal-to-reason when Artemis was observed in her true form; laughing in the face of hopelessness and pretending to ignore the stares of strangers pretending to be concerned that she was stuck in moments of being hunched over.

They had locked Artemis away: told no one cared for the whimpering sniffles seeping from beneath the door of a blanket closet. Forever the small child; left her without fresh air or the solitude of normalcy...her spirit almost-broken when being told God had abandoned her for the abomination of surviving rape as an infant, paying for the sins of a prostitute. The citizens took pleasure in sexualizing infants, and nominated a Mechanical Boar to serve such purpose in normalizing the fantization of young daughters and children left without a protector to guide them through the world. They had taken away her writing utensils: weapons that Artemis could wield or jam into a trachea--the things she would’ve never thought of...outside of the fears people crafted about her--to paint her as the villain at all costs. The casual thoughts of adults, criminalizing a child without parents to defend her rights--set a malleable mind to seek probabilities in all scenarios; unrelenting to the nonsense that remained far from over.

The need to seek out weapons and means of escaping danger; or at least warn the neighboring citizens of impending doom. The notion that abuse will always be rewarded to the abuser to exaggerate and escalate had rang truer than ever. She was on her own--to fight battle after battle, no help in sight...no glimmer of relief upon each horizon. That’s where her mind went; whenever Artemis flashed a dazzling smile and reminded the world of such hand-carved wickedness. She had no gain in fights where people were allowed to do and say as they pleased...while every word or thought was picked apart, doubted, or diminished to nothing; the remnants of a shitty generation of abusing elders was almost over.

Artemis had already changed the world--awarded nothing, not even a peaceful nights rest. The shards of history glimmered past a weary soul; she was the face of resilience and those of a forgotten community. She had pulled the weight of a dying race over an injured shoulder; left to make the most of forced assimilation with a few sparkling bows and cheers that inspired all those around her. The portrait of success; a fake image of what a person should be--now stood as certificates decorating the walls of a cold home, the forthwith of triumph rarely benefited the worker, student, or honestly elected leader. Artemis felt immense shame in her past childhood as a fostered felon, and often found ways to admit to the crimes publicly--if it meant other youth didn’t fall into the trap of a Lucifer Effect. She needed the truth to be heard...her body was decaying at a rapid rate; discs shattered in two places--with no cure for things that left Artemis screamed in pain; crawling upon the floor and fighting off the shock of the potential chances of dying alone--her otherwise pathetic existence ringing a welcoming chime to surrender; for the endless suffering to finally be over.

Artemis said, “this isn’t about me...it’s about the men in Black Boxes”: changing her notes to a more dramatic Bushido melody--swinging a trident over a shoulder; having forgotten that she rebranded a walking device to make the world a little less sad. A world of destitute awaited past pages--she had wanted to make the most out of the good company of those that understood the precariousness of such physical weakness. She sought after one particular criminal...ordinary in talent, feeble in opinion--that offended Artemis in his very existence: he was one of the worst criminals known to man--his sins impacting the fabric of reality itself, morphing whole communities to be torn into two parties...those that saw his lies and half-truths, and the lame weirdos that just took his words in stride. Artemis approached the a wall of mountains--approaching citizens arguing, barking in the direction of their opponents; claiming that his wife deserved the sentence of death; because she had unknowingly failed in a marriage and fell from the graces of God...being unlikable as a person was her greatest of sins. The crusades of false reality were spear headed by his mother--slobbering at the feet of her son; pleading for passerby’s to hear her tale of woe. Artemis told the woman to rise; to gaze into stony eyes as she attempted to paint a narrative proclaiming why a pregnant woman deserved to be thrown into a shallow grave. Artemis became lost in a trance of the meaningless stories; stuck trembling as she stared at the ground...shifting between the scene of a cylinder grave observing a floating corpse of toddler in a sparkling nighty and a stranger cradling a womb and a fetus that lay beside its mother, as his father scrapped loose gravel over an open grave. A passionate lover had convinced him of simple ultimatums; promising endless anal sex and the chance to start a thirty-something year old life over.

The paradigm of a prisoner facing the penalty of death became its own spectacle; where as people such the adolescent victims and Artemis were condemned for the sins of being born to a mother named two-two-two. One day; the wax-statue of a man quit digging...for only a moment...the test of time had ran past his reasoning. It was as though he had discovered--that he was declared as the village idiot, and decided to become a murderer as well: painting a decade with lies and slighted passivity. Artemis hung the key to his freedom along a wall standing directly across the way from his slotted view...wondering how long it’d take for him to understand the unpreventable dangers of incarceration and to really mull the details of his heinous crimes and their implications towards all men...all those claiming to be loving husband, father and son. Time was the only thing that could win his truth over.

He had swaddled his lies in more lies; needing to add depth to his one-dimensional personality...unaware that men were paying to have marble polished abs, and that hyper-masculinity has suddenly fell out of style. He had slaughtered his trend-setting wife with bare hands--upon failing to poison her into the action of aborting a child that interfered with the love story building between himself and a shrill woman at work. Endless nagging replaced hobby and family times--cornering a man to do the unthinkable; if it meant his nasty woman would shut up for a minute. The loss-of-silence and peace had won his overworked body and lazy mind over.

He was a basic-looking man, shorter in stature and claiming to be an interpreter of a book: that which was labelled Holy. The man had hand-painted a timeline with dread; ruined an entire month in the process... causing a conversation on birth control and women’s safety to be had by the thousands. There began cracks in the foundation of a patriarchy; spoiled rotten and left in the late summers heat to roast. The misguided belief of a male loneliness epidemic was discredited by the hands of one man; too fragile to have a conversation without his mother at his side...too weak in mental acuity to express his longing of financially burdening to be over.

The man claimed--that “God had a bigger plan for him”, the tall-tales of a conman eager with a hardened dick--to have found a decent paying and almost-respectable con. He alone...could bring the true word of God to his neighbors...calling his permanent home; “the cell”, when talking to his mum. The disassociation of reality came with the holding of hands; the man clamoring to reach for a wretched woman named after a log of cinder--equivocally dull and bulky...just as one could imagine. The introduction of a mistress and lack of their discourse was all it had taken to win the so-called loving father over.

Artemis didn’t pity men lacking in spine; they had their chances at freedom...whereas she had been born in a cage, disciplined for stealing food, reading books, and listening to music as a child. She had no remorse holding down a prisoner timeline if it meant such awful humans were where they belonged: lurking in the kitchens and making friends wherever opportunity struck. There would always be a small platoon of sick-fucks that clawed away at their own eyes; sockets and pockets drying out by the day. The small chitter and chatters claiming that someday he’d be free to leave a black box reserved for murderers. Artemis had been conditioned to believe the things she survived in childhood didn’t matter; that the repressed memories of mistreatment were just reward for the sins of child slowly developing in a world painted with inequality. She was forever cast as the sullen orphan, holding a black trimmed skirt and standing in first position--pointedly having to say less and move past his actions in slaughtering children. Who was she to judge a man’s choice in sealing away two babies in two separate sarcophagus--forever apart...left in the most crude circumstances. Two babies, forgotten by two grandparents--blocked from hugs and throw-away kisses: because Cindy wanted to bask in the limelight and blame a victim for their own murder. To-this-very-day...an uncaring, ungrateful grandmother--pleaded for the world to just let it go, to take pity on her slumped over shoulders while mourning the loss of her very-much-alive son; wanting the public smear campaign to be over.

He called his “situation” temporary, and even began to file for an appeal: needing to defend the proper methods in which he was arrested--accusing professionals of deploying tactics used on criminals. Time was of the essence when looking for lost children--but alas, Chrissey Poo had been robbed of sleep. Forced to answer questions while the bodies of his family faced natural elements; having vanished into thin air. Artemis had combed over his life, and watched as his mother began drooling at the mere thought of her son in the spotlight. The aftermath of twisted love between mother and son had left the world in shambles...left to do the dirty work for Ronnie; telling his wife to shut up and go away. The mother had led her own husband to a forest of darkness--moving past digressions out of convenience. The lost grandfather was forever covered in white powder; tipped upon a large nose--draining life from his aging body as a form of delayed punishment. Chris had no idea of what it meant to be alone, and Artemis saw it a fit sentence to supply such helplessness into a soul-less man. She had smirked with violent delights--knowing the moronic husband that had weaponized his incompetence hadn’t thought of what would become of his life--when forced to fill the emotional role of providing comfort to a mother; weeping at the death of a husband. To be all that was left of scorned marriage ruffled with avoidable tragedy--to be missing a man remembered only for his mumbling spells; holding a slotted truth of long-term substance abuse...too ashamed to walk away from a wife that couldn’t comprehend what it meant to be wrong, or to let an unwinnable argument be over.

The awful mother-in-law; had the audacity--to blame others...specifically the slain wife for having gotten herself murdered. Gleaming eyes resurfaced with each conversation on the matter: building reference to what it meant to be hated by a woman burrowed in spells of histrionics...giddy to be the mean girl again, dwelling on what excitement fell on the day she refused to attend the wedding of her beloved only son. Physical fitness had caused a mother to fall deeper in love with the offspring; he had been the healthy version Ronnie, broad and strong. The world was unable to set foot on her docked boat of reasoning; impartial to the facts at hand...where a grown-ass-average-as-fuck son had committed the worst of crimes, and wasted public resources to deflect, and impede the search for a woman and two children. The man began to rock back and forth: demanding they return home...for his house wasn’t the same without them....the strange demeanor of a worried husband had taken its toll--where crowds gathered and judged the shit out of a guilty-looking man and lost sleep while worried about two missing toddlers. His plea for help had done more damage than good in the courts of public opinion; and even less for winning the general public over.

Artemis had set a trap; where a grandmother was left to push the levers of death and despair with a single action; a snicker and sneer while placing an innocuous tin can upon a table, and whatever conversation held with Jamie after. The grandmother had found it funny, delightful even--to take up the task of setting a container of poisonous nuts out; enticing a curious toddler with a few traps and tricks--to prove allergies were of a mental state. What harm could a little lethal poison be...if it meant the toddler gained the understanding of being loser and being told no by the world on the occasion? A booming generation of sickos didn’t believe in allergies--or the concept of doing less for that matter. Corruption, greed, and mental illness had been carved into the tridents of all elders. The concept of sickness made Cindy uncomfortable and so she had taught an equally-absurd daughter that such benign actions would be funny...forgetting that health was considered a blessing to most families. It was more fun, for a grandmother like nix or Cindy; to try the love and patience of a concerned parent than to care about the wellbeing of a baby. Fuck that baby, I guess--was a weird premise of poem; to the extent of borderline satire. The timeline of nonsense relied on the lies and enabling the unhealthy dynamic of a mothers love of her only son--pandering hateful actions in the direction of a wife; tempting the sensible anger of concerned mother into boiling over.

Cindys little-bitch-son--had joined in a race of civilization; to test the strengths of mortal sins; Artemis forever tied to the worst timeline....sprinting to find help with a struggling sibling. The notion that things blossoming into worse situations--A Duel of Fates intertwined by a shared nightmare. Artemis remained trapped in a darkening space; the lone sound of a latch and small thud pulling an echo of evil to reverberate off rounded walls. The limitless grime kept Artemis weighed past her chest--treading alongside slick oils; clamoring to find the body of a corpse...needing to embrace a sinless victim before a rushed song was over.

The mercy of a single song; a hymn of truths and disbelief’s had taken the compliments that they threw upon his murderous soul. The man was forever trapped to the spells of stranger...begging a husband to have the honor of bringing forth his first son. Extremes and swaying moods trickled bits of human flesh to be injected into meats and for plasma to be robbed in broad daylight--the worst timeline involved the concept of cannibalism a name; the warnings and sprinkling crimes given English words; to describe words like family annihilation--condemnation given only to a God of their choosing. To desist temptation from accelerating into a whole new universe--the choice to live in sinful abstention impressed nobody; despite the afterthought, the blessing in disguise where a man had “brought his family closer to God”, and they had thanked him for it. A wolf in sheep’s clothing--two times over.

They refused to attend memorial services out of discomfort with his evilness, the censure at the audacity in judgement of a mother--doing nothing wrong: outside of loving a son as he plead guilty to the worst of crimes known to modern times. The shield of personal accountability kept the line of defense ready at the helms of Cindys idiotic ship: the cursive label stating a simple title of Grandma lead them down a river named denial. The"silver lining" to the death of four people--their stories cut short by a balding man, sprinting to a closet of covert lies...taking the cues laid out by the father of a mistress. The bowl of truth expanding to included reasonable doubt, and other offenses caused by an immature mistress--hellbent on stealing the life of another woman while Chrissey Poo took one final opportunity to fuck with the thoughts of another; to hasten the final discard of someone marked unworthy of life. The paint of immortality wasn’t meant to provide context on how or why people did such things--but to play a melody too haunting to hear, too horrific to forget; the story being the final product where a man had invited a stranger into his home. Scrambling to fuck like rabbits upon counters and wooden bed-frames--the sturdiness of mahogany meant nothing; when man gave up on investments in the blink of the eye. A home to be wrecked at the hand of another; kept a man from seeing the warning flags of an odd person--too distracted to stand by his word when telling a mistress that the fun affair was finally over.

The world hated his weak-ass excuses--the lies that nowhere; his need to cover up a newfound love of butt stuff....all of it. His mother felt otherwise. She saw patterns of depravity--signs of incestuous desires. Artemis said less while observing the relationship between this particular mother and her son: fucked-up and Freudian...something was wrong in the world--down to its very core. Artemis ran back to her void of endless stories, ready to paint the basin below Mt. Olympus with freshly-drawn blood; the signs of an overdue season of flooding had brought Artemis to moment of worry. The struggles of society had began to show; libraries closing one by one--a small metropolis standing one natural-disaster away from society completely falling apart. Volcanoes didn’t give a fuck about the feelings of the citizens: the title of active meant to be on the look out--whether it was aimed at an inevitability and or, a man-made disaster. Artemis had awoken too early from a childish slumber; attuned to violence and chaos horning away in the distance. A dabbling trip traveling in time had caused Artemis to remained trapped behind a wall of obscurity; stammering back too far to hold the keys of truth--the golden log of warnings and forethought; addresses and dates to match the distant memories--to build fortress of evidence from the shrill screams of Cindy in the potential future. The necessary sacrifices of landing in a cursed simulation left Artemis falling ill in great sorrow, crawling past invisible scenarios panning out and begging for the trials of a terminal sickness to be over.

The nickname given to Artemis as an inmate had been: the librarian, and now she had began drafting a book for others to hide behind in moments of boredom. The controlled disease known as the number nineteen had preceded to do its duty in expanding inward reflection; to derail the paths of disinterest that would have otherwise distracted the citizens. Artemis had done everything needed to stop the hands of time; to share a story of warnings and empathy...to cast an arrow at a moment where the expectations of a social contract had been set ablaze; needed to put a halt to a monster of a man and his enduring moods--to bring fear and a strong dose of reality into the mind of a man too stupid to care about anything other than his dick being wet. Artemis wanted to dash his daydreams of freedom-to slash away at his throat with each lie, if it meant bringing peace to the undeserving professionals that retired early; weeping at the memory of tender skin falling gently from the bones of two healthy children as they were told to stop investigating the murders immediately--coerced by the chain in command to turn the case over.

Artemis turned the man into a Pelican, and drenched him in a slicked obsidian-colored material: the poisonous liquid left him blackened and acidic to the touch on every timeline...this one being the one where there was no worse outcome to the one dealt by his own hand. He had inflicted so much harm in the world on a quest for carnal pleasures. There was no remorse in his eyes; he giggled at the mere idea that a lover may still have contact with him under synonyms--reminding Artemis of a plan to prison the most evil of mankind in the night sky; to set an example with the conservative belief that some people didn’t deserve the luxuries of commissary and the mail afforded all inmates at the expense of the tax-payers. Artemis left him clues, and even allowed time to build a false hope that a small majority rallied the world around him; when the shrinking island began to look smaller in the distance--allowing the false perception that the discovery of uncovered information was finally over.

His worries as to what others thought of his evil mask--had slipped away for those few famous hours: he hated when people judged the actions of a single day. Artemis didn’t have that luxury; she made do with whatever was realistic to living within the means of professional efforts--occasionally shrinking red, blue and green lights awake by jiggling a port. His poor wife suffering at the hand of his legacy; each word, and parental decision ripped apart by bored housewives and lazy househusbands. The world felt entitled to cast judgement on a single day; to scrape away at the hardened soils covering a slaughtered wife--seeking answers and a reason to evacuate an island offering little resolve; the cruise of Titanous disaster had set off on its last voyage--sealed away in a small chunk of time forever...setting precedents for a failing marriage being a time of danger; the true make-or-break moment between two people--the odds of fatality increased drastically when a third person was thrown into the mix; its final outcome unfathomable to the imagination--the disturbing solution bringing the world to a halt...the sacrifices of love forever; measurable to a degree of normal and insane on the scale of blindsiding a partner to one where an entire timeline was poisoned twice over.

There was no rest for a wife; forgotten as a victim and pegged as a problem to Cindy’s reality. There was no dignity for a world ran by a woman keen to keep up appearances, as though her deceased daughter-in-law wasn’t cursed to a legacy of silence; helpless to the hungry eyes scavenging for information as they gazed at the delicate choice in lace panties on the random day of her murder. She could care less; as long as a son was out of arms reach...there was no convincing her to pull a shred of reasoning from a stubborn mind--spitting upon the grave of a dead person unworthy of her precious time with each public interview. The stressors of grappling with a gore-filled reality; kept the elderly woman in a stance of defensiveness--abandoning responsibility with a single tin...as though signifying her wishes for the time of playing nice with two toddlers had expired; with an accessorized snarl to prove the depth of caring when two coffin lids had been sealed closed...the moment for the truth thrown by the wayside; the window closed forever. Chrissey Poo had gotten his wish...a sinfully dull and uneventful marriage was finally over.

Artemis showed her superior wing-span; the words of concern were feathered by the hobby of crafting poems without financial gain--talon’d wording, cast lazily upon loosening soils as a silver sword dragged at an angle--different rooms called for different weapons...separate emotions to those orchestrated by facts stitched together sloppily on a day that was left in tatters; broken beyond all repair. A single interview of a son and proper introduction proved an entire timeline was cooked; held at the mercy of disillusioned bullshit and the entitlement of those wasting public resources to siphon time with the strategy of a Hail Mary being the public display of story telling and passing along lies stating a mother had suffocated her own children...the final nail in a homicide victims coffin; the last hoorah for a mother and son to fuck up the memory of a person...deserving only of a shallow grave and the endless lies used to divert the truth from being unburied. The final shred of dignity set aflame with their words; claiming to be unsurprised to learn that a caring mother--a fatigued pregnant woman had the energy to slay two children...as a broken-hearted response to a husband holding a difficult conversation stating their marriage was over.

The bits and pieces of evidence hidden away by a lame man that claimed with arrogance that he was prepared to take "secrets to his grave"; enabled by misguided district attorney...needing to impress the woman he had already married. A fracture in reality came at a cost. She had wanted to challenge this theory of letting the damned go unjudged by the public--for the sake of comfort. The world was suffering; the shades of complexity were rarely brought to the attention of judges and juries--so Artemis had set forth with a plan of civil dispute; wondering what it’d take to help a grieving brother find restful sleep--hearing his plea to enter a house that had transformed into its own character. Artemis put forth a sill voice and set elbows wide in a sassy stance "uncle Franky in the houseeee"--she knew the pride in holding the title of auntie or uncle...whilst carrying the burden of a entire household genome upon one’s shoulders. Nothing could express such pity for the loss of life; there was no comfort for those surviving in a box labelled homicide--outside of waiting for the hands of time to stop a moment past midnight...to be trapped in moment of grief from time-to-time, afraid of what it all meant if the unspeakable nightmare had been real life...unexpressed, unaddressed, unfinessed: slowed down and remixed until the survivors of such horrors sought for such spells of meaningless curiosity to be over.

Artemis landed in a large closet surrounded by clothes tagged and unworn; left observing a wife asking a husband which premium services he wished to budget into the following months. He had shrugged with disinterest--sausage fingers fiddling rows of a plush wardrobe; the newest hobby of collection was that of non-biodegradable robes adorned with letters meant to praise athletes and a manly commitment to tribalism. The husband had landed in a life of privilege a dozen or so hobbies later, grunting at his wife--dissatisfied by the interruption to day dreams; thrusting his dick into the front side of a mistress while another man avoided eye-contact from the position of her doggied posture. The mistress had prepared for such fun; thrilled by the opportunity to entice a perfect son away from a well-manicured marriage--to be reason in which he turned an entire chapter over.

The results of such a backwards-ass epiphany resulted in a man doing the unspeakable; slaughtering pregnant women for sport: where a loving wife had been snuffed out--robbed of a time for repentance, because some random stranger had decided that "he was done." and that a wedding ring of a missing person was ready to be pawned and forgotten--his lack-of-action captured with the image of a man holding a shovel; caressing a red-tipped penis in the other hand, as the average guy stroked at his luck in landing a woman ready to formally declare that it was all fated to be over.

Artemis was a B type personality; she’d rather be OVERWERK’d than left center stage--the axis of polarity to a slain wife didn’t give way for her to judge the parenting skills of another person, sans the fact she was neither a wife or parent yet. The skill of doing so--of minding one’s own fucking business and occasionally walking across stages holding people by the thousand; caused Artemis to appear as an imposter to the label introvert. The mask carved to go toe-to-toe with a person like Athena; a woman with polarizing moods and an overpowering A Personality had gotten Artemis out plenty of awkward moments. Someone had to be the adult in the room; the less fun situation in a room filled with chaos--the serious face in a crowd rowdy for violence and mayhem. Artemis knew what it meant to be stuck in life where there was no room for mistakes--buttoned-up in a word; unfitting to those needing silence in moments of pending disaster. Women that brought shine-and-sheen to an otherwise unexceptional life were the most coveted and easily-discarded personalities when a wench mother-in-law held a say in such love story being born or destroyed. The state of curiosity--Cindy’s curiosity for example--could cure the outcome of a win-less battle: to draw out conversations on the topic of mental health and boundaries from the drying soils. To introduce Chrissey Poo to accountability if it meant generations of men followed suit of holding a line of reasonable accommodations--to walk away without killing children...when realizing financial struggles of child support were survivable; the obvious of choices to abandoning dead children in fields of greed...a chariot billowing a trail of freedom behind him at last. A moment of solitude for a man that took it upon himself to be an judge, jury and executioner to avoid adult conversations with a wife and her parents...ready to clean his hands of such sins; to side with a unwell mother in claiming that a faithful wife deserved to be murdered as she protected the life of an unborn son with cradled wrists--his hand clenching tighter around an already injured neck--annoyed by the time it took for his victim to pass; and for the task at hand to be over.

Artemis was five-feet tall--accused of morbid fascination when discussing such moral fables; painted with modern colors. An oversized bow and blonde hair remained without control, and a priceless smile that covered half of her face--the only issue being; she only got to hold such appearance on the sometimes...she remained otherwise unscathed by the evils of man--chasing moron criminals like Chrissey Poo through pages as he built a throne of lies; pressing past opportunities of release...refusing to look back and tempting fate to forget his many interpretations of the truth. Artemis sprinted past chapters of interpersonal reflection, stumbling as she attempted to gain bounty on a man while he mumbled "Catch Me"....the swallowing darkness had turned the test of time into sands of truths; falling upon a pile of other killers--a moment to forget as the world spun faster; as the preciousness of mortality fell into focus...his audience ready to face the reflections of a culture lost behind words cursed for generations over.

Artemis, fucking loved the pain she felt upon her wee fist--the Indigenous Warriors hadn’t the words for murder, theft, rape, molestation, and alone...they were harsh and barely digestible concepts meant to describe the actions of Western culture. Her agreement to physical solutions had been etched into a genome plagued with apathy--Artemis holding down the mission to slay the enemy without drawing a single drop of blood was easy enough to explain; when painting an absent father with the numbers three-three-three...the archaic struggles of surpassing the ruling of a golden child; to hold a throne of silence in an empty chamber--void of all excuses given to awful parents. The artful acceptance of life being filled with discomfort--had spared Artemis the disappointment of a relationship with a deadbeat father and placed an honorable feather upon her crown. Artemis proud to boast of her need to slam a digital door in the face of person wishing to cause harm on what little self-preservation had been spared a childhood of sexual and physical torture...whereas his ego had finally been slit upon an aging throat--resulting in daughter losing the right to communicate with an elder sister. Someone had to suffer in place of Roberts wishes and desires being brought to light...because the pale privilege needed to balanced by pain--Artemis just hadn’t the time to be mentally manipulated into caring about a stranger; reluctant to even read the words cast half-heartedly over.

The discouragement of consequences kept Artemis frozen in place; staring at a small curled fist--reminiscing on the speck of relief that washed over whenever it hit the soften eye-sockets of an opponent. There was no excuse for violence now that Artemis was declared an intellectual weapon--paid to provide solutions to mankind’s scientific problems. The dark impulses of rage--had gotten Artemis in a lot of trouble as a teenager, but rehabilitation had worked because of two sensible women holding the law to guide the way through the darkness with enlightenment. She hadn’t any reason to go back to “her cell”, and so she decided to behave forever instead. There was bitter-sweet rewards with a new family that held her down in moments of spinning in erratic emotions; tacked down with accountability--bringing in a doctor or two, or three...to help a willing patient with the painful transition into a community Siren. Clipped wings had kept her ill--weeping at the loss of hard work in piloting her fate. The skies being the only place in which she took true comfort. Artemis had fallen from the graces of opportunity, occasionally plucking away at insecurities to reduce the damages of unending disappointment; and resigned the prized abilities to lie pathologically like a childish woman named Casey--all due to a single throne on wheels. Artemis had been abandoned on a hill at birth--the world hadn’t shown a single second of remorse in allowing such punishments to happen; the struggles of a brown woman fell in their favor: to set her focuses on the career of a public servant--to detach from daydreams of falling through the sky and dwelling on her freedom instead. Her nightmares of remaining stationary while looming traumas and worries rushed past--the undefined timeline of people and places whizzing by in blur was never to be over.

Artemis showed her fellow criminals a single nightmare--a guiding one in particular that had changed her life...that somehow frightened her into seeking a religious temple to find emotional refuge. Its impact had caused slight mania, and a lingering spell of two-week agoraphobia. She had wasted ten-of-thousands of her borrowed funds: begging the University to help her get back on track to success--unsure of whether a genetics professor had been correct in questioning her admission into University. Maybe she was as dumb as a box of rocks...the humiliation ritual of standing before and education board had taken a detrimental toll on her mental health; nightmares captured in the stressful breath of a sleeping student. They had heard her small cries from a tower called Ondine--a few kind residential associates had scaled the building in droves: bringing professional doctors to help her from fainting or collapsing in tears--whenever she touched a mundane dormitory doorknob without the poison labelled: liquid courage. It took an attempt on her own life--an accidental drowning on poison sitting heavily over a weakened kidney, for Artemis to take advantage of the kind words given in moments where she had only wanted to give up for a single day: to find solace in the idea that it could all just be over.

Artemis had wasted her life--climbing to the top of a University tower to prove normalcy; to build upon the characteristics of a mask belonging to someone of an A type--resulting in life being dismantled by a single recurring nightmare; that came in bits and pieces like a broken memory until it was dropped upon her dreams all at once. Artemis had almost lost her grip: clinging to the University tower until her small remorseful fingers bleed freely, and her head lowered in a drunken shame. The professionals offered little help outside of labeling her mania--describing the strength she had in disclosing her nightmares and repressed trauma to strangers. The lone sentence of "I can’t sleep without nightmares" had taken reigns over a life that was otherwise average in its appearance; the walls closing in on a fostered youth--dawning the mask of okayness one-too-many days, until the time of pretend ran its course...leaving Artemis clenching a lower spine--attempting to move past the day a stranger had backed up a sloshed chariot into her pedestrian life; exacerbating the injuries of childhood with the crime of intentionally running a person over.

They sat in silence as they listened: pain-relief in the form of capsules didn’t mix well with poison--averse reactions were often downplayed until it was too late for those poisoned at the hand of medical professionals. She wept openly; afraid of what would happen if they left her side for even a brief moment. Artemis had no way of explaining how intense and surreal her nightmares were, and one day: the disposition of isolation was more in sync with the citizens and their sins--in-tune with the depth of immorality to those still wandering around the world with rose-colored memories. The badgering of a dance instructor holding docked grades over her head--wouldn’t make her gain the ability to walk upright. Artemis gifted a man named Tim; with an unfamiliar story of a nightmare that had fell into her dreams like scattered fragments. It had been worth the time; reminding him that she was only an orphan without expectations of people, and that disclosing such a cursed story and adding to the risk of such nightmare coming true like the others--would mean that her worries would be far from over.

Artemis was sleeping upon hunched over a heavy stomach, as her bewildered mind drift away slowly: A beast appeared in her dormitory in an instance. He startled her, jumping upon her back and choking what little life was left in her with a remorseless right hand. His textured hands stuck to her as he continued forcing a thrashing face down upon a pillow, and her limbs flailed around aimlessly in flight mode. The moment to fight back had passed--Artemis trapped to survive an impossible attempt to escape what was beginning to feel like the inevitable fate of death. Artemis wrestled with reasoning; endless questions draining energy from her body--a moment of letting go; of lax throat muscles cast a confusing spell: a split moment that had been better than any sex she had felt. A moment of peace before realizing her brain wasn’t receiving enough oxygen: eyes began whizzing about dangerously--the memory of sleeping alone on a twin-sized bed broke down a scene of squares and shielded reality. Artemis thought to herself: “this can’t be real”: finally catching her breath in the dream, and smiling at the newly survived sensation of letting go--the chances of giving up would soon be over.

Artemis looked over a left shoulder to gaze upon the beast that straddled behind her, as he snarled angrily: “don’t look at me!”. Something told her to be unafraid; to force eye contact with the enemy at all costs...if it meant the memory of recognition in such defining moments were a threat to be passed on in the future. The attacker seemed offended that Artemis was smiling so wickedly when no such experience had come into reality. His hand grasped tighter--pinching an already injured spine; the monster egged on by a mere second of ridicule...the pressures of compiled lies leaving his hand in minutes that felt like hours...a red face trembling in anger as he pleaded through prayer for his victim to die already--crushing a small throat and needing the inconvenience of the situation to be over.

Artemis felt her neck snap, as if her body had finally said “lights out’: there was soft thud of a corpse falling over hastily, heaping over a clenched stomach. She had used the very last breath; to reach for a curved stomach--vaguely worried about a non-existent baby all of a sudden. Artemis awoke trembling and vomiting violently, wondering why such horrors followed her sleep. She’d come to find out, such an indescribably horrible nightmare: had been the very real reality of another woman--a passing memory lost in the ether of discombobulated time. The very real memories of a woman that was later found buried with her ass-up and huddled in a fetal position: the main character to a senseless timeline...her portrait painted by the image of woman begging to fix a broken marriage; Niko protruding into the world for a single speck of time--cursed to exist in name only. The loosened soils and oil-laced fields was the final resting place of a mother and her three children; their abandoned bodied held up as potential feasts for the wildlife circling high in the sky--wildlife impartial to the sins of man as they picked tender flesh over.

The hard-working wife had been discarded by a stout husband; awakened as a sleeper agent of death; born to build legacy around the day of judgement...on the single day where he had thrown a woman in a shallow-ass grave to add an insult to her efforts in life. The “loving husband”, had annihilated his entire family on a fucking whim: on the pegged promise to appease a lustful mistress, or maybe--to seek the near-sided approval of a mother that took wicked delight in holding democratic vote when hand-selecting a match for her grown-ass son. The man was so simple, so fucking malleable--that it hadn’t taken much to push him to the edge of sanity: word on the streets--were the two women had ganged up upon him--when voting on the worthiness to live in Cindy’s world. The monster-in-law had said nothing; giddy to cherish a mistress if it meant causing harm to a bossy daughter-in-law. Only a log of activity and public introduction could prove the theory of collusion--in a scene where a mother had scolded a man; and green lit an agenda of a calmer; much better fitting-life with a heavily medicated stranger. The words of agreement had somehow pushed him over.

His mother spoke words of hope towards early-release, and even sought the public opinion of anyone willing to hear her excuses at to how a loving husband “deserved the right to murder” an entire family. The eager mother hadn’t even waited until the verdict: before forgiving her son in public courts--pleading for the benefit-of-a-doubt in reasons given, as to why he woke up one random day and slaughtering a pregnant woman and two children. Artemis knew the mind-games of such a weak-spirited woman all-too-well, as her own biological grandmother, and even the child abuser known as Hera; were all booming women...cut from the same shitty model: the Karen five-thousand. Life was filled with true misery: for anyone that dared to oppose reasoning with a biases--to combat a lust for battle with rational, if it meant a single chance to win each and every unwilling person over.

The aging hag-worse than all other troupes of women: each without accountability, shame, or self-awareness. The notion of dignity was not synonymous with their particular build, and the level of arrogance that followed such a lack-of-awareness was fucking frightening to see in person. Sometimes--Artemis had found weird sounds falling from her mouth; in moments were agreeing meant life-and-death, it was best to remain the neutral idiot; hiding behind the sound uhhhhh. The formulation of reasonable words in the face of an unreasonable person being a known trigger for such silly castaway tone. She was painted as unhelpful in moments where stages were crafted around barren scenery; and the actions of an abuser up for question. His mother had given him the permission to “do whatever it takes--to stay safe”, winded in breath by the idea of her baby being surrounded by violent criminals as he served five life sentences consecutively. He fed into his mother’s blind hope: stating he too, just wanted for all of it to be over.

Their family hid behind epithets and a single symbol of Christ: tarnishing a family reputation by avoiding that one time...Chris had fucking murdered his whole family. The mother said vitriol things now: "we know how she was!", a cage-lengths away...clawing desperately to smell the crown of her son; the insanity manufactured at her frail hands stirred a pot of conflict--to a point of insanity. The more time passed--the closer time drew Ronnie to death: a web of sloppy lies began to unweave themselves. The world had spent its free time surviving the wave of death--learning more about a strange family as a hobby; the fair introduction of a loving grandmother had been drafted outside of their control--the law upholding past her crusades of false narrative; the parting gift to a slain mother being found in the word mystery. Artemis was growing angrier with each word--her beats became mellow, and eerie in their calmness. Hades has no fury like that of a woman without words. Hadn’t the slain mother been through enough?! She found it odd how often men feared women; skirting past stories too sad to consume...avoiding their right to use their words in times of unprecedented circumstances--distasteful talk of the dead really pissed her off. Artemis had needed to describe her dire upset-ness to this crime, and finally allowed her livid-ness to flow over.

The grey-haired man had dragged his wife’s body down a public road, and loaded her corpse into a backed-up chariot at the crack of dawn. It was already infamous for its patriotic value and massive bed--but this one was admired by the masses: gazed upon, and causing whiplash in vollied arguments where the world argued as to whether it seemed to change colors and shape. While a loving husband held the banding trim of a shirt draping over his emotions with the emoting phrase "I like this shirt alot.". Artemis had wanted to punch him in the stupid face; to scream without consequences....unsure of what everyone else was witnessing when two children were actively missing and this loser was giving his opinion on fashion. He had told--two children the night prior; to step inside the chariot so they could go and find help for their sick mother(or so the story goes), and then he drove them to two large standing cylinders in the middle of nowhere...prepared to travel over forty-five minutes to bury their mother in front of two confused toddlers; flexing new biceps in the direction of a mistress...sifting up dry dirt as he stared at fields of sun-filled flowers. He was ready to let go of an old life--strained by the responsibility of parenting and to start his new adventurous; romance-filled life over.

The man had been gifted a key by his mistress--the promise of a kingdom adorned with pleasures and a kind ear to hear his many, many complaints. The cursed object had supposedly turned him into a monster with an ultimatum and motive within the blink of time...they eye beholding the truth; caged away at his own doing. The admittance of guilt to all crimes; kept him trapped in a moment where he had told himself--"welp, now I have to murder everybody."--complete with glowing shovel; cached into the memory of a nonessential character to Artemis’s story of survival. He then decided to discard the bodies of two, “very alive” children in his "episode of madness". His wife fell into rigor upon the floor during this time--an expired body discharged its contents, and so he then complained of the smell of skunk--unfamiliar to blunted or roached papers burning in the stale wind. Evidently, he was running out of time to fulfill duties needed to get this part over.

His two daughters--wore small cloths in the evening; requiring assistance in changing due to less-developed coordination--the extending harm of a man lost in the Ms. Grande sauce forever haunting a teenager relinquishing a father of his childcare duties for the night. There was no warning signs to the precious memories of a child that sang little songs where they declared their father “a hero”. The husband of eight years, chased down the toddlers like fucking stray cattle with soft tones filled with empty words and smothered them in early hours of morning. He’d later tell the public--how he was displeased that he "had to" slaughter the toddlers twice in one day, and how that fact had meant he had to reflect deeply--to find resolve in the aftermath where he got things handles his way for a single day; where no wife could combat his words riddled with suggestive hints that Chrissey Poo simply wanted it all to be over.

Outside in the free ranges of an over-taxed polis; remained a "wonderful woman"--somehow muzzled in explaining fair-alibi, despite the fact that talking was Nichol’s favorite past time...of all the times. They were two idiots in a pod--passing the word "like" back and forth for fun: forgetting the standard operation of what a normal person would do if a random person purposed murdering his entire family to prove such forbidden love to be worth it weight in gold. Artemis believed that the mistress had the intent to explode his marriage a year in advance to their initial introduction--the pings of interjecting ambitions set in stone and for public display. There was not a single point of contention found in the actions of a slain wife: indicating that she wasn’t actively checking off the boxes of healthy solutions cast into the world; to solve an unsolvable problem--at the unknowing risk of losing her life. The wife had doubled-down; laying bred crumbs in people far from the reaches of a slimy couple that raced down a wedding aisle....while an unsuspecting wife went about an organized life; laying traps to prove she had tried when her partner had already checked out...if it meant trials of custody were easier to mediate over.

There was no need for somber music to set the tone: when describing the silent scene of a man, as he shoved two tiny bodies into separate vats of oil--singing tunes of dogs that were hot, and how much he admired their “diggity”. He noticed their broad shoulders as obstacles in his grand plan for love, a hindrance to the hole-punched and rung plan to fuck a mistress with a masculine face senseless. Their small shoulders wedged this way and that way: resulting, in him staring at the sun in disbelief to the fortunes of his choice in woman to love and protect. There was so much to admire in his new life-the gentle rise of the sun that shone upon the path less-traveled--the final chapter of his less-fun life was soon to be over.

The children had abrasions and scars from his "gentle suggestion" that they lay abandoned in batteries of poison; tufts of hair found upon a rim barely as wide as the orange spheres found in gated courts. The small skulls had been the final burden to a man--hooked on the sexual proclivities of a stranger or two...if his mistress demanded extra dick in attendance to their sins of adultery. He left the two helpless toddlers in separate tombs--to serve his convenience; the tempered hands of time would be the pressing flaw in a plan thought up by otherwise lazy people. The man had suffocated one girl--until her tongue forced its way from a closed mouth and complained of grunts and a person squirming to break free. Breezing past the details in the craft of holding a blanket over a petite head of the younger sibling. The man named Chrissey-poo--had only been doing the work of "the lord" at the time...the "evils" that guided him then...now protected him; in a black-box that suggested his crimes were accounted for, and that his fleeting tastes in murdering children was over.

Each casket opening was about the width of the narrow distance of a familiar luncheon tray with compartmentalized sections--no full-sized leather sphere could fit in such small spaces. The dead children needed more than a mere eight inches, to clear the way of the hole, and so the loving husband "was forced" to push down their limp bodies with a slight effort; their small bodies raining into the corners of Artemis’s endless nightmares. He separated the two sisters in death--soaking up black liquid that was crude and sludge-like; bloated by his need to feel something. Thrilled to get the hardest part over.

One daughter--had inhaled enough to fill her internals, the struggling of muscles working past their memory; implying that the child may have been alive upon being dunked and abandoned in the deep end of a liquidish solid. Such were the tales of a neighbor, a man that still claimed to believe that he was still innocent enough to hold a title worth praising..."still a father"--despite his claims to have murdered such offspring out of respect for the wishes of mistress. Artemis had needed the world to care more--if only to take a break from learning how the soft skin of children fell from their bones in the scientific process of decay called degloving. For Chris: life could always be worse, and as for the rest of the world--for those that met his beautiful family post-mortum...there was only darkness, and an island of confusion to stand upon--while the final forty-eight hours, or the final year was painstakingly combed over.

Artemis couldn’t even edit her poem without holding back tears of exhaustion; this awful state of longing for ending credits had been she’d known to be true in its nature. A stare of a thousand yards separated Artemis from the rest of society; the scars of childhood abuse holding up in a trial of evils. Where Artemis took the hand of a kind-enough lady--and cast a fortune telling into a barrel of lost hope. The immeasurable communication errors needed to occur in a timely manner for an idiot husband to wake up to reality--providing the proof of criminality when comparing the challenges of Artemis wiping a memory clean from a marriage capable of withstanding thrity-thousand and five hundred something years; to be the woman begging for someone to "Marry my Husband"--to prove the pointed opinion that such mediocre dick hadn’t been worth its weight in gold. The tales of insurance disputes, claims and ripples in motion at the hand of hit on the life of a seemingly nice-enough neighbor. A lady standing alongside a Professor named Dan; murk’d but never forgotten--a thuggish storyline to better express the deathly desires of a scorned wife driving past a ribboned scene...barfing in relief that jibbers time on a shared Earth had finally come to an end; his educational lectures finally over.

Mental illness began to boil past the scabs of losing independence in moments of helplessness; the arrival of an early autumn had kept them hostage to swiss’s information of a single night where death ran rampant in a house painted with the color of shit. Those in charge of protecting the citizens from themselves had become sick beyond-all-words--unable to comprehend the evilness cast by the actions of one man, too weary to continue on a path of such thankless professionalism. They were without proper answers or conclusions that justified the teetering of wickedness; unprepared to handle the fragile bodies of two toddlers--left hidden away beneath the verbal lock-and-key...until the monster named Christopher deemed them worthy of such prized knowledge and decided that his three-day game of cat-and-mouse had run a far enough course. To chasten them for caring long enough to get bored into exhaustion; asking for his daddy first and offering information on the kidnapped family in return. The trial of man verses morals had come to a close; it all burnt down to a wicks end--where a withhold personality withheld information and participated in a sick game of hide and seek; cast at symbolic portrait of a man giving a shallow compliment to a scarfed ex wife...the bare minimum effort having won a somewhat shy woman over.

There was no due-diligence for the handful of public servants that had been forced to retire after saving the two children; there was no rest for those that had encountered such true evils--yelling past screens of static and information...needing to warn a mother stepping into a trap set past a front porch. Maybe it was for the best; that the world was given fair-caution of such a nightmare-in-law like Cindy...the somewhat meaningless words meant only to bring peace to the lost soul of scorned wife wandering from dimension to dimension in search of her children. The proof of a dying planet could be measured by the rippling effects of those surviving such a poor mortal soul...to be carrying the weight of guilt in the way an uncle franky could explain in words. The graceful exit of a genome had landed he and a kind uncle on the same plane of insanity; to be without answers while the world sat prodding at images of a crime scene tampered and incomplete. Artemis had lost a best friend to violent homicide; his murderer captured at least--while an aging mistress wandered to and fro...agitated that interest in a closed case was far from over.

The signs of domestic violence had ended at the hand of a dozen stories; where a road of destruction began and the limits of greed ended. Artemis had jumped in the darkened-oil with immense hesitation to her weak stomach--silently weeping and attempting to hold each of the small girls enough to bring warmth to raisin-ed skin. The never ending night cast a darkness over the entire timeline; where Bella and Cece remained forever babies--the ultimate victims to the sins of man. Artemis knew what it meant to be sealed away from the world--to be robbed of the night sky; waiting patiently for a stretched bout of time to be over.

Artemis worried the light seeping past a swinging hatch resembled a blood moon; had been seen by a brave baby plopping into thick substances as she survived the fall. Much like the memory of their smiles and songs--she felt their legacy slip away, like the gentle pale skin that slumped away from their bones at the slightest touch or turn. This was the truest of nightmares; proof that their Nation didn’t give a single fuck about the well-being of children and the safety of its disabled citizens. There were people like Artemis and friend named Nichole barging to break down a front door at any cost; returning to vats of slick substances...wondering why good men lied to protect a mistress, heated that a grown citizen was lead to a path of silence and eradication by her father. Protected from answering questions during the investigation of a triple-homicide--their place to hide while the rest of the evidence blew away in the wind; holding a line-of-defense where three sides to the story were told in a room of four corners--the tales told by four bodies, the bullshit stories spun and wove by a girlish man named Chrissey-Poo, his mother, his mistress and the fucking truth. Even without the blood of two toddlers and an unborn child on Chris’s hands...he had already attempted to kill a pregnant wife once, and thought she deserved the penalty of death twice. The price of inconveniencing him and his weird-ass family. Artemis knew that the citizens’ passion for the slain mother and her three children was never to be over.

Artemis felt hopeless, clamoring to get by month by month--weeping at mere the idea of forever separating herself and Athena...desperately needing to reunite the two small bodies that stood forever apart. The sacrifices of journalism had yet to be worth anything--her absence was rarely missed in a house hold held down by a woman sickened with narcissistic personality disorder. It was a mystery thrown into a cannon of violence, as to whether the brave mother had known the two girls were in danger in her very last moments, or if her soul was now left to be forever without rest...either way, the blindsided wife had sensed the presence of demon looming in her home. Artemis had lost touch with parts of reality--needing to know more and seeking answers as to why. Artemis began scripting an elaborate trap; to corner the man into answering the once muzzled questions of the citizens--knowing the world had grown sick with distrust of their own families due to his actions. A single family had sickened society; and Artemis desperately needed this man’s many, many lies to be over.

The man dug a shallow grave, dumping his wife in a dry pit of orange gravel: returning to his post on the fields of crude jokes and male dominated trades. He observed as his teammates stood nearer and nearer to two floating corpses; unknowingly draining the water and organic matters from the funnel underbelly of two batteries. He could fucking care less--that his family "was missing". He was an insignificant human...even in freedom. Little did he know--a friend of his wife; stood tall on his lawn in impenetrable integrity: armed with only the law and the right to speak her mind. Something was wrong with the world. The friendly woman stood her ground; screaming for help from the authorities until there was more than enough people to scout the crime scene mid-crime...and the husband was left in the cold; forced from the fold--scattering about to collect his lies...yammering on about how his wife had a civil argument that ended in the diplomatic agreement that their marriage was "incompatible", it was easily put and described as "like" basically over.

The woman had brought formidable back-up to assist in staking out the scene of the crime: reminding him that their marriage status was irrelevant when checking on the wellness of a person with disabilities and not out of the realm of normalcy until the search was escalated to proof-of-person. The concerned husband-stood awkwardly in a trance; stuck staring past a ring without the proper hand to rest upon. A “trusty friend” Dieter, being the only one with truth behind his eyes. The poor wee beast had been the only witness allowed to live through the slaughter--his yelps of anguish were topics of exhaustion for all those sleuthing into the day of a miraculous disappearance. The poor family pet had gone hoarse--with his pleas for help: worries scattering, across a sky of extinguished stars. The poor family member was all that remained of the slaugher sprinting with a caged rage--his famed run and flopping ears had announced a parade of death. The culpable husband had turned his plea into one of guilt, accepting that his tryst with freedom was officially over.

A machine began churning: “I need them back now”--the illusion cast of domestic bliss had taken him pretty far in life up until this point. His family was a prop...even in death. The widowed man told the entire world that his wife had murdered their two children...in a "justifiable rage". He had gone on the record--claiming that his wife was “crazy” enough to kill two people; his intentions in murder were backed by nobility--the motivation unclear; blank. Artemis felt her sassy soul come forward: clapping the backside of her hand in anger, as she enunciated how fucking official--this random had declared that his wife was a murderer. The red herring of a love letter stating his fear of a loving wife ordered to be witnessed and held safe with a mother; playing her part...ready to cast doubt when agreeing that a overbearing mother was capable of doing something to his kids--if it meant conjuring an unflattering light where a basil’d wife’s temper had finally boiled over.

The final discard had painted a scene of a free man; laying on a bed without sheets and staring at a mistress. He had lost his bedding in the tedious labor of moving a corpse from A to B. The concerned mistress had looked up things such “leaving a wife for a mistress”, and “preparing for anal sex”--the perplexing webs of lies and negligent authorities had tainted the minds of the world--grieving and forced to exist trapped and motionless in a web of evil. The spellbound husband had plead guilt; to spare himself from wanting to rip out his own eyes and take the fair chances in facing a penalty of death. A biased district representative had stomped out the flames of truth--holding bargain with two beasts in one term; protecting stats to be of more-importance than the entirety of a story turning public to be cast as cold while waiting for moments of passionate sway to be over.

The excitement of introduction fell short of strange; to be given the idea that the otherwise “picky mother”--had possibly invited a banshee to attend cloud filled meetings. The clash of titanous personalities were held at spear point when adding a kind and committed wife into the conversation. Artemis offered her special services--if the scorned mistress ever wanted to consider rearranging her fucking face. She knew survival instincts had been engraved in noticing unwell persons; upon hearing accounts of a mistress moving past a juvenile record--something about stabbing someone. The detail-driven mistress had said things like “Are you with her?”, and “Are we bad people?” Artemis nodded yes for both--walking away from the tacky woman without further injury to her small fists of fury; just needing her ugly energy to leave its pages forever. A haunting laughter forced its way into the minds of lost souls--anchored to the shores of sanity; ingratiating the waves of immaturity that had won the simplest of men over.

Artemis stumbled upon the “loving husband” in a dimension comprised of dreams--looking down upon two stray toddlers, and accepting that nightmares existed past the dreams she willingly had forgotten. True patience came from an introduction to a mom and a mistress--getting along from a distance; the release of “his story”--and public battle for insurance claims had said more-than-enough about a family’s twisted morals. Artemis was one of those people--enduring the voices of two awful women; taking turns spitting on the grave of a slain stranger. Artemis had crafted a story that would remind him of the inevitable truths that “his nightmare”...was never to be fucking over.

Artemis had done even better--crafting the man a crown that resembled a black bucket with spikes lining its metal edges; holding a simulated kingdom ransom--his to rule with the truth in order to prove innocence if the charade ever gave way. She handed him the crown, asking only that he blindly follow a path blazed by aging boots and rolled up trousers--to replicate a single day where everything felt wrong. He could earn freedom...with a simple game. The prisoner didn’t deserve to know the rules--only that his admittance of innocence would trigger the device to kill him on the spot; he seemed more than capable of murdering his wife at least. The man was in a trap of his own making--a simp in leather bounds and a gag: his chosen dominatrix being the awful mother that had “raised him”. Artemis hated this story already...but alas, she continued onto the topics unfit for a lady such as herself...needing to discuss the impossible labors of solution wrapped-up in a tale, if only to pass the time on days of aching health in a left kidney...to pretend a moment of sanity was born in the darkest of times, so that those tormented by the actions of small man could just get the shitty part of acceptance in grief and loss over.

The man wandered aimlessly in his simulation; making the same mistakes with pride--setting Cradles aflame on his selfish quest for self-improvement, or whatever. Artemis had switched places with his “beloved wife”: to stand in on a night fated by a husband’s mutilated form of love--he had still attempted to kill Artemis in the blink of a moment. She had trapped him in a maze of falsehoods and scenarios--to prove he was capable of killing recklessly; gripped by jealousy of ambitious people in general. Artemis had failed in attempting to spare him a few of his life sentences--the sloppily intertwined fabrication of the truth had been barely repairable; the threads of gore had reigned to be too-evil-to even comprehend--reprehensible beyond all words. It’s drilled information had brought an era of wed-less women, sensibly arranging one’s self to be alive past the thirties...unwilling to settle for weird guys hiding behind the self-proclaimed title of being a nice guy and their somehow weirder moms. Artemis crept through dark substances; needing to find the walls containing such madness--losing direction in the dark because a couple of sick individuals had decided to rearrange history; to tamper with the bar of social acceptance; and bet against a social contract...if it meant having the tip of an aging dick and an unlicked vagina to be be pleased by the wrongness of their sins; two evil people...lost in overly dramatic moments of being licked over.

Artemis was so angry in her little veiled world of chaos--there was no unlearning the things men did to women; in a world that hated its women. Artemis found the displacement tactics of his mother dearest to be enduring to say the least. Gifting her with the "beautiful eyes" of a famed mistress, and a name to match her woody, half-chipper: half-miserable personality. That’s all it took, (Artemis clapped her hands in glee, setting a stage--for two complicit women to become animated in their lies of grandeur). The manipulative mother, and the apathetic son did the rest quite willingly--Chrissey Poo taking his mother by a hand and leading the lucky lady down a cursed hallway and into the bedroom of her choosing. A Freudian gasp could be consumed in a single moment; when watching an otherwise indecisive man--finally let his ego take over.

His mother: loving that her son had finally found “an equal”, and the son-- truly loving that “his woman” was “so damn sexy”. Artemis trapped the two lovers of pride and ego in a room to mate, time loops required nuances and loosened reigns to complete the sentiment of a story within a story. A single day was all it took; to better frame an unseemly picture of family dysfunction. She had easily distracted the world with her short tale of a greasy man named Oedipus--in a world of unspoken violence, its limitations festering to the surface overnight. A moment of contention was all it took to change someone else’s life. The mother and son would speak softly to one another, seeking approval that met his mother’s endless sexy-time needs. They would “fuck like rabbits” as the loving husband put it, and Artemis was left to be bored and disturbed by all the gross things that these dead-eyed savages did upon her land. The word incest hadn’t existed in the Yurok language...because it wasn’t a real thing. She desperately wanted this elongated and exhausted rap-flow to be over.

Artemis didn’t mind sharing her odyssey in finding the true meaning of life-- offering her fellow criminals endless-hours-of-entertainment: printing out this single chapter and mailing it deliberately to the friendly neighbors of a loving husband for half a decade. She labeled him CW, and watched as he plastered his own back with the ink of chaos. He had inappropriately-appropriated the design that flooded past shoulders; the coveted moments of his physical prime finally over.

Artemis knew her story was long, her melody lost in the rage that spun her words. She gathered her finely-pressed outfits, and changed accordingly. Life was more comfortable after accepting a fate upon a wheeled throne; she no longer needed dresses or heels to attract the attention of men, as they became enamored by her smile and confidence in dedication alone. Artemis stood tall--proud on the days where she didn’t need a walker or forearm stick(s) to hold her upright; tightening thin belts of heeled shoes--ready to trample upside the emotions of men as she prepared to take the world by storm, three-times over.

Artemis had almost let a man beat her to death once, and now she hobbled between a life of dreams-slashed and a successful academic career. There was no in between of pain and pleasures. Artemis was no beauty--just a criminal born to a land where orphans are discarded in shallow ditches. She was no genius, but blushed at her past memories--being announced as a protege to the smartest human she had ever met...destined for the stars, and praised for showing up as herself. Artemis had retired a blue jumpsuit, proud that for having turned an orange jumpsuit into one more suitable in describing her intellectual talents. Artemis was the shape of anger-an embodied persons holding conflicted information; torn by facts and perceived reality. Artemis and her fellows in Black Boxes were equal--she had been raised in one, but no longer fit in with crowd. She felt no remorse for men like Chris; torn-down and stripped to nothing by his own hands, cast away as un-redeemable for eternity: because he liked telling his mother the choice of incarceration was his for the making. Artemis had crafted them a poem, if only to preserve their collective sanity in understanding their neighbors and hold them over.

She asked for a known face named Will--a bad husband in a different way, and to take his epic stance in the shape of a K; to deliver her readers in the direction of a second story. Asking the forming crowd to gander upon the close-ended story of a man named Sandison. A murderer that had taken the life of his lover, and ultimately decided on his own--to become a famous secretary instead of wasting away. He had been caged with a man that delivered an unending speech, “relieving his conscience” of listless crimes in harming children. Sandison had taken justice into his own hands--knowing that such offenders often repeat their crimes: accepting that he was a murderer through-and-through. He claimed that only “his God” could properly judge the man with rape-filled stories, and affirmed that he had only moved the appointment for such hearings to be sooner...rather-than-later. The world showered him with kind words like, “give this man a steak”, and congratulated him on such candor in “doing whatever’s necessary” to protect society; patting his back with understanding words like old friends while pointing out the flaws in a broken judicial system. Artemis found his self-awareness to be refreshing, and was in awe of how many people thanked him for sparing the tax-payers from footing the bill for such a horrific beast. Artemis knew deep down--that this man’s journey in changing the world...was far from over.

Artemis didn’t recommend the penalty of death to her fellow criminals on the beast she hunted, but simply told them of where to find such a weak and feeble bum to enjoy. A man with the initials CW’s, (She called him C-Dubs in passing--despite his talents in being a quiet loser or a lurking relative). Artemis had garnered a following on her own personal channel in which she spoke of his crimes and often flipped him off from a distance. "Fuck that guy". She saw him clawing to find a loophole, as to “get outta Dodge”--and it caused her to begin laughing nervously: to turn one hour of reading into twelve while waited for a man to reappear from rented room in a hotel of love and knowing his moments of fame were never to be over.

Artemis had wanted proof--that she could tell his story without his shrill mum coming for her head. The “loving grandmother” was now barking orders at strangers: demanding that they retract their words, and “never profit” from mentioning the name of her son; to gouge one’s eyes out in disbelief to the tales where he had acclaimed fame within a very successful career of murdering innocent people. Artemis wasn’t that easy to walk all over, and so she chose to crack her neck from side-to-side, and calmly plaster his story upon a web of unending truths and lies: knowing the ignorant woman wasn’t “too keen”, on reading. Just as her buffoon of a husband "Ron", hadn’t been too keen on tattooing the names of the slaughtered grandchildren onto his body: afraid it wouldn’t compliment the alive grandchildren that were permanently inked into his life. The burden of being a grandfather to Bella, Cece and Nico were officially over.

The grandfather had four years to take pride in their time on Earth, and now he wandered through white powdered rains--to forget that his only son had slaughtered toddlers for sport. The parents boasted of their sons athletic ability--his short career holding tools and trades, and yet they had no understanding that Shan’ann had lost a competition without bylaws. The in-laws were now famous for being the spawns of Hades; their blinding jealousy for a woman they had never cared to meet had finally won over.

Artemis watched in silence, as they continued to make excuses--to why a loving mother had to die....because Cindy-the-mother-of-all-things-narcissistic, was armed and ready to forgive whoever got the job done: she was forever the victim to circumstances of her own making. It’d be a great honor to be that person; finally recommending in public spaces that the bobbed woman "shut the fuck up". The impractical method would be only way for the ugly woman to let go of her coveted revenge. Artemis was ready to face such a hideous woman, as she pitied the uneducated to an extent...it didn’t mean she wouldn’t be the first to walk away from the horrific family that began to file an appeal; wishing to turn a plea of guilt times four over.

Her only responsibility was to break his curses of habitual lying, and to uncover the truth that was now heavily speculated and contorted to fit the narrative of a family that fell rapidly out of touch with reality. Artemis was only her to serve due-diligence to the victims, each who were slaughtered and abandoned in a dry field. Their memories, and lives had been thrown into the spotlight, and following their deaths...came the "truths" of a murderer that seemed to believe his small bursts of truth--meant that he deserved to have his citizenship reinstated, and his freedom returned-in-full; to be spared accountability once more, so that a near-handful of life sentences could be pardoned and marked on paper as officially over.

Artemis saw the world in black and white: meaning his "innocence" meant little more than the shit built-up in the black-boxes; he was a waste of air. Artemis offered him only a listening ear, and the chance to articulate where his case had gone wrong....if he ever decided to fight for what remained of his former life; if the window of opportunity was opened by chance or fate. In the meantime: Artemis yelled his trials and tribulations from the top of Mt. Olympus, wondering if she took a more direct approach to his situation...whether seeking an external army was right--in uncovering the truths lost on this man. Artemis shrugged to herself, the world below hadn’t any clue, as to how huge his crimes had been publicized: how deeply they distrusted an immature mistress walking free--casually hiding in the crowds of regular people as she overthought things over.

Artemis had once been blinded in her belief of people, but it didn’t mean she was stunted in recognizing when a human was beyond sickness or was using others for their own agendas. Her love of condemning a broken Justice System was ingrained into a cynical personality; by two brave women that had fought for her freedom as a young-adult and walked her to countless events...as though innocence of upbringing could be something proudly looked past and written over.

They demanded a Judge view her as an abandoned child; a person worth investing in, or risk the wrath of a criminal that was programmed and designed by the Nation...possibly too violent by nature. Artemis took it upon herself to point out her higher-than-average grades that was sustained over eleven fostered placements. Her smile and mind was sharper than the most dangerous weapon known to man: crafting a crime-filled childhood to survive and taking it with her into formal settings. Neither the Judge, or the Attorneys needed to point out that she had been formally declared as "too violent for war" on paper, a proclivity for pocket knives was very different when living in a simmering metropolis during a time when gangs and representation had been very real. Artemis traded her love of metal weapons for books, that better armed a proud scholar for a career holding up a Blue Crest of Hope. Artemis had hopeful eyes that were set on the night skies, aiming for the approval of a single Judge; if it meant that her struggles with identity could bare witness to the possibilities of equal opportunity. Artemis refused to be displaced for a single moment outside of her childhood; she leapt from moment to moment--with little-to-no-room for errors...exceeding expectations and worries that began to fall pressurized over a wilting spine; until a nervous breakdown would spill her past into the present--a time of wrong diagnosis kept held-in tears back until they finally spilled freely over.

Artemis had used only limited words; buttered by the hands of time--to cast a fashionable spell where incontestable belief in the citizens would serve to be more useful-than-harmful; when finding an audience bored and ready to cheer on her bloody battles. She had done nothing wrong, outside of stating the well-known facts, and nudging the weak and afraid man into a place she had once resided: the boot. Casually pointing out, that the murderous husband believed that he had done “his time”: the cowardly man lived in the self-delusion that his sentence would be reduced voluntarily to “not-five-life-sentences”. His trips of camping out no longer fun and filled with sex; daydreams reduced to ash in a penitentiary of his own doing. “Gods plan” for him only meant freedom--to gather more flock and reside past frigid cement walls. Artemis found his God to be cruel. It was a tale of martyrdom that was so spoiled past the date of shelved life, and out-of-fashion--the suggestion that time had healed the wounds of his actions literally offended her: enough to where her obvious piousness to his existence showed--his tongue dripped with evil: a spell of tongues had reached a house painted white. Remorseless had causing a great sickness to the general public; where their distrust in everyday people and those labelled as neighbors boiled over.

Artemis had no use for people “without control” over their dark impulses. The practice of movement and blade movement caused Artemis to subconsciously unsheathe a sword of silver and gold: destroying pages with relentless rage and merciless charm. Mercy was for the weak. She smiled at the newly-formed fact, that the stout man named Reiner: had been given one-hundred-and-twenty years for his crimes in enslaving women. Artemis had barely kept her temper when hearing him boast of his ability in bringing forth a “rapable baby”. She had been raped as an infant, and began to wonder why her pain and trauma...was now his topic of lecture to make a joke of. It wasn’t funny, witty, and there was no crowd capable of agreeing with such vile humors after a single second of thinking such profanity over.

This “man”, believed that Artemis had once desired--craved even...to have a grown man insert his unsatisfactory penis inside of her infant vagina. Without consent: locked in a body without knowledge of moving limbs. Keiths oversized head was next on the executioner’s block because of his slip-of-tongue--Artemis wanted to make sure everyone and anyone heard his bullshit sage wisdom; if it meant the world was a safer place a couple generations down-the-line. There was no room for such sickness in her world, and Artemis had made a hobby of telling the truth since her graduation into society as “not-a-criminal” lacked in appeal. Her slate erased from existence, a name, new birthday and a social number were the only things that were allowed to be packed away from the experience; no physical items needing to be carried over.

The man she spoke of, was to be ignored by Artemis at all costs: she decided that he needed the “clarity” found only in enclosed spaces, to fucking understand the depth of the word “rape”--she wanted to believe Justice could prevail at some level. Artemis hated both men equally, as they each declared their innocence: defending violence towards humans, that just happened to be women and children. Artemis had needed Chris to see how strongly she felt on the topic, and so she threw his two initials into a box with matching beasts. Artemis laughed a jarring and unfamiliar laugh--knowing that the short man was overwhelmingly annoyed that he was being judged “unfairly” by her tired hands and unable to control the narrative. Instead of listening to the lies of two men, Artemis had introduced the world to the mother of one--to spare Shan’ann a single poem as a villain to an unnatural coupling that stood beside her. The image of woman holding a white fate labelled as mistress was a fucked up enough moment for a husband to defend the boring truths as to why a doomed marriage had been deemed unworthy of legal separation--a wife’s life taken to pay for the failures of a couple rowing in a river of denial while a docile-looking man gazed at a woman stripping in broad daylight along the shore. A simple scene to prove that a romantic partnership was conclusively over.

Artemis found it weird that he spoke to a passionate room of people, and asked about the remaining children in the family...the ones that he hadn’t killed. He acted as though human compassion was a natural feeling, but the world knew better--who was this show for? There was no way this had unraveled simply because a bored guy had lost an extra seventy pounds. The world returned to the scene of his sins: observing as a monster “played with the kids”. Not “his kids”, just some random fucking kids--held at arms length even in testimony and witness statement. His old friends and neighbors; appalled: sickened and confused, as to how such evil had existed in their shared world...stranded in the puzzling moments when they had willingly invited a child-murderer over.

The middle-aged-man: had only murdered his family the once--just like Grant Solomon’s father had only participated in harmed his family a little bit. The usual suspects had been caught and framed in their separate ways; both men proving to be cowards at best...sick fucks at their worst--pale as the death they dealt. Artemis smiled: knowing that his name was useless now, that the paler fears of lossing access and or control of one’s family could destroy worlds. The purging anger held behing clenched teeth were real. She wanted to witness greed-filled grins as they vanished, as self-worth was cast and voted upon by a flawed but consistent-enough system--to witness as a window of opportunity creaking open to tell the truths of matters considered to be closed and unworthy of repeating. The timeline conflated by lies, and an agreeable nature--could only take the citizens so far before regressing into barbarianism. She dragged the man to the courts of public opinion in his smaller-than-average orange suit, wrangling him by an unpressed collar--accidentally dragging Grant’s father along out of spite; chained to the label of murderous father and spitting upon each aged body twice: each one on the behalf of the child that he had failed in protecting. These criminals had no idea, "no inclination" one could say: that the world had larger plans for those with name and title of family annihilator.

Next Chapter: *[ LIV ] Artemis and Pandora’s Box: Two.O*