Artemis found herself drifting over Akita more and more each week. She had found rhythms full of anxiety and thrill, colorful illustrations leading her from journey to journey. The need for nostalgia for a childhood that had been stolen seemed to be ironic-duplicitous in enabling her deeply woven sins in jealousy. Artemis was forever trapped behind a wall of static, portraying the silliest of roles, crumping in the heat of the moment--encapsulating a slice of time where self-expression in all forms was seen as taboo, including the skills of belting endless songs and the art of seriousness when giving nothing and everything in competitive moments of cringe-worthy dancing.

Artemis came from a generation of people-those born to lead the world into a new age of empathy. The worst of days fell upon their shoulders; they were stranded in a moment threaded with forgotten hopelessness. To find a speck of hope in a empty box; meant a lifetime of suffering. Artemis had been the only man in a contest of each nations best of men--thrown into a simulation of woe-told to take a wooden box, and make the most out of nothing. Artemis had handed her purse off to stranger beside her; tossing up a bun to nest as a crown as she held up fists and swayed from side to side on the balls of wee feet. "o shit, here we go again." She had crafted a world that painted itself-insisting on the reader to take liberties with her actions as a non-player character...dragged along for the ride, forced to encounter settlers injecting themselves into her life upon birth. She had been forever the lone Indigenous American Princess--contemplating whether it was wise to assist the travel party that called themselves the Donners, swaying in hesitation of the moments filled with language barriers--continuing on with her day instead of aiding the "helpless", letting out an uncomfortable "uhhhh" that inflicted the suggestion that she’d rather not...because it would be a more productive time to stay home and do nothing outside of the joys of prancing across pages unending--dancing.

She had mastered the skill of worrying about herself above the rest--minus the bullshit, forced to remind people of the choices to work by the hour--liable for less responsibilities than those on salary. To act ones wage, was like borrowing a moment with Tim--to bask in the enthusiasm gifted to those willing to live in the moment. There had been nights-no doubt, where Artemis had needed to borrow his Lyre from beyond the grave, unable to cease a moment of peace outside of a steady stream of tears. She was drowning in the debt of scholarly pride--given menial jobs and told to remain grateful for the opportunity to work environments where leaders with comfortable earnings made light of discomfort, displacing disagreements into the excuse of being "like a family". Artemis was an orphan, and now a single woman living from earnings to earnings--her kindness and work ethic taken advantage of by leaders answering to shadowy figures, and the youthful lazy generations that felt beneath the future they had inherited. Artemis was seen as a motherly figure, forced to say the things others didn’t--thanking workers for attending their shift, and welcoming them to the trenches of life. Her small stature was seen--a small head peaking over the trenches; a high-set hairdo scattering back and forth as she put out fires, built boundaries between herself and those paid adequately for their time. Sometimes the sacrifice of discomfort came with rewards; sighs of relief and the occasional evidence of unhealthiness that came from a work force showing high rates of people giving up, walking away from toxic places as they demanded better treatment. Nothing felt better than watching leaders resetting their meters of gratitude for those that showed up--Artemis’s priority was to pay her bills, and to provide a place comfort for those underpaid and underappreciated with a scene built off of a sincere welcoming--filled with moments pulling apart the threads of seriousness, laughing as she replaced a fountain of endless water and pet the beasts laying rest in a building built over tunnels of sadness. There lay sanity in accepting ones tertiary role--providing a main character passing-by on their own independent adventure; barely able to comprehend the idea of a memorable stranger--a person breaking through to the citizens one at a time, tucking them in and providing robes and keys in a tower--haunted by small beast with a neatly-tucked bow--left to fill an empty lobby with unapologetic warmth.

Artemis was surrounded by bigots. She felt the world struggle to grapple with the unsettling truth of what it would mean for the future. Until they didn’t have the time, walking between sporting arenas and juggling the plebeian lifestyle--until the support of those in charge was no longer the golden standard for reasoning and sound leadership, and only after the Mechanical Boar had given them lip service--turning them over with his small hooves to fuck-the-daylights out of what little delicate edges of Democracy remained held together by threads of sanity and longevity. His mushroomed dick would forever be flaccid, untouched by his curses of turning things to gold--prominent for his sexually violent tendencies, and lack of partnering warmth.

Hopelessness had bleed past her pages, and began to solder itself to lock in their awful reality. Did the readers not know of such Artist like Tim? Had they never wandered selfishly upon trails built upon culinary adventures with a man named Bourdain--was this not the dimension of a Cobain? No amount of punitive measures could unseal the fate of such lost souls. The trials of mortality could be measured in loss, displayed in a single catch of breath--a gift given to those willing to appreciate the strengths needed to take one more step, to survive the night; blindly believing the next day offered just a shred of comfort or warmth.

Artemis used her daydreams to hold hands with those long-gone peacefully-- to learn from their struggles and implement their lifes accomplishments and incorporate vague lessons in life as they were needed. There was nothing wrong with her--just as there was nothing wrong with mourning the loss of the immeasurable greatness occasionally stolen or lost to a world that only noticed the talent-less, or rewarded the awful behaviors with power and fame. Leaders and artists became publically trapped in their own webs of deceit--A golden net had become the most valuable belonging to the citizens...it trapped inexplicible truths, and specks of sanity--caged and mended by information, held arms-length away from an artificial entity; for safe keeping. Artemis was forever the barrier between the worlds colliding, trapped with a expression of confused laughter--crawling along an endless trail, taking relief and gratitude in the liberty of a world built for her to succeed, without the added layer of an owner whipping her across the back as she sought shelter, food, and warmth.

She was so proud--to exist in a time where such fine and talented men like a a comedic Robin had once walked, gracing stages and providing entertainment to a world almost-willing to embrace the true costs of immortality by way of legacy. Why did she come across as “aloof” and “bored” to her readers? She didn’t weigh value on the idea of self-preservation on indifference, and found the trait to be dangerous when left unchecked. Her favorite boss had drilled in the notion that someone had to be in charge, and granted her with expectation that her attendance to such inevitable turn in workers was something to prepare for. Her brokenness had built an empire, built upon her own back--meant to be an normalized experience in a world that thrived off of smothering and edging out diversity with insensitivity. She had found a boss that refused to accept her apologies in having deep feelings and shallow expectations in the workplace. There had been one-too-many malfunctions in an operation that was built of coldness and procedural devaluing. Going through the motions had got them nowhere, and Artemis would wander through scenes unending like a brown beast wandering through a campsite--sitting around and enjoying food with a settled stance, swaying back and forth as she enjoyed the finest things life had to offer--watching the world burn down around her as she did nothing, prepared to leave if necessary; but enjoying the shared panic gifted by the chaos that splashed and trickled in the flames that provided her with warmth.

There was forever the lingering assumptions that Artemis had been born, abandoned and left daft to her surroundings: a preconceived and untested notion--burdened by the weight of the world as punishment for being a burden to society, a baby thrown into the throngs of a chaos--left to drown in deepening ends of depression. There was no place for such a beacon of hope--she was forever fated to be edged out of surroundings incapable of understanding or embracing such hopeful warmth.

Artemis had the secret weapon of pale entitlement, a blinding sense of confidence that often provided adventures and side-quests unending. She was gifted a strange force-field of compassion--designated as leader in rooms without. There was an unfortunate disparity to be cursed: wandering through life without the privileges granted to those passing as a white person, but expected to embrace the culture-less culture none-the-less. She had been born out of intoxicated lust, as the product of unplanned wedlock--luckily, in a timeline where such things were the norm and her circumstances considered as whatever. Plenty of citizens had crafted families by accident--left to their pubs, and their youthful intrigue guiding them into the beds of strangers to preserve ego, identity, statuses, and occasionally to serve loneliness--to provide solution in needing comfort through deep slumber, to be the smallest of spoons to survive the night. Artemis had been lucky--born in a generation ready to announce the importance of mortal closeness, to be openly thirsty and crawling to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong with longing for such security and warmth.

There remained the facts that she wasn’t bound to the bullshit expectations in appearance and reputation that had previously chained down the elders that had came before her. Artemis and her generation had raised the bar, forcing their families to accept diversity and change with open arms--saying nothing, listening with kind ear as they waited for others to ask for hugs, needing to remain in touch with reality and finding sorrow in the lack-of caring. Touch deprivation had gifted the citizens with gratefulness for an entire generation that had suffered off a grid of reassurance that they existed, and they had changed their stances on apathy being a tool in parenting, auntying and uncle-ing, grandparenting; until the toll was left behind, abandoned for skills garnered from providing others with an embrace filled with kind-hearted warmth.

Artemis had only wanted to script a book: reaching a hand to a past life and cementing herself in a timeline where she had seen a few good men drowning while on stage-hostage to the audience that stared on with disbelief to such unluck fate. Artemis was a child, but the youthful and somehow “aged” man named Tim: seemed sad beyond all words, he was trapped in his own thoughts of woe--staring from his window while the world stood outside his home and demanded beautiful music. His death would transcend a sadness that was without a name--too tragic to be captured in a handful of syllabubs, tied to a curse she hadn’t wished away each winter, determined to ever make such traits of sorrow permanent or routine. Artemis was a child wearing a wreath crafted by the “Gods”, characterized as a simple, “homely orphan”: her own burden in existing was a vex, a bug in the fabric of coding--the unexpected outlier, digging through an empty box until two fingers could be transcribed as a gesture of love and admiration. The unseriousness she provided could warm up the stalest of places, those forgetting she had built a life off cheering for others as threw arms and kicks around--tufts of glitter falling around her as she yelled around and remained committed to the role sparkling up the environment without polluting it, and the skill of passionate dancing.

Her life was filled with flirty intentions, watching competitions on wooden floors--sans an injured player attending to his injured knee. The skill of walking away for no particular reason, outside of a smokey glare--there wasn’t much four her to aspire to. The rain and friendly smile introduced her to moments of haggling by accident, a kind and timely wager was a small price to spare of one’s true vanity. Pleasant surprises awaited a soggy victory--she took delight in wandering away from choke-holding crush and plopping back to reality...miserable in bills and almost-due taxes. There wasn’t a need to fluff lingo, or her inner-dialogue--the world embraced the tales told to a niece, on other platforms--presenting a character ready to defend the innocent children lost to violent homicides, late to the fame--tending to a undying literary flame. The inability to check tears and hold level tone rounded out true stories--of crimes committed upon children and infants specifically, having been provided with awful beginnings; origin stories devoid of all reason and mortal warmth.

She was precise, swift with wording--drafting most paragraphs in one sitting: leaving sordid pages, returning under spells of mania--snarls of unapologetic femininity couldn’t be stifled beneath black ribbons, horned to express youthful perkiness. Artemis had wanted to prove to the world that those with “other” qualities, those disabled, those of dark skin colour, frizzy-haired and louder than life: were people. Artemis liked being herself--there was nothing wrong with being herself, for that is all she could ever hope for. To wish for the unknown, meant a life cursed--drifting through the abyss of space...curled in a pathetic existence that collapsed upon itself through a snaking spine; its degenerative discs conquering the bravest of mortals. Artemis just doubled down on such pain, weeping over how little men found her worth...longing to be part of a healthy partnership, to look up and know a steady-footed man too pride in taking the lead with a graceful step--ready to wait for Artemis to weather storms of dissatisfaction; enhanced by seasonal diseases and predisposition of a lil’ bish immune system. The scourges of swaying moods followed a majority of those lacking ability to retain propery amounts of sufficient levels of iron--fatigued by three stairs, and limbs prone to changing colors depending on circulating warmth.

The lack of good men in surrounding neighborhoods had been another issue upon itself-as could be seen by a man named Ramsey--investigated and accused of terrorizing conservative nations: rubbing small testicles on honored statues, a bane to the ego of the perpetrators of such terrors. Totems of the past; unlearnable, unforgettable, and unforgivable necessity cast in iron, bronzed as smudges to be removed out of convenience. Artemis knew full-and-well what atrocities in discipline and captivity sat beside such sadden reflections of man. the artful stubbornness of living with the sins of mortals. He had sought out to achieve notoriety by using barriers of language and cultural ignorance, hiding behind a cursed flag as he mocked the children enslaved under a rising sun-the poor women and children forced to provide the enemy with comfort and warmth.

Artemis watched in disbelief as some lame "entertainer" wandered around the world; relentlessly trolling the nicest of communities with his piousness and profane disrespect for history. It became a global game--a phenomenon of sorts, to seek such a Golden Goblin out, and to provide street justice with a formidable ass beating. Artemis felt somehow responsible for the culture-less loser; sighing out loud, as the clownish man rubbed petite genitals upon statues meant to remind the world of the horrific and unjustifiable suffering of young women-- those enslaved in times of war; raped for comfort of the soldiers--victims as young as eight. They called the collection of anchored statues Women of Comfort--and then there was a piece-of-shit random-ass tourist, slobbering, and embarrassing himself as he offended entire Nations with his feeble attempts to bait a race-war with his clumsy dancing.

Artemis had to limit intake of history information--or challenge her blind-beliefs in all those that came before. A true curse--was a exuberant life, to be forced in proximity or affiliation with a beastly man named Sean; forever tied to his mother. Dragging slippers and asking where one would find such a party. Tangents and gleeful playfulness lay on the trail of such misconstrued reality, to be following such a due along an empty hallway--hauntingly impactful slippers shuffling alongside reluctant bags filled with saline. Two sparing partners in crimes, anchored to a pole on wheels; rolling over laws as they saw fit. Leap of evils came easy to the citizens she had grew up around--nothing was sacred, no one had been safe from the tormenting deeds--passed off as rights of passage, bargaining for or a foot into a room fleeting, or non-existent room filled with happiness and smooth-sailing under another influencing authority. Empty promises, deceit and a urge undying for a thousand lifetimes over--that was all that awaited him in the next life, Hades would be this life: where Artemis had thought about and overthought about the obscure things left unchangeable. Those harmed by the monstrous idol that had fallen without his winged finances to keep his spirit high. Time had mortalized Sean, Artemis had technically just showed up for the sake of showing up. She was just there, chilling with a bow--unaware of the things that had already been predestined to happen; long before there her blonde curls beep-booped by, ready to rally on the masses with cheeringly annoying suggestions and acrobatic-filled dancing.

She smiled and stared past a flame; fanned by a society burnt out by the normalization of bringing harm upon children. Artemis had needed them to agree, to form a line barricading their children from the blaze of an empire collapsing before their eyes. Silence would only be elevated by Artemis’s breaking of such morbid barriers with her love of artful word, to be able calmly relay a definitive need to step back and just let it burn.

Had they thought she still took mental refuge in such portraits of Four Nations and Four Elements: unaware of the trials of Uncle Iroh, and the standard of craft such entertainment provided on the worst of days. Artemis would persist in her joyous laughter; swaying as she sang of a secret tunnel--chipper with the stories of a crew of friends, floating through life’s journeys as they fought a tyrant famed for his flame and lack-of fatherly warmth.

Artemis used background music and stories on repeat, canceling out one of the two songs that always managed to end up playing in the back burners of her mind. The reader asked “what’s the other song?”, and Artemis had no choice but to shrug: the song probably just hadn’t been written yet--a tune unheard until it was heard. She’d sway in boredom, forgetting how dreadful it was to be mistreated by men...too preoccupied watching men blazing a trail upon wooden courts. The ice-stones falling to the ground--the dashing of minor ambitions brought frigid expectations for an unforgiving upcoming winter, but alas--Artemis was comfortable being herself, observing a handsome man wearing the number VIII, and forgetting the sensible attraction that had once been built off a handful of introductions to a talented defensive Olympian sitting on the sidelines of a competition--injured without a robe to announce his number and stats under the number IV. She was trapped in a life that was unimpressive to the talents and caring to duty; cemented beyond a wall of thanklessness--forced to budget bleeding noses and listen to commentary of play-by-play, holding the line with the other peasants too oppressed to afford entry into a concrete Colosseum citing amidst a garden of roses. Artemis secretly missed her life filled with shortened robes, acrobatic floor routines, and blush-inducing--pom-poms strictly thrown about as she raised the energy of the crowds with smiles, chants, and seductive dancing.

Artemis yelled in her void “Tim!!!?”--searching for a famous musician in the crowds, needing to update a soundtrack stuck in the past. The world seemed just the slightest bit more bleak than normal--the further she moved from the day of losing Tim; the more the world loved his existence. Sorrowful lulls in good music had resulting in Artemis letting her smile drop at last--her flashy plums of sparkle pointed to the ground in defeat. He was gone. Tim had left the world to its evils; opting out of life in the face of his medical battles. They had failed to see his suffering. She had failed--in saving a light, far-too precious to hold. The devastating loss was only one of many--standing beside her two “fake-marriages”; the second, being vast amounts of time wasted--moments cheering loudly for others, jumping from month-to-month paying inflating bills; bogged down by life leaving her behind as she worked tirelessly for numerous thankless entities shredding the fringes of her confidence, and draining what little enthusiasm remained in life. Artemis sat swaying in the daydreams compiled from memories of her practicing with a undeniable love of performance--specifically dancing.

Artemis remained stagnant in her suffering; stranded in grief--grappling with the curses of obsessive compulsions to pull out her own hair. The citizens had proven their hatred of her “character”--playing unbecoming characters, or openly gawking--shields protecting their faces as they pursued the thrills of harassment, participating in ludicrous goose-chases: stalking a stranger. She hadn’t mentioned the notifications, the “summons” of sorts to the readers, assuming that’s what they had come to hear aboot. The “spooky coincidence” that they were now obviously “uneasy in their seats”-granted the pages began leaking into reality. Their problems would eventually spin a web unable to be unspun--bound by a vote, left holding a pink encrusted mirror compact and watching as Artemis laughed and wiped away tears--frolicking near the worlds largest fire, too tired to care that the needed her help. The world was more fun with golden hair; doing less--holding less responsibility as those fairly compensated thrashed about; forced to take the reigns of occupations built upon liabilities and hospitality. Artemis was simply the greeter; a first line of defense for accountants--an publicly traded entities cheap way of taking advantage of her need to catch mistakes and sincerer-than-most brand of warmth.

Her threads and delicate stitches brought subtle comfort in the worst of times. Artemis would sprint back its pages, tears falling freely as she walked down Fremont, needing to lay out unsolvable issues on blank canvas--to stand back and observe the bleeding and blending of abrupt stories; maroon with the blood-laced tears of a middle-aged woman. Artemis was trapped in a moment of confusion--holding a smile aimed at a man, and extending a thoughtful hand as if asking for assistance with handing off the things that no longer provided her femininity with the inspiration to try harder, or gave rise to a heartbeat--tormented by the mere chance at a relationship she had stumbled upon and took refuge in the rare happenstance with a man that unintentionally provided her with emotional warmth.

A slender upturned hand and a strange man claiming to be her friend were stuck in a dance of labor--Artemis, single and afraid that life had passed her by, allowing the task of a single wall to represent her efforts in caring. Her potential suitor remained fixated on the accusations of witchcraft, unsure of how she had become an important figure in his life with ease. Disdain and conflated identity fell over a man--wondering how she had enchanted him with distracting spells-while he swayed in awe to a melody of Wicked Games. He refused to leave her side, passing off mistreatment as the norm--attempting to convenience Artemis that his company should suffice as just payment for back-breaking work. Even as he always managed to do less work on all fronts, under the unspoken merits of pale privilege and being tall--Artemis thanked the thankless partner for each brick--reminded him of how proud she was of his work. One day; her knees began to ache and a random disc began to bulge out from between two overextended, and exhausted vertebrae...the words "you’re gonna do great", fell hollow upon the cute sauce-plated ears of a potential suitor dedicated on holding an image of a smokey dirt-bag of a guy. He had scared Artemis away with a handful of conversations that laid out his need to be forever unsatisfied with her presence in his life. He lambasted a woman trapped upon her knees, longing for a man to ask her to stand--for a partners willing to see the threaded desperation that kept her on the fringes of social settings. Artemis didn’t need to dwell on the tortures endured for the right to smile and laugh with punishment. The primal need to survive, had often overshadowed a childhood lost and moved defeated men past her out of discomfort of the topics that comprised an orphan; cursed with a quality of letting strangers devalue her adversities...needing her to be as shallow, and aesthetically pleasing as an inflatable doll--cursed wear red lips, and be grateful in the designated role of being a hole to fill, a female to toss and turn over, to discard after heavy judgement. Plenty of men had approached upon her life; telling themselves they were enough of a man to take her hand, to drape a beautiful shell of a woman upon their shoulders and take the lead in moments of interpersonal dancing.

Artemis said rude things to men--like, "I know when I deserve better", or "I don’t really see this going anywhere at this rate." Words meant to excuse her from sucking time out of hopeless scenarios--words meant to protect a woman too tired to waste efforts on those unworthy of her limited time. Only one potential suitor would pass off labor of handing off bricks as his own burden to carry, attempting to make Artemis earn things like public displays of commitment; giving a smile and flirt here, and then pulling a brick away from reach on days where Artemis’s heart longed for Orion’s passion. Most men were unaware the sex had been the love language that had kept their pairing center-stage to the world--bored by false narrative and public relations casting tales of turmoil to better keep artists relevant. She had taken Orion’s hand, gracefully leaning her curl-crowned head away in a spell cast by a man taking confidence and initiative in shamelessly pawning at her thighs and rear as he tilted her head upward with two guiding fingers. Their passion for the other left plenty of people in awe, enough to where Artemis knew she’d never find the strength to resists his request in company--let alone feel shame in being the consistent muse to a man too-coy with emotions, to preoccupied with fun, to attend to the emotions of another outside of the bedroom and the occasional tryst dancing.

Unfortunately for her; Orion was gone, done with enduring the chaos that was their label-less attraction. Artemis knew what it meant to be adored, protected, and given a fair-chance in succeeding and excelling past the unspoken expectations of two people; conflicted by desire and familiar comfort in each others company--each, too shy to admit when attraction was bigger than a single moment here and there, it was too precious to risk with a night rolling around in lustful bedding. There were very few and-far-in-between...men capable of holding her attention. Those that captivated a stolen moment, free of the guilt laying beneath the warm-sheets of Orion’s affections--to be seen and held on the same day was rare and few. Everyone often placed him on a pedestal, and she had allowed herself to become docile to the endless parade of women throwing themselves before his path. She had almost given up looking and waiting for a man brave enough to take pride in embracing her petite waist. It wasn’t a huge ask, to require a man to appreciate her achievements, let alone--value the disparity that slipped away in tearful moments of intimate dancing.

Artemis didn’t see herself as a beauty; a star too bright, to stare upon with passing awe--her vanity was often checked by the mean-spirited insecurities of a slender man with a hand permanently mutilated from past relationship battles. The bonded over stories of giving love to the wrong people, and saying the right things--to the wrong person. She secretly pitied his circumstances, unable to bend to lowered standards in character--he despised her for it, pulling away what little physical touches had been added to their shared repertoire. Artemis had no reason to attractions, as he was often seen reaching a delicate finger in her direction; unable to scoop up an otherwise unexecptional hand...confused when the deck had loaded itself in his favor. Artemis had been the glittery woman walking by, offering libations and company in stride: the controlled settings were his to take advatage of, her flirts in passing were only kind whispers--offering reaffirming compliments, and the boundless possibilities in a forgien bed; free of resentment and and filled with compassionate warmth.

Artemis had seen him standing far beyond a canyon winding along, heeled in a set routine and shortened content to things a bit too violent for Artemis’s taste. She could be seen overly-enthusiastically waving and yelling his name. The pick-me parts of Artemis were aimed at few men, and often without trend or theme--unfortunate in open bets provided beneath live tables, a prolonged experience--weighing the options between a romance set for failure upon launch, or the rewards of exceptionalism with the added bonus of an aesthetic mission marked by congratulatory ease of pace. Artemis had been set in the direct path of a man, ready to love a party-themed doll--holding cheerful salute and stemmed glass, left to her vices as she hosted through life, day-by-day, unwilling to chose a single bed to cuddle a homie with warmth.

The carelessness of past lovers--had unfairly been thrown tedious laborious hurdles to clear--his smouldering moods felt like the worlds weight upon her hunching shoulders. It was so familiar to Orions--this-or-nothing ultimatums, and Artemis hadn’t the time to pick herself back up for a man lacking self-awareness when comparing emotional baggage. Awful words, meaningful in fleshing out the cracking of expectations had saved years of time worth of arguments--left with silly silences, where Artemis returned to flirting openly; pouting as she pointed out how everyone else in the building got to get a room but them. Plenty of her arguments could have been smoldered in an instant--not-at-all immune to the charms of kisses filled with caring and reassuring warmth.

Hyper-critical conversations on nonsense issues; began walling up a buffer between her emotions and his actions. Nothing made sense; his words were misaligned to his actions, but that was somehow her fault. The last guy that held her to such high oracle statuses--had fallen in love with Artemis overnight. Which one? Artemis had no fucking clue. She had already knew that it was lonely to hold someone in high-regard, only to be seen from afar-a vision meant to cherish for its existence and admire out loud for reasons of affiliation; a piece of sweets to be placed upon a leading arm, seen and unheard, obedient and silent while graciously dancing.

Orion had treated Artemis like a clouded shadow held in the distance at all times--imperfect and unfit for the judgements past those allotted with face-value to a scene chained by etiquette and professionalism. Teamwork being the risk on that occasion, livelihood being the bet on this occasion. She would never be comfortable building a home with a man that made excuses for violent mortals, when each step--every sassy flick of the wrist had been criticized down to the tips of her matte burgundy talons. Artemis suited up for a quiet exit from his life--unwilling to be a company’s bitch and risk being put in harms way for a lobby where they preserved costs by freezing employees and accused them of being miserable and unwilling to conform to a cultist occupation; void of empathy, reasonable compromise, or the decency of comfort found in warmth.

Artemis knew when profits and bonuses were valued over work and ambition and the safety of others. It had all culminated in the stormy moments where the less fortunate, criminals and unruly guests sprinted at transparent doors--foaming at the mouth to give Artemis a piece of their mind. She had made a bad investment in a man--accidentally overlooking him, unaware that he had flaming red hair until he felt the need to make himself known. Artemis wasn’t impressed by his avoidant personality traits, unphased by his inability to catch the shooting star passing by--a relationship built off of odds, a genuine connection backed by a physical attraction. She had no intention of being held to higher expectations of a violent baby-momma, and no real reason to dress in fine linens; for a man lacking in sensibility, work ethic aimed at protecting the laborers, and resisting and gifting teasing moments of their undeniable romantic warmth.

Artemis had nothing to offer a man ready to be dissatisfied or locked-and-loaded with sighs riddled with disappointment at the slightest drop of a billed toque. She began blindly placing down a paved barrier in order to protect her heart--if only to prove that the eras of mistreating her for sport were over. He had made excuses for a woman taking a athletic club to his backdoor--acting as though the metal shards splintering through its tip made the story cool and edgy, and less domestic terrorist-y. Artemis shrugged, knowing his low bar of expectations in a partner--were forever too high for her to clear. Her words cut deeper than any hole punctured upon the door of his "home." Artemis had seen the blood dried upon his kitchen walls--attempting to hide the rage that trembled from her tired hands as she fumbled the emotional bag filled with their potential. There was no place for her in his life--due to the fact that appearances mattered more than safety. Why raise his standard in character, when its more simple to remain blind to a domestically violent co-parenting situation? Artemis had began weeping, unwilling to bend her standards for man ready to throw her affections out in the cold--hiding behind the reasoning that his violent, sloppy, and cruel ex was the only woman deserving of every ounce of warmth.

Artemis was a woman ready to be loved--openly placing herself on a market and announcing herself as a queen bee, her ego had mended itself in the throws of an argument--and she persisted healed and steady-footed. Artemis was unmovable, left to pluck away at the intertwining remains of the relationship left stagnant in building famed for its spiral staircases and entry to tunnels of despair. The tribulations of David had taken its toll on Artemis--she hadn’t much to offer a man a man with red hair and striking eyes. Her words had been too gentle, too promising when discussing sex, music, and relationships. Artemis had built a wall of conclusions--laying down boundaries, expectations, and kindness as a defensive mechanism to something that seemed to be too-big-of a hurdle for a slender man--too selfish to express his true intent, handing off bricks and complaining that Artemis wasn’t achieving the traits scribbled hastily upon a childish list. She abandoned a thankless occupation, and set aside an otherwise insecure potential love interest in the span of single poem--decisively choosing to hear the words of the growing number of friends; each concluding that she deserved better with the turn of a thumb. There was something there, left cementing her to an half-hearted attraction--he was something familiar, in a world where nothing felt right. Artemis had a past filled with plenty of fairly-avoidable mistakes in romance--one’s where the deprecation of her self-worth was considered collateral damage: fair wager to compensate for the endless desires of men. Luckily for Artemis--throngs of men no longer flocked to her door or stampeded at path of destruction in her wake--she was left to her imagination and passing crush here and there. A shy and timid man lingering behind the pack of the thinned-out gaggle of men waging war on her loneliness. He was forever amused that Artemis had been informed of his red hair...and she had sought reassurances--ready to be wrong about one of his larger insecurities. Men readily found and declared her as too broken too love, her time unworthy of urgency--her pathetic passion for life often made men hesitant in holding such embraces with a woman too stone-faced to argue with, bellowing with tears at the slightest tap of willow-worded argument. One unexceptional day: his embrace was reluctant--his words drained of all understanding or warmth.

She began to curl a hospitable and charming smile into a snarl, the machine in charge of destiny had atrocious plans for the citizens: their folly was only theirs to accept. The lightning of Zeus would lay dormant in their hands--they were encased to live at the exhausted hand of an occasionally childish woman turning pages and laughing at nothing. Artemis had crafted a parchment from reeds and fine paste--a slurry that dried as a gloss to protect the words ink’d below. “This shit goes for days yo”, Artemis was impressed with her “effortless” efforts. Almost impressed. There were days where the book seemed more like a burden uncalled for; its pages had yet to turn a profit or pull a dedicated audience. It was a whole of Artemis making the most out of relatable and shitty situations--believing that some drooping and corn-filled bits would stick in a world lacking in comedy-driven warmth.

Life had given her nothing, and Artemis had stood behind the informal law of attraction--a glare past a fan of competition, a breath holding the final piece of blind faith in clenched fists. The house always wins. Why not her? Throbbing scenes and florescent lights streaking past a few fine wrinkles--her hardened sighs of disappointment would serve as relief to her future children. Artemis used words and grief strewn cursive to embrace a anti-social personality; trained in understanding the needs of others, before her own cursed existence. Each day was a stolen page--each block of suppressed emotion offered financial security, the promises of a life worthy of calling comfortable. There was little-to-no proof that the world found her worthy of noticing the skills she offered the world. Her world was forever eerie, stale and powdered through a dramatic scope--lacking yellows and orange to round-out the harsh edges of the defining traits of a woman, coddling the grief that overflowed to a neighboring universe. They had heard her shrill cries; attempting to find an exit from a darkened cave--a childhood locked in closet, deprived of nutrition in most crucial moments of personal growth. No amount of pages would be able to soothe the forgotten child; held hostage from the world--stripped of normalcy and robes on occasion. There was no fullness to be found for a woman raped and raped--trapped in a vulnerable small body, used a vessel of warning to all those living with hope. There was no forgiving--no reconciliation to be delivered or received, no price steep enough to compensate for lack of proper sleep, or reduced longing to wake up near a partners undeserving warmth.

One more combing of her seeds and blades of wheat and corn unending, should suffice in better articulating her many, many “feels”. Why hadn’t anyone cared to ask how the women and men that cheered for others felt? Did they not deserve their own rallying squad of encouragement--providing a trail of pep in moments of obvious defeat. Artemis had hoped one day to meet such a fine group of fandom--if only to accept a group hug in the sorrowful validation of efforts attempting to hold onto “her sanity” in the loneliest on nights. She wasted countless dreams--sprinting to bridges and casting herself below in woeful confusion: she had finally told her Kind-Hearted Hunters of the depression seeded in needing to fulfill expectations on a journey without a map or playbook. She had said words of a worried child, unselfish but horrific in context to the events wrapped in a leather belt. Artemis was afraid of losing the aging mentors, and there didn’t seem to be enough time in the day to manage what little energy was needed to cope with the inevitable. Terror fell over her eyes: stoney and indifferent. She had found the words to express her fears of being forced to return into a life of darkness: that which she called “being alone”, stranded in isolation-- drowning in woe. The three humans had once seen her crawling naked from an ocean--the pummeling waves had taken turns knocking them down, and she begged them to let go, the world had nothing to offer a sufferer cursed to call herself a woman. The need to drown in pity wasn’t something she had wished to extend into their lives. They took turns finding food and supplies, tending to her in a rotation--one fixing her tame-less hair, and the other two clothing her; eventually ushering her up the rocky shores to find proper housing and pricey warmth.

Artemis often sat was with a strange angry silence, apologetic to the learned helplessness that led her nowhere most days. She said “sorry”, while addressing the whim, the insatiable need to pretend reduce lifes sorrows. The Kind-Hearted Hunters were forever consistent in their need to hold her from afar--to allow Artemis to reach out for their extended hand in times of great sorrow. Her body began to break down, worn out from trembling violently whenever making innocent mistakes. There was the traits of avoidance and procrastination occasionally weighing her down--the unwelcoming reminders that her generation had repelled the notions projected by a sequel painted in Artemis’s childhood neighborhood--opening to a titled credits, addressing such a nightmare as: Life with Grandpa’s Brother. Athena’s generation had been blinded by the teachings given on Sunday and Thursdays, taught to always obey and serve the commands given when over-leveraged in safety procedures provided while surviving Life with Grandpa. Her body waited for the forms of violent discipline to follow. There was no remedy for damaged veins; no way to thicken the once burned flesh--the wounds of a child forced to stand still as boiling waters slumped away with curdles of tissue. The virtues taught by a caregiver to children--casually abusing parent-less children and rambling lessons as to the importance to activating soaps with water set at the perfect temperature in warmth.

Artemis was only a teenager, but a handful of good Samaritans had seen her drowning in silence, raising a hair-lined knuckle for self-soothing measures, and hiding behind a forced smile. She had an edge of privilege, a love of learning and the hidden reminders tucked away in fluffy hair--knowing first-hand of a culture radicalized by outmoded dogma and red caps swarming what little remained stable of Democracy. Artemis suffered from a disease with no immediate cure. It was odd to live amongst the masses, although somehow afraid of people. She only wished to return to the ocean: often laying beached and unwilling to lay belly up. They were just people, a rag-tag group that chose to call themselves her family and friends. Artemis had modified her burdened genome--by lessening her attendance to environments filled with wolves, by building walls of rejection meant to deter the inevitable heartbreak of two people torn apart by circumstances. Seasonal depression was no match for whatever motherhood would probably bring, and Artemis expected no different than the child-bearing women she had often read about or witnessed out scientific curiosity. She had the tools to combat things that even the citizens were unprepared for. The sky filled with smoke: Artemis had been practicing bending fire through a series of short versions of her limited flexibility and take on modern dancing.

Artemis had set out to take over the world, to set forth on a glamorous campaign of fame--forcing the world to watch her rise from the bellows of nothingness provided at birth. There was no stakes too high, for a person born with nothing to loose, and Artemis had wanted to look fabulous whilst existing in the dimension crafted around shit plastering walls. The winter brought out the unrested spirit of a boy-forever trapped clawing away at skin-withering in pain on a couch; the cursed brother of JonBenet would forever be restrained to a single night, stained with a reality covered by snow and tragedy--trapped beneath a mythical lock-and-chain, teetering between an unwell child-throwing feces as he went and holding snarls sadistic eyes. The man famed as a litigious monster--triggered by the mere image of his talented, youthful, and cherished sister. The corner ends of a blanketed dimension were tacked down by the unlimited cruelties, the fabled expectations of Zimbardo. Artemis had refused to take stock in the leap needed to prove that mortals were born evil, unable to devalue the kindness experienced in a world lacking in love. She stood forever trapped in the closeted parts of a childhood shattered by extremist and their perversions wrapped in religion, laughing to herself as a creature wandered nearby--splattering shit in fits of rage, while Artemis remained unbothered; festive linens holding her spirits high as she began to build a career around an undeserving love of singing and dancing.

The Kind-Hearted Hunters had seen the unmoving character gifted to a woman laying prideful bricks of expectations, and offered to take the load of burden--if it meant she’d rest for a winter. Artemis began to weep--the world had left her behind, forgotten in a few articles and portraits. She felt stagnant as a person, unable to let go a tragic childhood--too preoccupied laying bricks to sit down and think about anything other than the passions of discontent. One day, the wall between her and the suitor became too large to see over its sloppy craftsmanship--it expanded in length, and then that too became an obstacle too vast to leave unnoticed. The Kind-Hearted Hunters- remained diligent in performing the duties given by a stranger given the benefit of a doubt, more concerned about the woman curled upon the ground. They began conversations with congratulations that were seemingly in order--for a woman often unwilling to emotionally compromise her ego for the trades given with a partners loving warmth.

Artemis would sigh, not too surprised by the evidence provided in a hand-crafted wall--there wasn’t much to be said outside of flopping hands bouncing from her waist. Or an occasionally glance in the direction of man--obscured by his own line of sight. He had worked so hard to move from the peripherals, and grew upset when realizing he was all that Artemis saw. Especially with how disorganized and half-hearted her wall lay between them. She didn’t know what to make out of any of it. Her life seemed so unimpressive overnight--being trapped guarding a spiral staircase and a pub--decorated with the image of Bacchus, cheapened to meet the standards of their budget. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had seen the writing on the walls; they said little-to-nothing as she had scribbled them down on their newly cemented craftsmanship. Their priority remained on her long-term goals, and stopped-dead at interpersonal situations that lacked understanding, self-awareness. It was Artemis’s personal responsibility to learn, as well as take practice of and the addition of caring words, crafted with understanding and kindled by verbal warmth.

There was no place for morally murky people, and it was taken into account that Artemis’s work ethic lay thick and evenly distributed--no matter the occupation. There lay a gentle reminder in a handful of conversations, where her education, long-term goals began to lay-out as an interview for the life deserving of a woman available to travel the world. Artemis had felt so silly, forgetting that the work at hand was menial to her intellectual skills--already undercut by the insult in financial compensation when explaining frugal managing, and the lack of care to workers whenever Artemis complained about a management team that found her health to be collateral damage to their budget and bonuses--proven by a stale, dusty lobby--lacking all forms of heat. Shrill darkness was all that was rewarded to the yes men--those ready to bend over for anal entry of corporate "standards"--dare an employee ask for access to a dial providing an overnight workspace with a shred of and warmth.

The Kind-Hearted Hunters had to wait until Artemis heard her own words--swallowed the sorrows of a woman burning out for a careless entity. They reminded her of elevated career moves already accomplished and forgotten, where she had been compensated fairly--to care for the things she already held dear. The premise of: "you remember when you used to be paid more?..." had brought down a wall of hopelessness in the span of a conversation. There wasn’t much to say to those ready to discard her efforts and livelihood for the accolades of a shadowy board of shareholders. Artemis began to laugh--shaking her head and preparing to eject from a life where she’d felt unwelcome early on. There wasn’t a whole lot to say to a crappy manager that said shitty things to employees like: "if your disability’s that bad...then why are you working five days a week?". Artemis paid the price for using words like "discrimination against people with disabilities", when asking him to say less...forced to stand beside a bitter stranger for six hours straight--only to eventually get fired by him: for inadequate work. She had nothing to say to a man dipped in red,white and blue--masked behind melanin and a soured attitude toward those left in undeserving circumstances. Artemis knew there was nothing left of a contract lacking respect for diversity; saying less--as though the future would inevitable result in a battle around the unavoidable issues of one man’s actions, and a proceeding of class action...only then; would there be a fair-conversation as to his disparaging need depreciate the work of those unable to operate as a machine. Artemis had placed a bet; that her friend Eric would be the one to lead the charge...to be the poster boy of work ethic, encapsulated to a small sliver of time--were self-care was a priority, but he was stuck under leadership lacking in patience and professional warmth.

Artemis didn’t need to be a further liability to herself--it wasn’t a reach to point out the mudanity of a story dripping with bleak colors, displaying a grip of underappreciated randoms--those needing to earn a living for fifteen-pound sterling, chained to earning the least amount of Broadway. Artemis’s sins of moving papers would be lesser worries if such an occurrence were to pan out, and the idea of such a evidence-heavy battle brought her relief...to know that accountability would be less-than-swift, but bountiful when watching sketchy leaders squirm in front of a judge--their emotions shifting as they were finally forced to count beans and expectations while the voiceless were told to remain silent as they watched hours of mistreatment whirl by. Artemis had walked off with what little energy remained; asking to be left to pursue other opportunities--assassinated between the eyes at close range when leaving on good-enough terms. She had nothing to say to those ready to throw bodies at a building slowly falling apart, worn down, drab--lame in all its glory. All Artemis could do was leave in the middle of night, preparing for a battle foreseen months beforehand--building supplies, emotional skills needed to hard carry a team desperate for any sort of leader--whether to walk them through emergency situations, or to provide cheerful and supportive warmth.

The Kind-Hearted Hunters had already done so much with their lives--seen the world and then some. She was grateful for their reminders that the world waited for her beyond the closet of sorrows. The blanketed statements of defeat were replaced with accolades for her efforts, and excuses for the limited words and experiences that no longer cushioned her experiences: not at anyone’s fault, but because Artemis’s level of caring was rarely rewarded in a Nation void of compassion for its citizens, drained of realistic standards, wrought dry of all forms of warmth.

Why had Artemis been so afraid to ask for more hugs and kinder words? She had always pushed the three kind strangers away--a disease of selfishness left her with no other option than to give them reason to desert Artemis once and for all. That’s how this world worked right? She had been too revolting to love--too caring to nurture at their expense--she wasn’t trying to interject as a shared responsibility to three people without their own children. Artemis had felt the citizens passing by; laughing at all times of the day, they had witnessed a teen Artemis wandering, un-sheltered and left in a shed. There was no miracle to acknowledge in a God-less world. Artemis was the trash beneath their white and crispy sneakers--the charity they only thought of in the brisk seasons, famed for twinkling lights, soft aromas and the flickering of flames dancing in a open fire--providing the world with a mental vacation and emotional warmth.

Artemis had known her place in the universe since day one--it gave her a strange swagger; to know that many of the dreams she had would come true. The first few years being almost amusing, then maddening, and now amusing in a wicked way. Artemis had plans to harm the citizens--to churn out a story languishing their highly-edited version of history. The machine had taught her of the value in a public executioner: even though they thought her to be the jury. “I’m just playing the game”, was all that was left to explain to a reluctant crowd, stirring awake all at once. She could pull a cloak labelled as a famed as belonging to the fucking lame sick fuck known as Mr. Turner, and placed a table upon a barren table--setting it further with thank-filled offerings, cutting the bullshit by letting go of the two words chosen on whim: dancing, and warmth.

That’s all she had planned on saying aboot that for the moment. Artemis had only wanted to impress her Papa Jim with her skills in playing a child’s game--a thought experiment on instilled evils of man, seen through the eyes of Dianne. Artemis had accidentally died in the process--hanging herself from a banister to escape the repressed memories of Jim molesting her in secluded places. “My bad.” Artemis was probably a pretty funny child; in comparison to the others she had been sitting with: now excited to live a life learning performance skills from the Kind-Hearted Hunters over time. Artemis had dreams of returning home with her Mel, and recuperating before the trial(s) of the citizens. She had nothing to gain in lying, and so she didn’t. It was pretty common science of the mind yo, and they had only needed to ask how and why. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had asked--when they saw a limp blob laying upon a stage labeled with a white sign that simply said: shores.

They had begun the construction of a set, fishing platforms and replicas of dams that now stood abandoned--deemed outdated, unimportant and inefficient in every way. Artemis had loved this temporary place in time: the water rushed around her ears whenever she felt the ground beneath her feet. The unbridled power of water--was only feared by the wisest of men, and Artemis had learned this lesson from her favorite Artist: Da Vinci. Artemis had awoken in her dream, her favorite songs of drowning being a key to her lucidness. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had informed her that she didn’t have much time--pulling her up from the floor as they began to sprint in a meticulous hallway. Artemis had only needed to see them in fine-pressed white uniforms to remember a journey traveling the stars, being thrown against an opposing wall, laid-out while running away from entryways barreling with flames of destruction while alarms rang and crew members sprinted by.

“Yep.” Artemis sprang to life, sprinting down hallways that were glaring with white and silver trim and oblong doorways. Dianne herself-could spill blood in safest of environments, the strictest of prisons, or lest; provide the seeds of chaos needed to convince others to do such unpredictable bidding. She knew what to do. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had always trusted her to know what to do. Dianne was a creature of habit, exceptionally lazy, but also needing others to cover and take blame without doubt of loyalty. Artemis had seen enough of her less-pleasant side--and began sprinting in the opposite direction at the mere sight of Dianne...unable to help someone unwilling to seek help themselves. At some point: there was no way that Artemis had been alone in suggesting professional services to help regulate the bubbling rage that would eventually boil over. The role of trauma would be the greatest of arguments.

Artemis had known that taking an impromptu walk, a casual stroll down memory lane with Dianne--probably down a familiar trail, would mean a sentence of death by humiliation...forced to bear responsibility for whatever incalculable misery were to follow such a mundane event. No amount of time; could shake off the ominous foreshadowing of a victim--chosen to be hunted across the universe and then some. So Artemis dropped the "nice act", for a moment, breaking her own rules and allowing words to become frantic in their scribbles--unable to juggle her own life, and excuses for Dianne’s inability to step into reality. Artemis was ready to be the leader the Kind-Hearted Hunters had always taken so seriously--dreams and silly love stories had inspired her to ask if, maybe, just maybe--she deserved more from the world.

Carelessness had been injected into the veins of the citizens, and Artemis had wanted no part in acting as though her individual actions were less punitive in judgement to the cumulative evils of those sitting on the Supremest of Courts. “I think, you’re onto something”, Artemis had always taken joy in how often her alloparental team--allowed her to express worry in the matters of politics. Artemis had been given their permission to ask the world “why is my experience so different to those around me?”, the Kind-Hearted Hunters always lead her path to rooms of silence and contemplative peace.

Her childish wonder that people of good nature, or open-minded intentions existed in the future. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had proven it could be done, that rehabilitation and nurturing were marginally invaluable to the broad scope of society. A woman crash-landing upon a grey shore, a stranger falling outside of lives was somehow painted as something amazing to them, for whatever reason. Nobody seemed to have the answer, as to why they had been so comfortable being uncomfortable, and there was no place to platform such topic of distress, so Artemis made one--hidden behind a portrait of Dianne; holding clawed hands, a protruding jaw, bulging eyes--those glistening with rictus and no remorse. Artemis had used her daydreams and blank stares--to distract her readers, to hide away her love of laughter, pride in athletic skill, and her passion for being on stage.

Artemis hadn’t the time to wallow in self-pity as she sprinted down a hallway--taking a hard left at a nearing control center. She reached a desk decked out with flashing lights and commands that came from seemingly nowhere. Frantic hands began trickling on a pad of languages she didn’t need to read, but somehow knew. Her heart seemed to pound with urgency as though to say--“common Brooks, you got this, you just have to focus."

Why hadn’t Artemis just eaten? The Kind-Hearted Hunter reminded her in the dining hall earlier that day, and she had dismissed their concerns for petty issues that felt urgent for no reason. The empty stomach and cryogenic sleep did not mix well--the after effects left a feeling of being parched to the very core. Her hand began shaking, the small of her back began sweating in weird places--her body in full fight-or-flight mode. Fingers began to tap, intuitively pulling out unused commands--buried exit procedures for all those she cared for, there was nothing more for her to preserve--the duty no longer served a purpose. She closed her eyes slowly; drowning out the distress ringing behind deafening sirens, forgetting about the florescent lights begging her to abort a hopeless mission. Artemis felt the lack of pain in her heart--probability of survival lasted as an option for only for a moment, before it was replaced by the tragic reality. “I got it.” She became the person she needed to be for the world--placing a right palm upon well-lit desk in a meaningful way, and taking control over the vessel fueled by doom-driven anxiety. There was no way to get back on a steady course, but Artemis had wanted to believe of a moment of agency could soften the impacts of the inevitable.

Artemis was the pilot of her own destiny. This was her life. The home she had needed as a child wasn’t one that was comfortable with being abnormal, it wasn’t an unrealistic reach--for a six-year-old to ask for a life filled with caring company and rational thinking. Artemis had been nothing more than a small captain on a huge vessel--aimed for collision, on a course undecided. She was responsible for everything when things went wrong, and forgotten and disregarded whenever anything was alright. The gears of the machine began to kick alive, her words were so unnecessarily necessary. and Artemis felt her gold bracelet tremble: notifying that the Kind-Hearted Hunters were following up to see what she needed to complete her task. Smooth sailing was commended, until it became the normal--leaving jostling experiences, and uncomfortable circumstances to be unwelcome in a world where Artemis gladly showed up for herself with sobriety.

Artemis sprinted along her old path(s) taken, admiring the lost friendships left behind in patterns of destruction. There was a vague disbelief that she wouldn’t make in back in time to say goodbye to their faces on time--despite the fact they hadn’t gone anywhere. Those old friends chained in pubs, clamoring to find solitude in a bottle labelled as "fun"--those Artemis had left behind in order to seek a better life. Her choice to optimize time, to raise her standards in moments of inner conflict; had granted her looks with a timelessness--too precious, too rare to bottle up and profit.

Artemis would rather know her fate was at the passive hand--raised and lowered in twisted curses: to that of definitive a weapon being slowly raised to her head. She smiled, because the Kind-Hearted Hunters had loved all that she had to give, and gifted her with outlets to healthily invest in performative skills. Artemis had the gift(s) of a method actor: her aging brain still needed its own character to invest in, and her legacy too infantile to brand.

She traveled in time to visit a beautiful soul named Heath. Had she made it back in time to save the man living too close to the ledge? Had he finally put down his beautiful porcelain mask labeled in white: holding the title of--the Joker. Artemis wasn’t sure if that sentence or a question, so she left in laziness to chop away the useless branches of her insanely long book of “short poems”.

The premise of her book being nonsense to its core: without her actual voice narrating its twists and turns. Artemis had used spiteful magic to ask Orion’s shapeless female “friend” to un-stitch her throat. Artemis had seen the woman stabbing away at her skin calmly with a tick needle and red thread. It had originally been white thread--volunteered to sew Artemis into a white prideful dress. Artemis had rigged the scenario of a woman sewing away, or offering a vigil candle, based on the blatant intentions surrounding a nameless relationship with Orion.

“This story is rough darling--I’d like to go do the thing in the other room for old times sake.” Artemis was always to be his first best friend, his unruly woman, and his only wife. She had only needed him to feel important, and for whatever fucking reason: he only found value in his own naked reflection. Artemis had thought it funny to observe him in Traditional leathers, chaps of Traditional Warriors: forcing the citizens to blush and look away as if to say “O my". Artemis would sigh, as though to say "yeah he’s a lot, in a whole lot of ways."

Artemis fan away at cheeks burning up with desire--merlot colors crept up from a jawline too shy to speak in such moments. Their ability to mend each other fences was like gaurding a project uneding, staked by oragasms and chunks of time that were careless. Even she found it ridiculous to care for such hopeless love with such seriousness. Something had always compelled Artemis to keep him safe, tucked away from all harm: in fear that she really may be alive, very real, and wandering in a dimension where their love was easily tangible and accessible. Why had her life stopped when she lost Buckles? Maybe it had been for the best, that the ill-timing of grief had shown Artemis Orion’s true character. Was the loss of Buckles anything remotely like what losing a husband would feel like? This had been a hand-crafted simulation where Artemis could leave--walking away from own her life at any moment, whereas Orion and his gazes were too real to rehash.

Artemis was unwilling to daydream of a world where her friend hadn’t been murdered in cold blood. That was a delusion and disappointment that no human deserved--the paranoia of rewards in reuniting events: a burden left for Artemis to carry alone in mania distributed in moments of waking up from delightful nightmares. Artemis had needed the book, to tuck Ryan away--to say goodbye with dignity: she had spent years sitting in the grief of losing her friend him so suddenly--imprisoned to a question as to why.

Artemis had let Buckles lead the way in her game of words--crowned the worthy stranger without expectations. He had left her life to be a guardian angel, and probably saved her from unsafe situations multiple times. Artemis had used a simulation to see his face again, to find honor in making him laugh with her, and not at her. The reality being: that he was dead in her world--stolen from a world lacking in authenticity. The collapsing rage that her body felt--spun her into a frenzy of medical problems. They hadn’t expected her body to react so unexpectedly to his arrival and departure--a blip friendship crafted into a rescue vehicle for Artemis and anyone else she knew. Ryan was always to be the template of the man she hoped to be--acceptably flawed and filled with a valor-hued courage that was notable in itself. Artemis was the echo of sadness in his wake--the stumped version of a potential leader he had been cut down from becoming.

Why was the lack of good company such a strange concept for the readers to embrace? Had they thought she was lying of her whispered curses and slight upper-hand in all things “entertainment and news”. Bitches don’t learn. Her readers were the worst of the worst. Sick in thought, “why had they opened Pandora’s box?” They were destined to pay for their sins in curiosity--unable to embrace the power of hope.

The trials of mortal evils had begun with Artemis placing her heart in one chalice and the chain jingling on the opposing balances of a seemingly empty scale. The other side was to be held in evidence weighed out to reflect their sins in life: captured in their own static apples moment by moment. “What if I don’t have one?”, the reader asked. Artemis had known they needed excuses and answers to wiggle their way from holding the mirrors of justice in their entitled grasps.

Artemis held her breath and said "ok then"...modifying procedure as she went about the day. The machine combined dimensions, weaving through itself and moving through entangled lives: until it found the one that held the citizens face with a static shield. Their intentions, being conducted through the gold: streaming along green boards, flipping through visuals of their memories--judged through dreams that were meant to distract them from the invasive experience. Artemis had jumped from dream to dream--arguing with the Viking and Orion in rotation: marrying one or the other, until eventually both would arrive on a dream. The army of men remained standing in her doorway: offering only unwell intentions of narcissistic supply, and few nights of sexual bliss. One loving her songs, the light whisper that lay dormant for scratching and aching pains in sinus mending from a night drinking with Athena: listlessly humming for his entertainment. One man...loving her inability to keep a beat, and the clumsy sways and trick moves she had often called professional dancing.

Artemis had wanted to script a poem for Dianne, wondering why she hadn’t hugged her upon hearing of a sexual assault that had uprooted what little normalcy had been planted in a sibling seeking an education. It had exposed Dianne to be trapped in an ethical and emotional maze: unable to be concerned and nauseated by the unpleasantness of it all. Salubrious words were only gifted to appease spectators, to divert points to a couthy persona that never existed in the first place. Artemis had always been deemed as “the worst little sister on the whole planet”, so it wasn’t surprising that a personal story would be met by Zucky clicks of a disgusted and an impatient tongue--Dianne taking true offenses to the idea that such a hypothetical man--felt the insatiable desire to ravage Artemis without consent. The threats of femininity were known to be common triggers of annoyance to Dianne, whether it was out of disbelief--or her inability to worry about the overall health, and wellness of other women.

Artemis knew from that moment on: that the arrogant woman had no way to say sorry for her lack of caring. Dianne was her own person, a growing individual that hadn’t really ever had any male or female mentor to look up to--let alone a true friend. Artemis had seen the writing on the walls of scripted diagnoses: Dianne’s version of Hades: captured in a web of her own actions. She seemed isolated in unresolved spite from a stolen childhood--sitting in a throne of gluttonous rage that occasionally displayed an apathy that brought great sickness over the world. Artemis had accepted defeat in an otherwise abnormal circumstance-bound by trauma and reactionary tales; those meant to scare children in the middle of the night.

Nobody had seemed to notice when Dianne was absent on the occasion, and Artemis hated that her family made crude jokes on the matter. It was one thing to forget a child sitting on bench waiting--it was another to blame them for not being remembered. Artemis wouldn’t know what it meant to be forgettable: there was a sense of pride in strapping a bow high atop her head...prepared to cheer on Orion, or a beardy random hustling by--yelling about blazing and taloned mascots of freedom and victory. Artemis’s life was fairly-awesome, enjoying the purchase of a new rug--readying herself for bed the night before brunch with the Kind-Hearted Hunters.

Artemis knew Dianne had plenty to say of her own struggles in a childhood void of love and nurturing, and so she handed off an orange sphere--in trade for whatever burden kept a child trapped constrained to chair; forced to eat season-less poultry as Artemis gagged in disgust. To be witness to child abuse, was a life lower than low--too pathetic too dwell on out of reasons of wasted pity.

Why had Dianne let Hera threaten Artemis with the lack-of-things, knowing she’d eventually break, if it were ever disclosed the true importance of her favorite toy. Artemis had never been self-authorized, allowed to hold importance in objects, and so she didn’t. It wouldn’t be until her early thirties when she gained the courage to choose one that wasn’t an orange ball. Hera would have taken it away, depriving Artemis of shit was her favorite hobby and they both knew it.

Artemis had hidden her very last pieces of human decency in the core of her book: saving it for last. The woman with red hair and sharp talons had made her do unthinkable things, and even blamed Artemis for needing such extreme disciplines in later conversations. Artemis was the victim of gaslighting in a family of sick-minded, ill-intended and unpleasant-mannered individuals. An environment that was beyond toxicity for any normal person to endure--the scaping goat in which to skin alive on a daily occurrence.

Artemis had returned to save Dianne and herself from a simulation that lessened her pain by small doses of companionship. She had played dead, refusing to be a scape goat in shit situations--occasionally allowing her failures to be on full display; if it meant others weren’t mistreated. She had traded-up from her “liar” status, asking a man named Watts to borrow his: Artemis always observing the citizens and their endless news and disturbingly low standards for their neighbors. “Boop”. She wore the badge of murder like a prize: knowing that such a horrific title rang false--even more so with sobriety. A kind man named Alan--had already taught Artemis how to express the rage she feared churning away deep within herself. She was always left standing by a dusty-red canyon ledge: eyes dancing as a "solution" appeared and dissipated within a less than thirty seconds of reasoning. Her abuser, taking notice and stepping away from the cliff and asking what was wrong--pretending to care about eyes stranded in contemplation as to what true justice meant in the face of convince and opportunity.

Artemis had known Orion would never change, because he had never been more than a small handful of experiences: an unjust imposition--reoccurring, where life offered little to-no-accomidation for missteps and the rounding of reality. The cruelties of sophistication often tempted Artemis’s almost-forgotten desires to casually set herself ablaze once and for all, to take a seat in a moment of inconvenience--the bladed actions slicing through uncomfortable silences, as she laughed and smiled with her head laying across a pillow. Nothing could prepare a room of spectators for such a tragic semi-irrational maneuver. Artemis had been cursed with the title "shaker of worlds"--a person to experience in avariciousness and let go in the haunting moments of disbelief to such an unlucky reality for a citizen, so close and far away from tasting the essences of success, the honorary meaning of starry freedom.

Artemis found herself in purgatory, yelling answers to a sphinx, double-minded between existing in a world with the Viking running around and delivering the post, while she remained surviving in moments of self-defense, offering scorn on one end of a scale--otherwise, trapped between pages of self-condemnation chasing the romantic daydreams of a fleeting infatuation and eager aggression left as echos to their famed disrepute. Artemis felt forever ostracized-for momentary expedience--uncomfortable in her skin, until the untimely arrival of either man became the expected of a shared dimension. The only thing worse than having such clashing personalities in the same room, would be one that included Dave--somehow being thrown into the equation at the most inconvenient of times. He remained trapped behind a wall of his own doing; unaware that the Kind-Hearted Hunters had jumped in to take shifts assigned to an injured worker. They began to gaze upon his words of dissatisfaction, etched into the endless brinks he had passed off as priority; delivering set expectations to the person laying down a wall. They neither smiled or nodded in disagreement; needing only for Artemis to rest, and knowing that the emotional attachment meant more on the imminent days where she was destined to be bed-ridden. Unlucky in two different types of beds.

Artemis held barely enough energy throughout the day, there was no time to dwell on the new nightmares unlocked by overthinking her circumstances and comparing them to the weighted values of happenstance--catering to ethical axioms, offering the grace of walking away silently into the night: or a offer a war waged on witness and testimony--fought with the intention to personify kindness through brotherhood, and raise the expectations in setting dictated by rules and weakening budgets. She was isolated from the brave young leaders aborting ship at the first flag painted red, surrounded by flowers and flowers. Admiration came from the actions of girl named Lauren, upset by mistreatment of others and unwilling to do nothing. Artemis had followed suit; letting go, wandering off with defeated ego, whistled by the madness and unprepared for whatever evidence lay unbothered--until it wasn’t. She set out to help prepare a few kind friends some oversized rolls and proper representation if such a battle came about.

Artemis sat guarded by a warm sphinx--marking the ending trails of totem being carried home--the little sarcophagus; shelled as woman--cursed to be a dead-man walking, the unlucky hand--forced to forfeit, rolled away in a rug. The price of a silver tongue, and practiced empathy had come with few perks--one’s where cutting one’s losses was rewarded with things like friendship, or in David’s case; he dealt with Artemis forcing him to blush as she offered to seek new occupation...if it meant she were paid forward by the universe; a romantic interest standing beside her, a guy too kind to be real--offered to hold her hand center-stage to a cultivated life.

The Kind-Hearted Hunters had narrowed her scope of appreciation: asking if a job she had accidentally stumbled upon was more precious than the potentials of a blooming relationship. Artemis had heard them loud and clear--avoiding from looking at the receding hairline in her reflection, and hoping to make the most out of a limited amount of time. David was busy passively handing of bricked opinion, held together by disappointment. Artemis knew he’d hate such a masterpiece, and loved the idea of messy judgement beaming from his eyes. Glare.

The sheer frightening concept of an uncomplicated relationship had resulting in Artemis being crushed by the pressures of non-answers and raising expectations. Artemis’s need to curate a life that complimented the preciousness of time, the urgency to appreciate each moment standing up and able to bend and flex in the growing chance of an impromptu date. They were mid-argument; no matter which way she turned...Artemis was barely showing up for herself, and unwilling to compromise with an otherwise timid personality.

The Kind-Hearted Hunters had complimented her efforts, but not what the man had to offer. Artemis hadn’t a reason to break past a wall built off such abrupt negativity, and the confrontation following an attempt to walk around his expanding wall would only go on, and on. She had finally found herself surrounded by good company, laughing at her missteps in getting to know an emotionally unavailable guy--walking in circles, arguing about large sandwiches, and complicating a simple list of tasks.

The themes of disruption, and unsteadiness worsened potential romance by cranking up the pressures on the team members remaining. Artemis had handfuls upon handfuls of arguments about how uncomfortable she felt in a toxic environment--and he rejected the notion that his life was anything short of dysfunctional. Artemis lay down stones of truths as a cautionary measure, needing them only to serve as proof that mismanagement had been neglectful at best, discriminatory at worst--to be turned over and admired in the probable case of class action emergency. A job or duty didn’t exemplify someone from being a shit person.

The Sphinx had once challenged her to a duel of the wits in a dream, and Artemis had played a game in preparation for the day of such fair judgment. The beast sat on its hind, while Artemis paced below: a spirit trapped for her sin of loving all things witty and unsolvable. Artemis was sent back to properly rebrand--an event known for its trail of tears, red icicles and tragic inevitability; to paint it in bubbled letters and neon colors as she ink’d it into history in large bulbous font-Death Marches of the West.

She had thought of a story; a handful of words that the Boar had yelled aboot, one where people had painted him mortal: the apprentice, but the untwisted version where he could be seen on public display in all his naked glory--having sex with his non-consenting wife upon a carpet lined with gold upon its borders.

The sphinx had cheated by giving the globe to a man named Tino, and chained her to curses of uninspired blocks of time; held down by a fear of the world past her own balcony. Attention was rarely granted in a way that favored Artemis. The system of numbers had allowed a guardian to demean her childhood down to a handful of unmemorable numbers--burdening its forever extending length, expendable and valued as less in a compiled list filled with those labelled orphan. She thrived in environments where acting accordingly became unbearable when backed by emotional reciprocation--a bystander ready to hold brave testimony to the unexplained emotional ties given to hard working people, left to leap from month to month.

Had her forearms not deserved a break from their chains of unsatification? Were their dicks not tired from jacking off during Artemis’s pity party? Why had they pitied her and then turned around to mock the efforts of a citizen living alone without responsibilities or loyalties, other than to the smile beaming from beyond a reflection? She had fled into the evening, attending to the skill of monetization by way of opinion--where: Artemis rebranded her inflections of orphan-hood--upping the ante on words, dragging her readers to Hades and back as they witnessed the long-term impacts and societal losses at the hand of what was to be formally known as: The Childhood Removal Incident.

The Mechanical had began to stir alive: in debt to all the wrong people. His people. Things like uncomfortable topics, the disabling of a safeguarded mentality would bring him to his knees: wandering deaf and blind in the darkness, chained to a tyrant--threatening with sexual domination that would require Sean’s entire supply of oils, his eclectic collection of stories would eventually dismantle the medium of what stability remained left in the world. The Mechanical Boar had been famous for calling such beastly mother-fuckers his "friends"--mirroring the pendulum of public scrutiny to toss and turn in the slow looping of time and history repeating itself, like the perpetual motion of a dance, too comforting to look away from--unremarkable under the circumstances of scale.

Her People had called it the land of goodbye for a reason. They had crashed upon a planet halfway through a dark tunnel, held hostage in a vessel wedged to the side of a wire. Artemis being the powerhouse to a story bound by fate. Artemis was famous for being polite and rude at the same time, but was often defeated by the great equalizer of swinging emotions--imprisoned to a curse called severe anxiety, and occasionally forgetting that she had “little bitch lungs” from a heavy amount of smoking. Artemis knew the fires of ambition and professionalism would need more water--more room to grow. She hadn’t signed up to be a security officer to an inn, its soggy walls and musky smell had been less lack-luster than originally advertised.

Athena had once washed the world clean with a sickness of fire in blood in a past life; dawning a red armor and high bun upon her crown. Artemis had broken the tension with an untimely joke: mumbling and grumbling in moments of intensity, sickened by talks of Genocide on the scale of solutions needing to be weighed into consideration. Artemis had said only "calm down, Azula", and began the final war of the world in the span of seconds.

They had argued over her interpretation on what was an acceptable form of population control, and Artemis had shielded herself with comedy backed by ill-timing and the will to self-deprecate...if it meant breaking her opponents character, to lay waste to a face untrustworthy and sketch. The three fates would be born over and over again, casting the die of the citizens by luck of the draw: testing their morals under different masks that somehow matched their own lives. Sometimes they saved the world, other times they took turns saving the holiday.

Hadn’t they been warned by the fables forgotten in Athens? A place so real; it was witnessed in the book that they had shamelessly clung to? Artemis didn’t mind blind-siding those unwilling to look for reasoning. She had elevated her standards, walking away from a passionate man--ready to commit to a life walking in and out as friend; to serve ciders and teas upon trey, walking back and forth to deliver chariots to their respective rider for eternity...fully content with holding the line at friends, but masturbating to the idea-image of woman that looked like Artemis, sounded life Artemis...complete with a world-changing red dress. One man had been so memorably uncompromising to the illusion being tied to a real person, that Artemis had to resist from falling in love with his version...walking away with reluctance: unable to provide proper comfort to a person struggling with depression--triggered by the sensation of imposed worthlessness, the lack of caring for a person worth caring for stacked upon Artemis’s struggling spine.

The three sisters had been the chapter that was famously ripped from the seams, the knowledge shoved away and hidden in a palace that stood atop a golden mountain. Their hearts remained unreachable; trapped in the confines of a shared shelter--an unforgettable reality that kept them halfway in the throws of depression, left victim to the waves greeting at their feet--the salty waters rubbing their youthful skin raw. It was suppressed information the return of the Gods had already occurred before their very eyes; marked by three sisters--fated to pass blame, or play dead for reasons of public safety. Artemis had hand-crafted a tapestry, strung with reasons of dysfunctions backed by classism and populists--uniting in their efforts to oppress the masses by way of education. The openly accessible and classy nature of sultry poems had left Artemis vulnerable to change--ready to read a story tucked away upon the shores of Atlantis at last. Even the poor agreed that they loved the “live sacrifices”, the tributes of her accolades...more than they loved themselves. There was nothing to marvel--only the markings of man, and the lengths that a loving father such as John would go to--to hunt the killer of his daughter, and more importantly--to lay hand on evidence unseen, the theories untested and the stories uncontested lay in balance. Sanity stood as the great divider--see-sawing between the growing probabilities of cumulative statistics found with child abduction. The machine thrived on their need to feed it with their endless wishes and prayers demanding fortunes and good luck to a father dedicated to helping the authorities, at all costs--until time was the cost too steep to pay. The citizens were to be cleansed of their sins, purged of their need to avoid the uncomfortable situations found behind a sparkling wreath--a totem seen as uninviting, gross, and completely avoidable by the end of her “story”.

The reader asked “what happened to your closing remarks?”: noticing Artemis had left behind the clues meant to help Orion sort through her paragraphs easier. “There’s nothing I can do--nothing that would make him admit that he cares for me more than himself, no true North in a darkening sky. I thought it might be time to let him go”. Artemis had wasted the week away, holding back tears as her back began to falter--her grip was unpredictable to a degree of annoyance that required extra stretches to uncurl weary nerve endings. Her polished hints were nothing more than another method she had created to make his life easier--to cast a chance at life simpler, detailed to the last vase of flowers, so that Orion could rest on his morals and head in a place of comfort. Artemis had held back tears earlier in the week, as she explained to the Kind-Hearted Hunters: “I have a disease of selfishness”. They had finally seen that blurry image of person washed ashore--a sorrowful child lacking nourishment and the will to get up. “I had to go to the Doctors, and I was too embarrassed to tell you guys”. Artemis had explained her situation in attempting to face her longing for suicide head on--ramming past the sobering expectations that her past remained beneath lock-and-key, unprepared for the added stressors provided by episodes of mania and insomnia and insomnia induced mania.

They often hugged her without her asking, reminding her that the spine and depression issues were to be considered hand-in-hand. This year they were forced to love her with their words from afar: because she had made a mess of an early courtship--resulting in a man laying bricks, another walking in circles, and lastly and firstly--a man stranded in her doorway, static in his expectations of her. Artemis now lived in the fear of the future where her seasonal affect disorder became year-round, or worse...permanent in its presence upon her already-difficult life. Her swelling waves of hopelessness; left those she loved, scared or confused as to what they hadn’t done right. There was no solution, no fair price to pay in order to "help her": nothing airy enough to lessen the weight of her shrug in indifference to the fact that someone had broken the spirit of a child. “I don’t think it’s genetic”. Artemis wept in shame--having displayed her many battles for the world to judge upon her sleeves one-too-many-times. They had done this to her, the world had taken everything from her, and now no one was to blame. There was only Artemis--catering to barely-lit flame, pretending she didn’t long for the endless pain to be over. She was nothing but the hollowed frame of the person, a slim silhouette of dancer--arms raised in unmatched confidence. This was the only image of person that truly capture who she had wanted to be: Artemis had failed herself, and now it was too late to tell everyone what she had already done by taking such a publicly-received bow.

Artemis replaced small-talk and pleasantness for straight-forward conversations. She informed the Kind-Hearted Hunters that her abusive ex had been charged with attempted homicide, and accepted that a trauma had made her jumpy around men of large stature. The man guilty of the gift, was nothing short of Peachy with a side of psychopath, and a judge had let him walk free with only condemnation for being an alcoholic and probation. Luck would have it, he had manifested a life where he could capitalized on such sickness--but much like those with the Ramsey, there would be no way to profit from ugliness wrapped in the actions of entitlement.

Artemis laid out a Modus Operandi found behind deceitful men playing a victim forever--rejecting help at all costs. There lay a pattern where stealing from others and fighting unfairly were normalized with just penalization. Artemis had once made a misstep--believing a cold and callous man as he responded, as she asked him flatout--if he’d had taken property from her wallet; choosing to believe lies rather than lie with the fact of living with a stranger. Artemis called to cut off the line of credit she had built up, and in doing so: “she made him angry”-upset just enough to drink heavily, and to return home and begin punching her as she slept. His body smelled like that of a corpse, and his eyes were yellow and matte somehow looking in different directions--past the delusions told to herself in a handful of frumpy minutes. She held up her arms to defend what little pride was left: only to push him over to his side of the bed--watch the giant crash heavily; cast into a deep realm of sleep instantly. Such were the unpredictable horrors of “their love”, and the reason Artemis was forced to eventually abort their unborn child. He was nothing short of a fucking monster. Artemis hated him--and shamelessly took pride in telling those she loved of the many, many ugly memories that now hindered her from walking without wheels of sticks that protruded from her forearms.

Artemis couldn’t hold back tears, because she had never let them out during the time and place appropriate: in fear of throwing off the balance of vibes in an already over-occupied room. Instead, she had stood upon a stage and sang her heart out--dancing in glee and reminding herself that she was never to apologize for surviving. At the end of the day: there was nothing wrong with being her...there was only flaws in the ways she managed the treatment of others.

Peaches was never going to be able to hurt her again. Artemis had made sure of it-by telling the Kind-Hearted Hunters of his definitive words directed solely with the purpose of filling her heart and mind with terror. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life in prison, then to see you marry someone else”...or the classic saying "Are you still mad at me?”-following the treadled lines of an immature man name Wesley minus the homicide part.

Artemis had sprinted for her life; into the arms of the court and then some. Where her perpetrator of violence lived in a reality where there was still wiggle room for him to impede--unable to metastasize reasoning(s), as to why they had ever broken up.

Artemis changed her legal name--moved to a new territory and began to fall hopelessly in love with a tall man she called Orion. Rolling the dice in a single night, calling herself his wife the next. One day, Orion had asked as to what their informal title meant, and Artemis began to blush at the idea that the conversation may end with them being entangled by definition of their relationship by the end of the conversation.

She said little--waiting patiently behind shallow breath, needing desperately to hear if he was making a suggestions to change their status as a unit, or just needing to know if she considered herself to be worthy of his world. He could probably care less, that Artemis had loved him since the beginning of their time--elevated to include all the times. Artemis felt so afraid of allowing him to love her, as a man named Tino had found her new name...asking if “she was still mad” and rattling the cages of security. She was imprisoned to the fear he brought into the silent parts of her day. How do you tell someone you respect--that you once loved a dangerous human that hunts people for sport? It’d be like saying you were a victim/lover of Jason--the monster free, but restrained by reality and the curse of being forced to walk a line of decency--dragging along a boy named Burke behind him on tightened-rope.

Artemis had no answer as to why some people were born evil; accessorized by the pain of others and willing to bury a leading hand meant to preserve the fabric of Justice. She let Orion leave. He was better off without her weighing him down, holding him back from the countless beds promised by the world. It had hurt her heart to hear the rows of Indigenous Warriors remind her that he could do better, the lack-of-support had toppled an empire built from the ground up. Artemis’s “friends” were the first to prove it, lining up at Orions door and performing sexual acts without needing to suggest, flirt, or even ask. She had seen Orion for all that he chose to be, and decided that he’d always find new and creative ways to terrorize a newly found identity, needing to rupture self-worth out of boredom. “I ruined a lot, but I still don’t know if we were even worth something to you." Artemis told her close family how she remained petrified by one man’s words, his hands wrapped around her throat with the intent of utilizing the word "passion" freely in an upcoming trial. She learned how to walk away, and regained her strength from waves of seizures that seemed to be worsening upon every few moons…”I think I’m supposed to be alone”.

Artemis was an orphan: nobody had wanted her since the day one. Upon achieving her eighteenth birthday--she began bidding her time, silently walking into the ocean on occasion, or rolling ashore on others. There was a sense of relief in knowing that the world would be a better, and more brighter place without her bumming everyone out--specifically David, with the unpleasant narrative that was offered to someone with a villain-worthy origin story. The waves understood that her tears were unending: as relentless as the piteous stares of passerbys, whenever they saw the world drag her beneath the sneaking waves--tossed and turned like a potato without a strainer, floating to the surface by lucky handed and rare chances in density and roundness. “I keep trying and trying, but I don’t even know why anymore”. Artemis looked around her void: there were over three-hundred thousand citizens dead, and nobody seemed to care, they had moved past that chapter in history and stopped noticing the count by the time it all caught up to them. The moments were cast aside with the same heavy-handed carelessness of those that felt nothing when they had read and learned that Artemis had been raped as an infant. She had been right in front of their eyes all along--just tossing and turning in the waves of unforgiveness, wailing endlessly and begging for someone to hold onto and protect her at some cost. Artemis was met with disdain for the circumstances that made people uncomfortable, spited for the things she refused to un-experience, and ignored when her crippled body didn’t seem to appease their expectations.

Artemis looked around her broken home: her heat supply broken, her lights neglected and strewn about--luckily this had been the occupation where she had made friends with a youthful mother named Bri. Artemis was back in the thick of a plauge--standing in the memories of paying over half of her earnings to serve the public, and missing her real job working under a Blue Shield of Hope. She said “why am I even doing this?!”--anger brewing over, as it grew with each time she had to remind a supervisor to wear his personal protective equipment properly. Artemis screamed into the void--until her eyes bled with blood-filled tears, knowing that she wasn’t ready to be swept away by the waves of depression and prolonged seizures that crept into her day. “How is this my life? What did I do to deserve such inhuman treatment?” Artemis was left with only her “boss” Kari, screeching and jabbing at Artemis’s blonde nest of hair. The woman began venting, starting mid-tangent--arguing with herself, as to how little the company appreciated her talents in managing. A pairing “supervisor” nodded in agreement: rambling on aboot how little he knew, and how much he knew Artemis had done wrong by his department of two. “O my God...I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” She began to cry for her loss of wages--divulging in a healthy dose of self-pity, the specks of hope that fell at convenient moments where on realizes their presence isn’t needed in order for a shit-show to commence. The epiphany of being trapped in the whirling sensation of rising above it all--no matter the costs. Artemis had stopped providing leeway to real issues like taking a pay-cut from her past employment, in fair-trade of full-time hours and then some. The amount of disgrace and undignified humility she felt in moving trash and empty boxes throughout the day was nothing compared to doing the task with a lazy moron talking at her while she jumped on overflowing waste--boxed to reflect their love of capitalism. This isn’t what the other engineers had to endure--this wasn’t an apprenticeship with taking pride in, it was just some shit job she had used to drown out a loneliness and a battle admitting a problems with substances. It was the end of a road--one that led nowhere, and offered little guidance along the way.

Artemis began to pack her belongings, needing to leave the nest she had built from scratch and seek solitude to study for a better future--much like her book, success felt forever ten paragraphs away. Artemis was not willing to die over a job that often gaslit her for fun, or repaid her manual labor with awkward silences. “I don’t know how to ask for better, as I’ve only known endless suffering.” Artemis felt the same hopelessness felt when casting the initial decision to leave her respected Viking: traveling up North after picking an obscure pinpoint out on a map and offering a talent in capturing the swooshes of an inspirational net. “Where do I even start from here?, or why can’t I just be ok?” Maybe the Viking had been right in discarding her existence as too burdensome to cherish, and now Artemis was left alone once more...missing the two of the three men that treated her the worst.

Artemis began pacing back and forth, watching as the Boar began to stir hungrily once more. He had resurrected the untethered anger within a handful of empty-minded citizens: yammering incoherent war speeches, attempting to dictate an uprising in power with the worlds elderly-est and most unprepared troops ever. He had wanted to tip the scales of sanity; to lend favorable to his plan--resulting in the land being seized under the control of Marshall Law...to preserve the safety of its own citizens of course.

It was the same terror Artemis felt...knowing that someday soon, she’d have to submit two weeks in warning--an underling of dread when approaching a topic yet to be experienced first-hand. Artemis had no longer wanted to work under such an apathetic company--admittedly unable to conform to the standards of depersonalization over revenue. Her words would be met with distrust and annoyance: offended that she was ready to leave a post that needed her so desperately--to be a disrupting force in delicate machine, the sandy grain, caught up in the cogs of something--barely laying down properly upon worn-down treads as it was. The threshold of bullshit that was considered manageable for sake of teamwork--no longer paid the bills, her hand dry from lack of lubrication and a bank account splashing the listless amount of excuses splattered over conversations, all to avoid admitting that Artemis was rarely able to live in comfort.

“This isn’t how I want to die…why doesn’t anyone care that three-hundred-thousand citizens are dead?” Artemis left a nightmare chapter of life; if only for a few moments, a few hours, a few moments above water...needing to remind herself that her words existed beyond the numerous chutes that toppled over inefficient leafy-drains--backed up by bullshit and whatever lazy engineer had come before her. “I wrote a politically satirical book, and I just really need it to be for something bigger than myself.” She wondered if a familiar sensation occurred to men approaching into the frames of her romantic goggles--Artemis had yet to have a love too grand for the pages, unmistakably life-changing or show-stopping in a way that validated her survival in dragging her half-alive body ashore.

Artemis felt discouraged when sending her sampled work out to agents and editors: the trolls of those claiming to take pride in having Read-It--had often reported her for being vulgar, as though placing a muzzle on her brown female anger was the least they could do to stop the crazed words of torn identity, grappling with being the enemy--and taking spite in the existence of an untrustworthy enemy. “This book is phenomenally awful, but I don’t know what else to do.” Artemis had crafted her entire life experience to be intertwined with political world leaders--with only the hopes to elevate the minds of her readers, and hone skill with a bladed tongue. “I think this book might make a lot of people sick--I never wanted that to happen.” Artemis spent her day staring at her feet and avoiding the stern and judgemental eye contact of the citizens; Hera’s apathy had broken Artemis down to the barest of bare, unable to allow herself comfort in public places--forced to look away at any moment, or risk the joke of gouging one’s eyes out as fair retribution for the awkwardness that befell anyone that noticed Artemis as a person.

Artemis had forgotten that her only initial mission had been to solve a riddle, and in doing so...chaos fell upon the world with the darkened thoughts of a sibling lost in pursuing the deepest desires found in the buttoned explanations of intent. She began to wander the land...looking for a reason for the vile citizens to cheer her on with Just reasoning--if only the one time.

Artemis had been crafted to present the sphinx with a citizen of her choosing to weigh their sins in comparison to the circumstances life provided. She wondered if Kyle would be a suitable option, but saw that he had been raised by morons with biases towards those that were different to them for generations over. She threw the young man under a chariot marked with the title: murderer, and traded his small white sign marked for one titled scholar in return. Artemis knew Kyle-lil-bish-boy, had been given every chance to gain the right to bear arms, and did what he did to protect the citizens from themselves at all costs...the flick of hand--showed the hand of killer, given a full house and opting out for cheap fixes if it meant he got to what he wanted for the night. Kyle chose to take life as barter for the duty of “protecting property”-standing firm on a land where he had never even paid taxes. “How pathetic was this young man, how weak-willed had he become?” The idea of one of Artemis’ scholars taking such hostile and inexcusable action in such a brutal way frightened her beyond words.

Artemis tracked her heart--racing with each time she left her expensive-home, missing a tall red-headed guy moping around her peripherals--pretending he didn’t value the smothering nature of her affections. Artemis was afraid she was a loser that didn’t warrant respect, but the sobriety part of her life--brought on a new perspective of life that came with relentless anger, unavoidable in the middle of an already sleepless night.

She weighed out the value of her own life, her own privilege and began to wonder what she had done in a past life...in order to deserve such endless suffering--a life in the shadows of the skills she could offer to a team needing a ready leader. She began to resent the citizens, avoid their smiling eyes and judge their lack of personal protective equipment whenever public transportation recommended protecting those with compromised immune systems--if a minor inconvenience could save hundreds upon thousands of lives.

The neighbors of the Watts, had thought they were “too beautiful” to participate in ordinances meant to protect their lives--too unique to be found guilty in a single sin; let alone capable of unmentionable crimes. reminding Artemis--that there was one or two beasts that were remarkable in their strict love of evils. One named Mr. Turner, and the other named Elliot. Aretmis had travelled back in time--to set the record straight and needle away at the obvious reasons why such monsters deserved to be cemented in ugly retribution, petrified by the concept of a legacy without control over its environment. It was not the man with a patch over his eye named Loyd, or the Doctor that had murdered shamelessly for purposes in conning the insurance agents upon the land of a Lizard-like-Queen. There were only two boys-knotted together by their love of preversion, and inability to flirt, let alone act normally in front of women..even in times where the scales of life had gifted each boy with everything outside of the also unwilling sun.

Artemis closed her eyes--not caring as to what creep she dragged to the bowing paws of the sphinx. The blindly chosen adversary, had come from her generation of students--known for bullying and burning out after graduation, as dictated by his oily hair. It was a man that had yet to taste the blood of an innocent person, a “boy”..."with his entire future ahead of him”. A fucking grown-ass-adult...that became famous overnight for sexually assaulted the body of an unconscious person behind trash bins of a darkened alley-way. There was no true-enough form of Justice for those that survived the terrorized moments--the echos of Junko, weighed down by the realization that doing nothing was sometimes the safest way to survive a violent rape. Artemis looked beyond her pages; blank eyes reminding the world that she spoke from experience, with a vengeful smile that hid behind swollen eyes and stuffy nose--she cast down a frail bundle of bones, characterized as the loving son, the exceptional athlete, the exemplorary student on most days--until his days ran out. Artemis had wished upon her unlucky stars, holding her breath in the chill mornings--working the night shift as an unpaid editor to a book nobody had asked for, but somehow--everyone deserved. “I hope you didn’t think I had forgotten about you...Brock.”

Next Chapter: *[ LX ] Artemis and the Ocean*