Artemis stood near the endless tides of an indecisive--chained to a sickened land, seeded with the harrowing weight of Genocide. She took a knee in moments of stolen breath, the turmoil of oppressed rage began to etch itself into her personality by the moments of shameless posture: the calming breezes of rain washed streets--bore deficient hints of contumelious intentions, moreover...the silence before a storm easily triggered episode(s) of depression for a woman born into pure chaos. In an anthology of all things awful, each breath heaved in spite, held hostage to as stitch in her heart-- the shameless fact of existing in a world bleak and dry. Silly company remained the enduring caricature; meant to inspire a high-ponytailed silhouette trapped in a two-dimensional world--tied to the many men that occasionally helped in defining herself.

Trapped crawling on all fours; Artemis continued to struggle alone; free from the judgments of others and remain comfortable in silence; taking pity in one’s self without the burdening purgatory in holding back another; to be complicit in the worst pains of all. She often whisked herself to the shoreline in dreams; soggy in guilt--cushioning asperatus tufts rolling by; gray and moody... recreated the same scene of a woman wading ankle deep, as a Warrior defending the anxious tides--holding out arms of comfort to a stranger standing near by. A person out of reach; withholding from the men struggling to uphold what little was left of herself.

Artemis drew focus and stoned tides in expressions spellbound to hooded eyes; indifferent and somehow focused: widening by way of relaxed disciplines--splashing poems across a plain tapestry, drawling in a gulp of air a gasp of disbelief here and there. Sickness in soul caused non-human like screams to emerge; ripping a void into the source material routing a story unending. Artemis held this beautiful dream; a distant reflection trapped in her thoughts. The appreciation in its therapeutic qualities marveled those of her ability in sprinting across the pages--bound and sealed with fine threading and articulate needling. Both offered cogency, both her past sober-seeking self--and current version. Investment in self-awareness gave a glow to brim the ailing parts of her dreary self; matured by arduous self-discovery and the unique form of brevity that was encapsulated by the matching framework of the moral foundation that built up the less interesting parts of herself.

To take pleasure in one’s own body; offered imagination of a rewarding future with a Princes and what would be cast as a village concubine...in the form of collected sanity; piece by peace. Artemis had crafted the practice of clearing her mind, facing music at its most violent form, expelling her self-doubt in anguishing bursts of shrieks and wails, orchestrating waves, bending readers imagination using the surrounding environment to gain watered-down advantages for herself.

Artemis felt the walloping of her mane, recalling the coarse hair thrashing in the barrelling winds. Self-mutilation on the mind. She took comfort glaring into the sunset--a stern gaze had been inherited by the lost ancestors. The ashen daylight falling to meet the ocean was all that had been left; Artemis was lost in the daydream of a simulation provided by a static-filled fruit. The sound of the waters bidding the sun hello, and searching for a kiss goodnight caused Artemis to remain conflicted with the less admirable traits sealed deeply away within herself.

The pummeling of waters left her spine weary; mildly abject and somber music in her heart holding up a dampened soul. Artemis could bare a peculating essence of all that could be defined by a recuperating Indigenous Warrior with a single portrait--one where her world was seen as aspirational; acceptable in proving a change in personality with a single choice to rule them all. Her worries spanned across the waters, determined pith-laced stares; tears of discomfort stretched her woes to be conclusive with a spine injury--degenerative and helpless overall. The action lay with those ready to relearn steps and strides--to grapple with the shared pain found only with the unknown circumstances. The curse of ivory spine held the world hostage; unprepared for the shared traumas unaddressed...the battles that lay ahead. It became abundantly clear...that the entirety of her success belonged to the community; to those lucky enough to meet a kindly son name Jack. Failure was illicit to a world eroded away, long before a time of neon and conspiracy theories, belonging only to youthful and underappreciated--all those that broke the wind with a sporty confidence; all charisma defined of a smiling portrait of a sassy posture and a sign of peace--a trademarked version of herself.

Artemis’s dreams had always been reserved for memories of the past lives of all those slaughtered, captured, colonized, and conquered...the sacrifices made in order for her to survive; to be stuck dancing with seductive hips and Brittany’s propped knives. The weight of survivors guilt forced the arches in her step to fall heavily upon the soils--hardened stone thundering beneath steps that was often confused a reader; left to be patient with an author dying of thirst. Evidence of evil superciliousness. Such strange qualities didn’t bother her in the slightest: the compiled information conformed itself into tragic logic, and severed all diffident or timorous moods to be shallowly related to her golden roots. Veneration for the arts and sciences sprouted from her mind with colorful blooms and sturdy buds. The static in the air gave her reasons to wake, bright-eyed...fighting the anticipation to chase her curiosities with an admirable desperation: zeal had no room to flourish in her impoverished life--she was addicted to seeking answers through lyrics and strings; to make sense of the many quarks that somehow equated into the physical form of herself.

She felt true anguish as the world kept spinning, forgetting that they had witnessed an efficient annihilation first-hand and said nothing in the aftermath of such choices to segregate and or, enslave thy neighbor. The word Genocide was whispered, misused even--until the crux of its value was lost in the traverse span of time. Artemis was crippled by the act of being held responsible to fix all the problems that had corrodes away at her dying culture. They had chipped away at her soul...bit-by-bit over time. The citizens took turns, peeling away at her linens and leather like dried paint: asking how she had made or chose them--needing a twirl or a dance. Artemis would willingly give them away in the craven efforts to be left alone. She often daydreamed and stared down at her own right arm: inked with her blood-quantum registration number: five six two...six one four six. A beautiful cluster-fuck of dehumanizing symbols, marked her skin with defenestration as to the point...that she were captured and endangered. She resorted to raising her voice and learned to speak with her brow quickly: assimilation took both qualities to mean sordid characteristics of ones self, but they often were wielded as her only weapons. Artemis had been cast into a time where women rarely risked the chances of being ostracized, in lue of the bare rights of comfort in being herself.

Artemis screamed along the cliffs that lined themselves at attention of the roaring waters and felt her chest heaving with confusion, holding her barrings as she stood bent over--trying to press out the last breath of air that rested within her lungs. Wishing only...that she could be left be, ripping out her hair and tearing apart her own flesh, as though it would undo the historical implications that followed the Indigenous ‘Merican Genocide. Artemis loathed her own skin, from the lack of arch in her foot...to the chubby soft tissue that protected her hands. The broken vessel was ignominious and violated to the extent where admiration confused her deeply. Artemis was left to collect her thoughts in a violent silence... always shrieking into the dusky sky: begging for help...in a language that was filled with despair and grief while the waters tumbled below. The sound of her voice served as disparity in raw form, and reminded the winds that the land lay waste to the blood that collected beneath its surface. Artemis was always left knowing that help was never coming: her own death would likely be marked with as little dignity and acknowledgement possible. Her only wish past death was the plea to have her ashes strewn across the ocean, and to lay at rest in the city of Poplar. Artemis had plans to reunite her laughter with a long-lost friend...believing that their next lives would be grand and fortuitous in their sobering friendship. The haunting nightmares of attempting to warn or save Ryan would burrow great sorrow into her heart, and the act of forgetting his death brought her immense shame upon waking up to a bittering reality. It was only the teetering of dreams--searching out the depths of consciousness to seek moments of tranquil "okay-ness" with Ryan...and, those found with screaming into the endless waves....that kept her committed to healing from a gaping wound that scarred her thoughts. It would be the anguished howling that would one day help her to find the precise words needed that would eventually save her...from herself.

As she stood along a cliff frozen in fear: whole-heatedly petrified--cemented in the pain of loving painlessness over the people around her. Artemis had retreated; bound to learn from a failed strategy--her own life bound leaning on sticks, too sickened by pain to move even a meter...she felt her throat demanding a break. The lack of sound introverted her emotions and seamlessly transitioned to producing tears that cascaded for days without end. At the end of the day--no man could love a lonely monster, cursed to live with the fragments of her former self; longing to be cared for, bound to die by herself.

Artemis turned away from the waters in retreat from verbally lashing the sky and sea...her eye fell curious, to a small cave that stood high on a cliff-side nearby. How had she never noticed the blatant entrance meticulously carved out in the naturally formed wall? Artemis glared in annoyance, as the desultory efforts in grieving a loss--had proven her lack off attention to details on such an occasion. She made her way up the crumbling wall in the hopes to approach the mysterious gap in the rock, climbing for an impressive amount of time...before recalling the fact she held the rational fear of heights. The lack of adulation in the feat gave her determination to scale the ocean’s side...until finally she reached a leveled cave entrance, and was able to hoist herself onto the stone floor. The lull of bloated rolling left her stumbling over. She lay on her stomach: interpreting a beached whale pose for an amusing amount of time, groaning as she recovered from scaling the rock face...for what had seemed like fucking forever. She often took pity on the silliest facets of struggles, giggling at the idea of how strange she looked sprawled upon a cave floor and breathing heavily. Such chaotic, yet boring scenes...were probably only funny to herself.

Artemis finally stood up and dusted off haphazardly: she held a firm and content close-lipped grin; admiring the darkness with a sarcastic compliment "nice" echoing along the stern walls. She began walking--ignoring her skin shuddering with warnings of familiarity, tired steps leading a guide-less path without hesitation. Her entire life had been overshadowed by the darkness... a cold and damp chamber seemed like a step-up, from the nothingness that tended to flow from the apathy she often emoted. The churning of the waters below filled the cave with a warm ambiance: the sound reverberated along the walls, and the dry waves of sound washed over her. Artemis walked--moseying her petite hand along the smooth walls of the chilled cave, as she hummed to herself.

It was here: where she entered a carved tomb of some sorts--nearby she saw a frail woman: sitting along the wall with her knees to her chest. Artemis knelt down and asked the disheveled looking woman if she was ok, worried and patient. The unfamiliar act of kindness, forced the woman to look away from Artemis without objections or understanding. It would seem that eye contact made her uncomfortable, so Artemis leaned against the wall--sliding over bent knees, slowly seeping into a small posture as she sat beside the random lady in a cave. She began introducing herself to the silently weeping stranger. They sat in silence: not looking at one another, but enjoying the company of one another. A garden of dead roses and tombs kept them both entertained by the spells of unpredictable rain pour. The furthering woman seemed content, guarding and tending to the garden within the cave. Their similarities of struggles and disparaging upbringing left the two in oddly silent comfort--listening to the ocean whispering secrets and lore. The woman had been left alone for too long, and the isolation had taken a toll on her mind: a common issue found with those who operate false stars. The pair were mirrored in their temporary depression: this worried Artemis, as the grief-stricken woman uncannily reminded her of herself.

Artemis finally managed to introduce herself verbally, and found that young woman was none other than the hideous monster known only as...Medusa. The woman had wiry hair that fell over her eyes, bantering with a primal and unpredictable gaze. The judgement cast by silence was unnerving by itself...even when it wasn’t cast in your direction. Artemis had known the story of the woman, how she had been raped in a temple and immediately exiled for her sins: cursed for her ambiguously good looks and charming laughter. They made idle small talk: for what seemed like an eternity, and finally there was nothing left to say that would potentially change either of their unfortunate circumstances. As Artemis crouched along the cave of the cluttered catacomb: she noted that the woman had transformed herself from a greying hag with kneeling posture...to a person who was simply depleted of energy--having had a curse of beauty rule every aspect of her life. The symptoms left by a the slow death...meant a predictably understandable battle--struggling daily with the symptoms of depression, Complex PTSD and environmentally triggered OCD. She was not a beast to be beaten or tamed, but a person with shitty circumstances that held her captive in the cave: isolated by choice, as a self-deprecating, ditch-effort of a punishment for existing. A concept that Artemis had been secretly struggled with herself.

Artemis had settled on calling the stranger Medusa, to contend a stoney glare and a need to remain elusive to all those around her. The woman seemed like and enigma, untrusting, and boggled down by insecurities. When Artemis asked what all the dead bodies were aboot: Medusa laughed softly, and stated a conflict of interest; unsure why people still kept trying to approach her if the consequences were so dire. A judgement laced stare could instantaneously reprogram a mere mortal: trapped within moments of self-reflect. The stalemate of accidentally stumbling upon an educated person, casually watching behavior of others...and drawing comparison to the high-moral standards set for herself.

Medusa held a shrug of indifference; pointed shoulders bearing the visual weight of disappointment to the facts of how little mortals cared to value life. The preparedness for others to fail, for those seeking out answers with the help of her body...her hidden smiles and a jarring readiness to be let down by anyone other than herself.

Her gaze was often sought out: by those who came from far and wide to battle the gaze of a monster...a strange woman; hidden away in a dark cave along the roar of an ocean of oppression. Evidently, they had aspired to utilize the Golden Fleece and Medusa’s glare to turn to any army to stone: if only for the purposes of seeking entertainment and erotic fulfillment through victory over others. The absurdity had fascinated Artemis...the idea that anyone would want to spend their lives dedicated to sitting around indoors-- entranced, staring at their magic books or shields of static when the world awaited them each day. Artemis had no right to hold an entire Nation to the same standards of self-efficacy to those paved for all Indigenous Warriors. Artemis was protected by the facts of history, swaddled by the things that had already come to pass, and a brightening hope that someday she could be seen by world as extraordinary.

Artemis flat-out asked Medusa, as to why she didn’t just up-and-leave the cave--the woman fell silent, clear in expressing a demonstrative embarrassment to a notion unfamiliar to her reality. She mumbled under her breath: lamenting that there was nothing out there for her, and her monster ways. It would seem that the two, both suffered from crippling agoraphobia and were left avoiding the dead-eyed savages at extreme costs. Medusa told her of the many intruders and perpetrators that she had encountered, how they demanded pieces of her body, ownership over her intellectual property. Strangers took turns--barged into her dwellings, and unloading their traumas on her: accusing Medusa of being a pure form of nuisance upon the world, the axis of all evil, yammering on until a sleepy spell took over. Every once in a while, she’d awake to chuckle at their unattended speeches, hooded eyes and struggling to stay awake--there was no depth of reason to those holding a tone gushing with misogamy. Medusa would say dismantling things like "Oh, I don’t know--I tend to just worry about myself".

Medusa had a revolving slew of randoms...approaching her with "information" and misinterpreted data as to who she was. Men in particular: needed her to be the defining factor as to their conquests, to be the dollish female--grateful to be draped over the arm of a formidable suitor. The woman was armed with only a high-caliber smile; and a shielding personality that nailed down the implications that forever, meant forever. Her absence was granted at will of the many men--unable to disarm their expectations, or reach out to her with an apologetic embrace. The cave was riddled with an array of men-trapped in a loop of their own regrets--having declared her malapert, and burdensome to society, unwilling to admit defeat by walking away. There was no room in their world(s), no place in their arms--for the ugly feminine charms that threatened to ruin all they had built. They hadn’t any clue, that failures acted as petrol to the determination that fueled herself.

Artemis was solemn--having observed the "trend" where young adults made light, or fabricated the lies as to their diagnosis on public stages for shreds of attention. Her struggles in surviving torment for seventeen years, was nothing more that a character development...ticks being passed around as gestures and cues...her embarrassment in neuro-divergent traits, served as jokes for others to borrow and return in moments of combat. Those in charge of leading the free world--had set fire to Democracy while Artemis slept: obsessed with death, censoring knowledge, and interdicted religion. The world fell to a reign of domestic terrorists--clinging to the myths of immortality given out through deeds of brevity, while Clemishire had done the impossible right before their own eyes. The pages of her tragic tale were reserved for those brave beyond words, kind and self-forgiving in a way that was meant to carved out as exceptional--for the mighty lil girls, strong enough to stand up for themselves in moments of indescribable hurt, and to growl in the face of danger itself...if only to gain insight, as to what made life beautifully dark, unique and extraordinary.

The youthful were preoccupied with pretending that the mess wasn’t theirs to inherent--whilst making asses of themselves as a hobby to be monetized for entertainment. Artemis’s generation were considered the wounded, the sacrificed generation that had crawled upon the manual labor fields, or bet on themselves--in the hopes to take a step up in their careers. Many were left crippled and confused, strained by the fights given in protecting agency provided by unionization or regulation. Many had bowed-out of caring; crushed by the weight of Sallys blows to their academic ambitions. The promise of retirement was unattainable to someone wrapped in such handcrafted skill. The idea of standing idly by as the world was set ablaze, seemed like personalized torture to an exhausted martyr such as herself.

The slew of intruders walking by both Artemis and Medusa--implied that her laughter acted as the linchpin to the plague of selfishness, luring men into Medusas dreary cave...leaving a trail of bodies slumped over. Women were seen as solely responsible for causing death to prostrate over the soils, and seizing the life from mankind. The endless barrage of hating one’s spouse overnight were tastelessly blasted as "jokes", in a room filled with mostly men--propping one another up with crassness that was easily duplicated, in a reoccurring fashion that was less-than extraordinary.

Standing alone, Artemis stood in observation to the female problem that needed fixin’--Medusa holding down the line of a villain found mid-story, defined only by actions of the past and a brothel of willing men presenting themselves as a cluster-fuck of awfulness. These intruders had made up their mind aboot the sway of fate--the split second that they entered an ominous cave; armed with their promiscuity and ill-intent. Medusa was always left as the victor...sobbing endlessly, heartbroken and all alone. The woman took accountability for these attackers standing as soldiers frozen in time...they hadn’t any clue, as to what it meant to fight for their lives everyday, let alone the nightmare of running for one’s life. A majority of the men were sheltered by normalcy never to hold a sharpened kernel of the survivalist instincts in their daily thoughts. Artemis didn’t trust anyone: having been proven right in understanding that most men were abortive in their need to walk away with their lives. Medusa hid herself away from the world altogether, in a sincere attempt to minimize damage--to take a break from the endless offerings in sheer disappointment found only with other people: believing that such guile blind-belief meant there’d be no one to blame but herself.

Artemis had nothing to say this: holding back a cynical smile and enjoying the intelligible conversation with a stranger. Artemis had known people were the worst--since day one, having grow up in an urban jungle as an abandoned Spartan baby thrown over an eroding riverside cliff. It wasn’t necessary to compare hypothetical dicks in this situation: because trauma didn’t contend in such a way. Artemis was now safe and loved by the Kind-Hearted Hunters and the Argonauts; ready to share admiration with anyone in need of a hand or kind word. Artemis gathered skill in motivating others, just as she’d learned from a performing artist-that Bammed and plowed through the walls, charging his way into her life: brightening her days with his soft laughter and humbling smile. The prince-like idol held a small shred of the sparkling traits lost to the world by the untimely death of Buckles. Double-B had been the doubling proof that men had the capabilities to be gentle, caring and all around extraordinary.

BamBam-ah’s flair for the arts inspired Artemis, distracting her from the fleeting longing to disappear. The larger-than-life individual had made way from an entirely overcrowded doorway, side-stepping by an army of men with a lean slickness, and destroyed walls of brick and plaster...in the efforts to break his way into her heart. All the hearts. The most recent of her endless wishes and desires included meeting such a silly individual, and to go back in time...to only mention the arrival of his friendship, planting a seedling of excitement into the hopeless version of Artemis’s past self. Such an attainable forewarning would be invaluable someone as endlessly sorrowful as herself.

Artemis silently listened to countless stories of horror and displacement brought upon this Medusa for having been raped--the trials of a woman striped of honor was beyond relatable. The world had said "what were you wearing?", and Medusa held up an article of cloth sized for an infant. The world had nothing to say, only the judgements in passing; for her choice in appearance in the current moment. Medusa explained how she was occasionally stuck in an acute position, suffering from spine trauma given by a rapist: her neck had given out from chronic pain--her head was left being unbearably weighed down by the endless tears that had begrudgingly been held back for decades. Men went around choosing to punch out the reflection before her; because it made more sense than accepting the unchangeable circumstances that had been announced publicly in print--because it was easier than turning around and apologizing for the things outside of controlled settings. Many-a-mortal, gave up on loving her out of discomfort to the horrific traumas that built up herself.

Artemis postured herself close to the saddened individual, and sang sweet songs of the skies and stars: if only to fill Medusas’ gigantic cave with sounds that weren’t ill-intended battle cries. Artemis could tell this poor woman hadn’t been given a fair chance at normalcy or love, and so she began to tell silly stories of the endless travels endured--with an objurgating pale Viking with a booming voice, and a dark moody, broody husband figure that was basically made-up at this point. Medusa giggled, and took surprise at the ignorance in cultural insensitivity that Artemis seemed indifferent to a paler tall man proudly yelling, and choosing to paint the trait as "quirky": despite the fact that he was highly educated. Her inability to set boundaries in their friendship had gave way to an ocean of distance between Orion and herself.

Artemis sighed--rolled her eyes, and told of the Vikings obscure talent of expressing compliments in wavering volumes; ruining all potentially romantic moments with his lack of self-awareness. Medusa laughed in amusement at the trials of a blooming friendship...whereas, Artemis threw her hands up in discomposure to the innate tidal wave of bullshit that she voluntarily put up with--for little-to-no payoff. These stories of obvious infatuation helped Medusa to brighten up her mood a bit: entertainment that seemed too far-fetched to be seeded deeply in reality. It gave the held in guilt confirmation as to her confusion. When words failed--a sheepish laughter implied that Artemis and the Viking had once been lovers, but Artemis didn’t have the heart to admit it even to herself...let alone to Medusa...that the Viking had made his grand exit from her life. They had argued, as to her ability to walk in and out of his life, and Artemis had slammed an invisible door in his face...to avoid his lambasting personality. He was just out there in the world...yelling at other people, supposedly and she could care less. This would be something, a feminine secret that she’d just keep to herself.

Artemis forgot they were surrounded by a slew of statued advisories. When the two had concluded the lack of remedy to dispel their transformation: the silence was welcomed, as if to say “well shit” in their shared scientific doubt. Both were unwed, untethered, and uncaring as to the actions of others. Neither had bothered to ask why their own presence was acknowledged by the cave, hidden away in dreams and nightmares. It had served Artemis fine, as a place of safety--a safe-haven: an untouchable nook in a world set out on destructing the sun-filled parts of herself.

Artemis touched on the topic of the woman being considered a natural beauty; pointing out her obviously aesthetically pleasing appearances. To be beautiful in an ugly world seemed like the worst of contemporary curses. Artemis had initially been surprised by the somewhat disparaging lore, describing Medusa to be reflected upon in an adjacent manner to that of a scorned victim. The sentiment of kind reasoning allowed room for the woman to giggle shyly, and inform her confidant...of the fact that she had never actually seen her own reflection. The beastly woman had assumed that her ugliness served as the key used to the evils perpetrated, haphazardly injected into her life. So many men had made it their lives mission to destroy her confidence; to rob an essence of innocence from her smile. It had never dawned on the sheltered individual--that some other people may be conflicted, confused or flat-out thrown off by the mere authenticity that veiled an aura of comfortable charm about herself.

Artemis pulled out the small pink heart-shaped rhinestone encrusted compact from her arrow quiver, and handed it to the woman in swift single movement--looking away to better provide hospitality to a woman given few private liberties. Medusa held the jeweled weapon in her thinning hand, small wrists turning it gently. The pale skin often mocked by Tribal members had been the striking chord of diversity that didn’t pertain to her legacy, to be half-blooded--meant lonely curses, of open ridicule and violent expectations. To be born and abandoned by a pale colonizer--equated to the lowered standards of capabilities--increased probabilities of mass violence building beneath the surface; as though apathy ran through her veins through genetic inheritance. The world would always assume the worst in what little was given, or provided to herself.

Medusa opened the mirror slowly--nervousness and curious hesitation flaring across her brow. Artemis giggled to herself, as she felt Medusa weigh and doubt the two options before her; a box that was neither full or empty...encased by the daunting realization that neither option mattered. The world had already victimized her for surviving rape, they had done nothing to aide a child in need of protection. Anticipation moved from fear...to pained curiosity as she opened the small mirror. Artemis whispered the chant gifted by The Help once more: ”you is kind…you is smart…you is important”. Medusa gazed with disbelief as she tilted her head from side to side; fixated by the beautiful exterior of a famed monster. Artemis held Medusa with one arm--hanging a comforting arm past a shoulder, and patting the sprawling hair of the stranger with an awkward tap. The spite of jealousy was absent; given way to two strangers, exhausted by misunderstandings and female comradery between Medusa and herself.

Comforting others was occasionally difficult for anyone without practice. Artemis giggled, watching a Medusa scanned over shallow wrinkles on her forehead--crows feet were tugged at; proof of her choices in joyousness from having laughed too hard. Medusa held up the mirror with surprisingly little vain-filled stares--relaxed by the playful nature of such a youthful appearance. Artemis fell asleep leaning next to her new friend…just content with being two normal women--planted in a dark and gloomy cave that was casually filled with stone corpses. Your run of the mill type of scenarios. She slept and dreampt of awful worlds: lifetimes without a Viking, others without her Mamma Bear, or the Kind-Hearted Hunters. Pleading with Ryan to explain why her emotions couldn’t express or answer to the tireless grief that washed over her mind--draining rest from each encounter billed by running into him in the depths of REM. Artemis slept deeply...like a toddler avoiding a nap and crashing in protest to the fun happening all around her--she awoke, startled by the loss of time; mildly confused--sitting along the stone wall of the cave by herself.

Artemis was disoriented by time: feeling suspicion in the idea of comfort and respite...there was no practical way for her to abrade the theory. She was unsure if it were the overwrought fatigue--brought on by emotionally tackling the editorial process of a seemingly never-ending book...or, the assumption that she may have had been asleep forever. Cursed with sleeping her life away. It were the generic casuistry of a signature author--the fleeting moments of inspiration, an aging body that creaked and ached with the flick of a pen: the strained thoughts and vision, that could only be brought on by the consumption of "drank" to the degree of two bottles of wine having been chugged the night before. Such amateur tactics of "liquid inspiration" were left to the paler--the desperate artist squeezing pulp from their pertinacious expectations of fame. Artemis would always find the notion of aspiring artistic methods to be unreliable--inconsistent in quality, yet she was unable to decry proven methods of all the famed authors that had come before herself.

The searing tears that fell upon her lap were those of a child, the hopeless waters of a frightened individual...afraid by what the truth had done to her life. Artemis was forever the unprotected child; ready to be upset--knowing she had told an adult the real reasons to her swaying moods, and issues soiling a bed in the throngs of nightmares given to a five-year-old. She was forever insecure--unable to find ease due to the lack of guardianship dedicated to protect her from the evils of the world. Artemis worried that the isolation of the cave had been her burden to carry. Thoughts of abandonment provided gall to the ludicrous acquiescent theories that had accumulated during her orphaned youth. She began to clench her eyelids close, sleepily batting eyes...clamoring to form words. Artemis raised her hand in a frantic gesture for comfort. "Why wouldn’t the Kind-Hearted Hunters not be in her life?!". Her spiraling nightmares weighed heavily in daily thoughts--chaining her to a cave entranced by self-doubt. Artemis couldn’t imagine doing anything extreme enough as to test their clemency--let alone, giving them a reason to leave her side forever. She began to squirm in discomfort; her wilting spine adding to the pain. Her smile had been held up by three kind individuals--those specialized in nurturing with an outpouring of lenity,: those that chose to try and understand her endless trauma. Their admiration had gifted her with an aureated charm, and Artemis lacked the efforts needed to self-destruct--she began to shatter wine bottles against the wall to object a world ready to find disappointment in her; unable to wallow in self-pity, and unsure of the value in crafting cavil to the contrary. A gratitude for a fermented beverage had been the sole difference between the two other half-siblings and herself.

It took her eyes a hot-minute to acclimate to the all-consuming darkness, the pitch black provided by the unknown. Sensitive eyes adjusted and eventually widened with glee...Artemis saw that there was no longer any stony people standing guard in the hollowed cave. Medusa was nowhere in sight--her presence was replaced by questions and worries. Artemis called out for her within the dimly lit cave, feeling panic welter in each heartbeat. The arduent confusion forced her hand...luring out traits of qui vive and heedful glares. The circumspect nature in contrast to her personality, meant that the trapping of the situation--of being hidden away deeply within a cave, splunking in an impromptu fashion...without proper gear or training: would be the last thing affiliated with herself.

Artemis was left holding the mirror in her hand: clamorous in opening it out of habit--swiping away at the flurry of curls that occasionally caused obscured vision. She caught glances of a strangers reflection--her own eyes darting in all directions, searching for further explanation behind the sophistry of an unsolvable puzzle. Artemis felt a wave of confusion replace her fears of abandonment. In front of her--was a mildly amused woman smiling, swaying and humming aloud to herself about the hopes of wasting time, and relaxing in the thoughts of the choices already made--"whatever will be, will be". Artemis longed to compose herself in such a careless manner. The choice to Live Fast Die Numb had reshaped her face, to that of a slim and broadly grinning young woman. A lady with a proud--florid glow, and a sway that replaced the futile efforts to battle the obdurate courses of fate. All she had was a mirror to reflect upon, and the bare truths, the raw emotions that compiled heavily into the overly-simplified characteristics of herself.

Her life had been like a tragic poem, too horrid to be spoken aloud. A story of sex, minus the sexiness expected of a timeless love story. Artemis felt most comfortable single; trapped with a a clenched breath and tear brimmed eyes, holding back a screech of despair--imploding behind smiled and generic moods of hospitable separation, to accommodate a world painted with pathetic beliefs. A small can or glass of fermented medicine--offered humanity to a woman lost in her dire moments; staring down at a glass longingly in a pique moment of frustration. Artemis would wonder how a reflection could respond in such a forward manner; had she been born this awful, or had the world given her a disease of selfishness? There’d be no way to stop the unstoppable, and a poem was all that was left to remind Artemis that she now belonged to a circle of family and friends--that affiliated her with Justice-backed patience, reasonable intrigue, and raised expectations. She’d no longer require words riddled in subterfuge, or lies that’d fall away beneath her feet at any moment. Artemis would find stability in a majority of the opinions excoriated on behalf of the actions dealt--those placidly, and rightfully...belonging only to herself.

Artemis had no way to tell the past, of her trials in shedding ego, lack-of-moral, or the notion of honoring oneself. The pertness and nurtured talents in avoiding would eventually compete with her ego....until she was ultimately forced to chose one. Artemis would always lessen her burden by unveiling a paranoia of being born a criminal at birth, to pull thread in offices of professionals ready to observe a cloth built off of generations of trauma. She had garnered strength in finding a name personalized as a middle-name; to be an unmovable force in the face of thrashing winds of injustice. A bowed head and occasional spell of tears could lessen the pain of fighting the past. Moments of self-forgivness replaced daydreams, memories forgotten--of being held beneath the clear river waters by an unwell sibling. True mercy was found beneath the paddles of a defibrillator later on in life; over-ridding the horribly wicked actions of others, with self-depreciating moments of sobering clarity. Artemis had finally found resolution with those who cared of her well-being, freed from the experiences that were often hidden away deep within the edges of her memory, even to herself.

Artemis had no way to hold, cherish, comfort the woman hidden away in blank stare; left staring up at her. There was only the handful of poems, and a book to serve as a reflection of forbearance to a story without resolve. She had been given the answer to a riddle, as to what’s worse....to attempt to take one’s own life, or to have it seized without consent? Such haunting words trapped within the pages of journal kept by an orphaned scholar. Philosophy had never been her strong suit--Artemis was often agitated by the complaisant endings and open-ended questions. She had nightmares of a hallway flanked by red doors; sprinting through the darkness as she leapt past a door frame, suspended in a moment--free falling into the abyss; reaching up to grasp for Orions outstretched hand. She was forever prisoner to a dream where she was trapped in a haunted house, left behind in a galaxy lacking in stars--clawing away at the air as a man turning his back to her; pulling back without remorse--unwilling to stand back and observe the larger picture of what their partnership meant to someone as guarded as herself.

The sense of familiar barratry titled pull to a thankless crew of people, a "family" suffocating in terrorized existence. To be raised without agency, drew an urgency flamed beneath the skin, insecurities burning her; taking a comforting need to craft ticked moments in silence--emotionless problem solving had been carried straight from her dreams, and planted into the legacy of a thankless community. The contagion of suppressed grief led to a pathos of arduous loneliness--forever introverted; sheltered from the evils proven to exist past walls of glass and an empty entryway door. A superlative Odyssey was crafted around the baseline of--everything being worth something. Her experiences traveled were considered anecdotal--until tied up to a vast man, heavy footed with sacrosanct driven disinterest in the things out of view. As far as Artemis was concerned; their love story was built upon the expectations of Indigenous Warrior pedigree, and minimum to do with the happiness between a conflicted man and his knotted entitlement to the shattered reflection that haunted herself.

Her life felt like a nightmare with no end. No faint sounds of sirens in the distance, announcing warning of dangers targeting a community. It was every mortal for himself. She had lost the innocence of world overnight. Artemis knew that the act of violent homicide caused a skip in the hearts ability to beat properly; it could cause waves of suicide in its wake. She had watched as the Indigenous Warriors took turns kneeling and drowning upon the untimely death of Buckles, unable to take both--AJ was at unrest; his story fading away to time. Those weeping and forming words that pulled themselves into reality willingly; ready to toss aside an unsolved crime involving homophobia and possible necrophilia. No such words existed in Traditional languages; their necessity to assimilate, meant adjusting to a less-bright world through shaking tones and snotty noses, pleading for help in resources if it meant less pain in their everyday lives. The hand-in-hand death that followed Buckles homicide--specifically the downfall of his mother, had created a stitch in her breath--a pained instance of defiant understanding to the reality that a selfish actions of a loser had stolen a light from a world--giving way to a dreary life; anchored to the death of someone born to be unforgettable, a man cursed with the title of being seen as prized, loved and all around extraordinary.

None of it meant anything. Artemis had almost given up--attempting to carry burden, or provide comfort those drowning in their suffering, just needing to distract herself from the dishonorable actions of giving up herself.

Nobody could find preparedness in the detrimental loss that was born out of confusion and disgust. There was no way for her to remind them to breathe. The thinning air was meant only for carefully chosen words. Artemis had wanted to live and die at her own choice, hunched over but smiling none-the-less. There was no laxity in her right to choose, no wiggle room when deciding on cremation and the choice to return to the Redwoods and Willamette river. Artemis had survived the loss of her best friend at a young age, and the monstrous rage gifted by the details--resurfaced in the brims of her words decades after the loss of a close friend. She had no abilities to comfort the unknown...the events yet to happen, and was unable to address the box unopened. The growing probabilities as to her own demise remained closed off from her own thoughts. They had nothing to do with the aspirations that remained within reach, and the titles that awaited someone as overachieving and ambitious as herself.

Artemis looked at the palate of mirrors, one held her reflection, the other side held a tractable image of a person that had been lost along the way. The spirit of a woman left behind and ill entreated by the things that felt undeserving. She found relief in the hidden away judgements of the pasts, fortified with the act of tucking the mistakes already made...burying the words left unsaid within a pocket: unattainable to be retrieved by someone as pertinacious as herself.

Artemis could find the remnants of tears pushing their way to the surface within a blink of the eye. Water mustered at the drop of a hat; fighting familiar memories she hid away until discussing the traumas of premature loss, and conflicted grief. She was unable to fully excavate the tragic sobs aimed at the thoughts left--pondering the loss of life....the loss of love in the depths of a shallow pool of reflecting lights. Instead all there was....was, markings in a literary world; ink’d by an unrelatable character with a strange interwoven narrative. Artemis hadn’t any issue molding words into worlds, or even editing of the crass details. There was a shadow of unapologetic tragedy polishing and rounded-out her Odyssey. A stupid childish story about a gentle giant and a dokkaebi--was a bonafide nightmare for a flirtatious, and occasionally indecisive woman such as herself.

Artemis gifted herself with the anxiety of wanting to be loved and admired by two separately judgemental men--her crushed expectations spread thin across the span of a couple handfuls of chapters. There could be no strict pointing out Orion; hidden in the back rows of the masses, too bored to step forward. She was forever out of range from his embrace; unable to be a sycophant to his immature games. Artemis would rather be alone; unprotected and admired from afar by crowds of men...those longing to spare a moment for her attention. Instead of settling; Artemis brightened a smile, brushed off a dance; and practiced charm-filled songs. The comfort of being talent driven had given her the advantage of being seen by people all over the world. Her wandering eye only stopped on two men standing out in an audience of stone-footed men. She caught herself blushing endlessly at a witty man; turning to pose for portraits--surrounded by a slew of childish friends, each man holding a Traditional black hat, and wielding wands of lighting that conjured all things that already existed over papers torn away daily. Maybe Artemis had missed the limelight of being a nobody: unbothered by strangers and their flashing lights. The importunate sacrifice of privacy was something overwhelming to herself.

Artemis locked eyes with a strange boy with short hair; he seemed so familiar to her. A shy observation displayed a joining red tether dangling at his slender waist. The chaos encircling him was fun and loud, boisterous by way of the clamorous nature added by the rotating company of his six man crew. She’d awake refreshed; sighing at the endless dreams of observing him from afar, sitting on his lap and nibbling at his panned ears. The day was overran by aspirations of meeting him with a vehement smile; as though holding herself to the standards set would mean a life of earned privileges. His laughter shook her awake, leaving her speechless with a spell of acquiescent grins and a girlish bashfulness that seemed occasionally foreign to even herself.

Artemis stared at the bloated, anguished reflection stolen into an international pocket book. She shook the mirror feverishly to check for errors in the data it projected. There’d be no way to tell the young woman of the past soon enough...that a sobering life filled with fun would be dropped into her life; led by a flare and rhythm through a fashionable man ready to bash his way through to her life. Artemis was forever grateful for his version of cultured kindness; preparing her for all the forms of "judgy-ness" that trailed in the personality traits of his fairy-ish and Prince-like friend. He was the reliant ally, the silent buffer between five men with bottomless expectations, a handsome stranger, and herself.

Artemis had only needed a single chance, and the opportunity to be protected from the ill-intended words of an army of birds and a man famed for being filled with sunshine. Artemis was more-than ready to walk away from an wedding chapel before invitations were even drafted up--because she hadn’t the aspirations to defend herself from those lacking sunshine or fake-fatherly expectations. It was substantially more efficient to char the base of a wedding altar...than, to place herself in a cage filled with those forever starved by attention, diseased by celebrity. An obvious trap for someone grounded in reality, and something that bore expressions of burdensome trials for someone gifted with a deepened sense of patient magnanimity such as herself.

One side of her heart, was forever reaching out for the hand of Orion. A pathetic woman longing for the endless rush of youthful heartache. He had caught her once mid-fall, and Artemis had used the opportunity to dust herself off; unable to lean into his charmed life. He’d never need to adjure for the best parts of her, never need to galvanize his morals, never want for more than her undivided attention...she was just never prepared for all that was his irascible jealousy. Artemis was never going to be enough. She had called the war of love to be ended in a draw--wiping away tears and dusting off her linens, aligning her spectacles out of interest of looking polished in his presence and unwillingness to show weakness. She had no interests in further embarrassing herself.

There were no words to exhort the calm that settled in her heart, Orion was gone, and she was more than ok. A notion that would seem impossible to a younger version of herself. Artemis had found charm in her life: nurturing a friendship with Yoyo, and finding curious joy in the company of a Shy man that held a confused tongue and a patriotism that matched Artemis’s. She had found a crowd of individuals with strong work ethic and the longing to make a difference in the world: occasionally complaining with a young man named Noah, who seemed to exist with many of mild traits and cantankerous moods of Orion. They held the endless task of maneuvering thrones on wheels through a magical building that remained as an endless construction project. Artemis was a piece of a team where people showed relief as she approached--openly asking for her help with their trials in moving the elderly, injured, and sickly up and down massive ramps. Artemis was considered a leader: orchestrating each moment, settling passengers into assigned seating, or wrapping up adventures unending. Such romanticized opportunities to assist those in need, and to live vicariously through the venturesome--was an occupation that fit well with all the kind-hearted and helpful parts of herself.

There could be worse things in the world, than having blisters form into callus upon the palms of a proud individual working in both hospitality and manual labor. The belief of helping others enjoy the end of their life trips, or to admit that their momentary injuries came before their families wants and needs--ventured into mass conversations; where mothers could admit their pain, and fathers could admit their annoyance in needing assistance from a small and bossy woman. The affect of a woman that held a career in cheerful encouragement at all hours of the day hastily cast a portrait, an experience to be held, a civic duty of sorts to someone as overly-sympathetic and medically curious as herself.

There were no words to travel over vast amounts of time, nothing to impel the woes that had formed the bare-bones of story. Artemis hadn’t any means to inform the exhausted and tireless past self--that she’d eventually find ways to hold herself up by the sheer efforts of might and blind confidence. She existed in a home that was called home by many: a place perfect for those needing to find the core elements of proper rest and security. Her small nook of house, would be warm and rich in hearty colors, a cute decorum that matched the exterior of the ruby brick; a fortress lined with industrial pipings, wrapped in a security plan to escape any potential fires. Her life was sturdy and hidden away from all things irrelevant to the mistakes of a past filled with woeful drowning--armed with fermented medicine, a desire to try harder each day and to take gratitude in the opportunities earned for herself.

Her studio converted into a home--stood at the edge of the world: a halting place for her enabling of a querulous sibling. A place bleak and dreary; romanticizing the welcoming phrase "THE UNION" into a spellbound raised bar for all females. To say "She flies with her own wings." One required being obnoxious, and the other painted and sealed with an oratorical slathered with emotions. The things that had already fell into motion before her birth. Artemis had finally said enough, building up barriers and walking away from fights that had pent up for decades. She was forever trapped gazing in the eyes of woman called Medusa as a young child, an open-ish secret kept between a perpetrating family and herself.

Artemis had looked down upon the drunk woman staring up at her from beyond a heart-shaped mirror--taking pity in her ability to self-destruct and weeping for the exceptional athlete that had finally ran her last race. Dreams in a chariot on wheels no longer kept her soul chained to fated anguish. One not so exceptional day--Artemis soberly screamed in Athena’s face, exposing an obvious jealousy in all that Athena had been born to achieve. The gift of immortal physique, unbridled athleticism potentially plated with gold had been gifted; dished out to a rival sibling--arrogant and ungrateful towards everything and anything. Artemis had lived in pure aspiration to a woman that hated life and existing altogether, and eventually found herself bitch-slapped awake by the reality that the woman was unreachable by choice in rotating selfishness. Artemis had reached the pertinacious moments of decisiveness, being shown two trails on how to approach an unsolvable issue. Artemis could either continue to enable the unpredictable and carelessness of Athena, or take responsibility in having done so in the past and walk away from a situation that was overwhelmingly larger than herself.

How was it possible, for Athena and Artemis to be born to the same drowning prostitute, and for her eldest sibling to learn next-to-nothing from a childhood robbed by a poisoned vexes? Generations of trauma and inherited lessons kept Artemis’s mind sharpened--her mind drawn in black and white morality; unable to forgive a biological mothers sins in leaving young toddlers with strange men...or the preceding sins of trafficking drafted by a woman buried with all her glory intact. There was no room for any exception to rules; in a life pebbled by uncomfortable truths washing over the shorelines of a life eroded by perversion. These were the simple thoughts of a random person auditing the night; held trapped in the dark by those willfully surrounding herself.

Orion probably wouldn’t care; that Artemis had survived abuse and negligence of unexplained proportions. Her simulation was built to prove his willingness to leave--to display a disproportionate trust in all the wrong reasons. Artemis had always assumed he’d hand over a blue marble to a female friend for safe keeping; if it meant one less lonely night in the future. He had grown tired of the discomfort found in a tale of an orphaned infant, raped and abandoned within a year and half of being born...articulate in expressing the awful things that somehow comprised the unyielding parts of herself.

She stood on an invisible pillar; balancing a scale to two individuals--that could-care-less about her effort in hanging. To cast one’s self from a cliff; meant a moment solitude and an insult to all those surviving. Artemis was meant to exist as an antiquated statue of moral snobbery, and proof of a fate that out-rivaled the predated legacy of family or friends. It left little-to-no air, in a room filled with only the option of being cast as "the worst" or being subject to silent suffering. Her trauma was a blanket, threaded by the hands of others actions, patterned with the hues of darkening oppression from all those that pretended to care. A colossus tapestry woven by a tragic fable; an epic poem dedicated to "the little orphan that could". Artemis was forever the muse lost to time: steely in an attested spite for the world. The careless world--their utter lack of efforts, and inability to care for others...had nothing to do with herself.

There was no place for Artemis in such an ugly world. She had known that all the hideousness hidden along her spine--would mean a life of false smiles and coy conversations. Allowing for men to daydream of stealing moments away and no reason to remind them of a chained reality bound to wheels and sticks. No amount of wishes, hopes, or prayers could heal the immense damage that she inflicted with each time she allowed an inner monologue to rage from deep within "everyone hates me." Artemis hadn’t ever needed the magnanimous proof found by the lack-of parents in her life, the two citizens had just been two shitty, selfish people...that made an ugly child and abandoned her at their soonest convenience. End of story. Full stop. Such annoyances in trauma became something that Artemis bottled up, and eventually decided to capitalize on...in order to make sense of the worst case scenario, and to bring aspiration and earned ego security upon herself.

She stared at the pages meant only for herself: unable to mix the past with present. The reflection captured in a compact, was all that was left to prove the choice in stripping away the worst parts of herself--to gaze into man’s soul. Artemis used an asterisk to prove a trail ready to be visible, and knew the second marker was meant to be set by a stranger she hadn’t yet met. One rendering was meant to help herself in polishing words, and the second was meant--to be a ploy platforming a cohesive and fleshed-out book in a way that invited her readers along for the ride. The slight semitone kind of life; dragging along those that took pride in the enduring resilience that made Artemis almost come across as hard working--worthy of being deemed as extraordinary.

The second star was meant to cast as a sign of approval, a marker meaning she had elevated from the words being prepped for judgement, and secondly...prepped for publication by a professional willing to ask questions along the way. She had learned from the Kind-Hearted Hunters: if her best wasn’t enough...it’d be wisest to ask for help. There was no need to abandon a story with endless potential--yet, she felt helpless in knowing which steps to take, what decisions to make, keys to stroke, and what bargains with time to take. It occasionally resulted in her rapping words of worry, and swaying in agitated fury. She was preparing herself for a world where pretentiousness was ingrained in the finest of details--in an onslaught of fellow authors, stranded with themselves and other known "best-selling" individuals. She had needed to prepare to play a game synonymous with payola tactics. Artemis had only one shot...one arrow to fall confidently from a tightly-threaded bow...one book to possess the detailed and more complex parts of herself.

Artemis had awoken from a dream of startling surprises, unsure of how she’d found her footing from having been swept away by Orion. She had survived his "love", and now longed to become someone that no longer lived in fear of his voluntary absenteeism. She clasped the locket-shaped mirror that lay spread ajar and up facing. There in the moments of disbelief to her misfortune in love, she sat silently....staring blankly into the dead-eyes of Medusa, trapped within the mirror--gazing kindly back at her. In a split instant: Artemis remembered the vast “jokes” of her childhood...calling her "Medusa", comparative to that of a mythical monster: raped in all her beautiful glory. Artemis had been raised to be taunted for the unchanging parts of a past forgotten; called a burden and a sight for sore eyes, forced to avoid the undeserving reflection of herself.

Artemis grew up isolated amongst trees and a river; famed for its glittering precious metals. To be blessed by the land; meant traits in holding an orphan status...owned by no man, and serving no constitution. She was armed with a confused grin, and snake-like hair curlicued in every direction. The things she had seen and experienced were hidden behind squirmy eyes--pacing each room, surveillance set out to seek an escape from the torments of a lonely life. She remembered the time before the Kind-Hearted Hunters and the Argonauts--the many dehumanizing things strangers had once said and done to her body: each perpetrator was fully aware that Artemis had been abandoned at birth...left alone and fighting for survival each and every breath. At the end of the day; she had been the first and only dependable advocate for herself.

With that forgotten exasperation: Artemis stood up, and headed directly out of the cave with a confident stride...knowing she would never need to return to sitting in the dark. She couldn’t comfort or convenience the young woman in the reflection. Orion was gone forever, his absence proved his inability to care, and so there was no real use in trying. All that was viable as a reasonable option, was the kind act of softly closing the mirrored image of pure-agon hidden behind a smile. She’d take deep breaths in moments of overwhelming anxiousness, setting foot in the sun to better store vitamins deficient on the regular. Artemis was ok, tucking away the desperation that was held within the memories of Orion’s selfish kiss and embrace. The sandy epiphany--allowed her to stop apologizing for existing to strangers half-heartedly, or avoiding the dead-eyed savages that no longer wished death upon her Peoples. The self-discovery had been like gifted grains of sand left hastily behind in the perilous struggle with an unending heartache: Artemis stood taller than ever at the entrance of the cave. Her voice was the great havoc, a screech of anguish; clashing with the thunderous roars of the ocean...her broadened smile--proving that Artemis had finally gave into the liberality that she was meant for something extraordinary.

Next Chapter: [ XIV ] Artemis and the Chimera