Artemis had suffered enough. Born and abandoned in a cruel world--brown, female, disabled, and filled with woe: a woman that displayed herself as an idyllic recipe for disaster. She had wandered: observing blindly as the world seemed resentful of her egalitarian existence, and stubborn in judging choices already made. They seemed chided by the wine she had already drank, and ready to deem her abrogated as an outcast. Artemis despised herself for taking joy in attuning to the fleeting moments of solace before the moments of blacking out. The moments before a curtain fell with a thud and announcing the depths of her woe.

She armed her readers with a Just competition...asking that they drink a wheat beverage, sparkling substance, or take a shot of poison with each of the upcoming paragraphs to prove a lucid point. They were at her mercy for a scientific experiment. Her memories were oblique: had she really seen Orion in her home? Or was a desperate and deft mind playing tricks on her? The world had used her up dry...yelling that she was a criminal, and unworthy of surviving the carnage: the citizens were stringent in their beliefs, as they demanded respectful edict to the captors called neighbors. Artemis remained bowed in defeat, broached by their violence as she said, “it’s up to Mr. Joseph”. Her prideful campaigning of a lifelong friend expressed the peril felt within, and exposed the softest tissue upon her neck. She was a zealot...resorting to grasping for the hands of the neighboring cultures, as they were the only ones that refused to remain vocative to her endless woe.

Orion was gone, and she was alone. Their forced separation was innocuous. He probably hated her. Artemis would use the daybreak to sieve the experience, for he had been her Eden...and she had succumb to Gravity. There was no such thing as a simple romantic Xanadu for a Politician without cause. Artemis would spend her life wandering away from the devotional feelings and bucolic daydreams she had left at the foot of Orion. The unraveling of her actions had threatened her role in representing the Indigenous Warriors in the Polis. She had disentangled emotions from the world she had known: assimilating into a culture that only prized legacy and monetary value. Artemis was comfortable with the fact that she’d spent life-- preparing for something greater than herself. She hadn’t needed tricks of manipulation or insincerity to allow the world to be dazzled by her efforts in defeating harrowing woes.

She had come to detest a man and his need to be a sexual liberator to anyone that had a night to spare. “I love Orion, but so does every other girl past 19th and Fremont”. She’d BUNT a melody, and declare the fact that she just wanted to feel like she was in love--swaying in the freedom of being outside the rage of his glares. Artemis hid behind mean humor as an artifice, occasionally baring her fangs, as proof to the nature of a rash politician--with qualities that seeped and pumped aggressively through her veins: the type that psychologists deemed as a thoroughbred. There was nothing by banter, reasoning, and problem solving for a single woman holding a campaign for the heart of another...only the tact of charm and charisma to sway the single vote of a romantic election.

She was incensed with an obligation to stand firm, and to clash horns with the Titans before her: as an impending battle vied and churned between her and the daughter of a Mechanical Boar. Artemis had ripped all potential romance from her heart: extemporaneous as a necessary sacrifice to arise victoriously from the ashes of modern history. Artemis’s past had been muddled with talks of eugenics; causing timidity to build with a fear as to her own wishes in bringing forth Orion a son. She stood on the shoulders of giants in a maze filled with smog and violence. The Demi-Goddess had been born lost beyond lost: an orphan thrashing around in the waves of an ocean that was relentless in its efforts to drown her. Orion had sprinted through the crests of waters and dove in: pulling her ashore. He had only wanted to save her from herself, and his intentions were filled with nonanswers. Artemis had only wanted a home...someone to remain sentinel to her goals. He had abandoned her, and Artemis had decided to join a dangerous hunt for a Mechanical Boar in refute. The Boar was dead, yet he kept talking to Artemis: reminding her of the absence of Orion, as she sat weeping, blathering, and clinging foolishly to a tethering chord: it was all that was left a remnant to her romantic woes.

Artemis began to berate the Boar: screaming defamatory remarks at him for having slaughtered the postal services. Anyone that knew Artemis enough-- had known she loved the delivery services funded by the citizens. She had assumed her glowing pride in the system had led a glaring Viking to his prideful position, swiftly pushing aboot the mail from here to there. Artemis had a way of valuing the labors of those that provided civil services to the land, as their hard work was no different to hers--smiling in an office and a wee blue zip-up suit. They were respectable enough in their efficient dedication--wearing navy trousers and being accosted by puppies during delivery. They were a united front: operating the greatness of the Nation with bare minimum resources, and the Boar had dismantled both agencies of work through extortion, and claimed it was for the safety of an election.

Artemis grew livid at the aging animal and his slobbering excuses: the Boar was a fucking fool, hiding behind the title of criminal, and demanding the citizens call him “Chief”. She found it amusing when others noted the status of the mail services, as though wishing to be a part of her triggered rant. “Don’t fuck with my mail.” She’d mutter to herself repeatedly, pacing an empty manner in a crazed outrage that was concernedly calm for a woman. The words held no power, no value: until the citizens fell in sync with her chant, a curse she hadn’t ever wished upon the citizens in her selfishness. Such miscast spells left the world in tatters, allowing chaos to obliterate their ways in a meaningful disruption that magnified their consumer needs. The only citizens being harmed were those that relied on the postal services for medical, financial and emotional support. Few were harmed, or acknowledged in their disparity by anybody--the victims of petty theft and the idea of a stranger standing on their property with ill intent. Nobody understood their avaricious crime sprees, or offered viable solutions outside of the crime of death given as decree by a Boar wearing a crooked crown upon the orange tufts of his decapitated head. The Boar had managed to concave generations of traditions with his insecurities and manifesting list of woes.

She was never rested well enough to function properly, and her music held the shattered bits of sanity. On the sixth day of writing, Artemis saw a strange man arrive at freshly green painted steps, and he seemed mulish in her inability to recognize him. Artemis tilted her head to the left, amorous in curiosity to his beauty and amused by the finical tone of his voice. Artemis began to stare at his feet as he walked, until she began to believe that she was gazing down upon Orion in a suit. He was in disagreement that they weren’t Anything Anymore. He seemed petulant, as he hummed an accusatory tune stating that "I’m not the Only One". Artemis looked around her, as Orion was still absent: delighted by the idea of her love spilling over with emotions until it was plastered in static before her. She thought it seemed odd, as though his face was masked or touched-up to be deceptive to the on-looker. Artemis kept returning to his enlivened steps to level out her curiosity, affirming to herself that Orion had a very distinguished walk. It had secretly been one of her favorite traits--watching his light-footed stroll brought her gladdened exhilaration. Artemis had wasted years, inscrutable and lost in thought: wondering why her heart was never enough for him. She had grown weary in her spellbinding worry whether it were normal to love someone so deeply. Artemis had cautiously given Orion her whole heart willingly, and she had wrapped it carefully in reciprocity without any doubts, and, or, the need to hold election.

Artemis pulled herself away from staring at her shield. The urge to stare upon the winsome man was matched by his need to look upon her smile. Orion would always save his best compliments or love for strategic times, and she assumed this particular absence was no different. He was enigmatic: not wanting Artemis to receive compliments or glances from others, and trivializing her beauty--unless he was the one being adored publicly for admiring her. Artemis had assumed this awfulness had dissolved their potential, as such covert tactics were arcane: being treated like a potato in a wig...unless another man dared to compliment her. She had found his inconsistencies to mean he were only emulous of the husband she deserved, and so she left his side to seek a equitable partner to vitalize her heart and potentially heal her woes.

Artemis recalled involute dreams of a demure Vikings walking her home, and a handsome Doctor that always smiled in her direction, as though he were enraptured to see her, or simply insightful of the conversations that were held with her beloved Argonauts. One dimpled gentleman with the booming name Thybulle had soothed her swelling of discomposed tears with a few kind words, and left her shy with their shared passion in weilding an orange sphere. Artemis was confused and annoyed with herself--oblivious as to how long he’d been patiently standing directly before her, and stressed by how thrown off she felt by his support and cheerfulness. That was usually her job. His deep laughter caught her off gaurd, and left her to desire stolen moments of smiles. It seemed as though men were rallying her patience, and asking her to await a stranger that had yet to arrive at a marital door. They commended her for being dispassionate to mistreatment and confident in weilding a distinct laughter. Her days were replaced with gleeful gratefulness and satisfaction: void of emotional turmoil and woes.

Artemis found a beat drumming in the distance: calling for her aid. She had retired, but alas the order had been from a child: an order she couldn’t ignore with good conscience. The wee voice of a girl seemed to echo off her bare walls, the high ceiling carrying the soft weeping of dire hopelessness. The girl had been crying inside so long--that she bled red tears, just as Artemis did. Artemis found her curled in a ball along the wall, just as Artemis had. She knelt down and began to speak, asking the small girl if she was ok, and wondering what she had endured that had caused her to bring forth a seventh red tide over the world. People that wept tears of blood could make or break the entire world. It was apparent that this world had chosen to rape her. Artemis decided to gently embrace her without words, the way she had always wished a mother had done for her. People never wept for Artemis, they just moved past her and looked away, pridefully leaving her behind out of comfort. They called her orphan, whore, or broken on her best of days. Now there was another woman, a young girl that was left in an abandoned temple: crying for herself, in a world that didn’t care, as she wept in lamenting the rage of her unending woes.

She felt angry beyond words, scornful beyond tears, and helpless beyond anything she could have written. The girl looked up at Artemis finally, moving her head from clenched knees tuckered away neatly. Artemis showed the girl her hands, explaining that she was filled with shame and compunction for her own reflection--a spell that was worsened or brought on with confusion gifted by other people. Artemis informed her of unrelatable cascading struggles, explaining a smile that was forever hollow and despondent--due to the violent rape she had endured as an infant. The doubt in love she felt, whenever believing that anyone could love or charish someone so undeniably broken. Artemis had wanted to break her spell of contrition by way of sharing her hidden woes.

Artemis had been raised subservient, and forced to let the citizens do whatever they pleased with her body. It had been all she had known, and each time she attempted to point out the fact that something seemed offish or unfair: Artemis was left holding the thread of reality that she was an orphan, devalued by the citizens that chose to disavow her struggles. The girl began to slow her fits of crying, listening to Artemis explain the new world they now both lived in and needing to help the lost soul eschew responsibility to the embarrassment of being cast into such inescapable victim-hood. She explained how the original settlers had brought doleful sickness with them during an era of colonization. The Yurok Peoples had no word for rape--due to the fact it didn’t exist in their community, and there was no need to define such horrific woe.

Her culture had the understanding that the human soul would rip into multiple pieces at the survival of a trauma, to preserve the functions og the body. The remaining soul would be reincarnated--if a personality could make it through the barriers of the human experience. Their life choices and actions were like woven bowl, segmented and tightly wound until they formed all that a person is. No two cedar strips were the same: despite being from the same bark sheaths. They fell in layers, baring different colors and patterns--interwoven in strands and strips until it accumulated into the rounded shape of bowl. Artemis knew advanced physics wasn’t easy to comprehend and explain to children, and so she relied on a simplistic and ingratiating comparison. Artemis had yet to hear the abtuse girl speak, and so she had no idea of her age or vocal identification...a strange thing to require in battle, but necessary for purposes of reincarnation. Artemis would sit and wait for her repudiated tears to cease, if only to show solidarity to the girl filled with trauma and woes.

Artemis decided to break the ice, talking of non-rape related situations to her new friend. She explained how her past had made her hesitant to approach Orion, and often left her doubting herself due to the fact her heart remained endlessly sick. She wondered aloud: worried that he’d wake up and become supercilious to her past of being raped with such putrid violence. Artemis had once wished upon her birthday, that Orion would ask for her hand as his wife, and she felt laughter swell within her hollow chest, as the memory of the wish had always brought her back to the realization...that such childish wishes were for suckers. Artemis would always be disabled, raped, and bored of all those around her, and she was left with the assumption that his absence was due to his inability to accept her particular form of vile "woe".

Orion would always be too proud, stubborn, and derisive to the opinions of others to ever admit his feelings. She had been servile in her affection towards him, and he couldn’t fucking care less. Nobody had apologized to he--for having been raped as an infant, and Orion was no different. Artemis felt her voice raise in anger as she fell back to her old flippant violence, forgetting that she had an audience of one. Artemis handed the girl a strange silver wand and set it alight, as the girl had begun to slowly burp and make strange gagging noises. The girl felt her eyes lower and her heart lessen in pain: just as Artemis had once needed to survive the night. The girl had finally caught her breath, and began to wipe away her snot and tears. Her truth had finally began to spark of enlightened truth upon a paper. She no longer needed to avoid eye-contact, and one day she reached for Artemis’s hand, as they both sat next to one another and stared forward towards the same future. Artemis had finally earned her company--a small token of victory for a woman with the mind of a politician. She gained endorphins from the processes of winning in every unique interpersonal election.

The girl began to lean her weight into Artemis, as she exasperatedly explained that she had woken up in the strange non-void alone. Artemis listened and began to tremble at the awful things she had endured to find her voice. Artemis alone, had begun to burn the world down with the situations she had faced, and yet this brave woman had to see the same man over years, and lifetimes. Artemis bet that such discomofort was what true horror felt like--wondering if your family would force you to be raped by "their friend", or what word could be formed to explain such predatory violence. Artemis asked for the whereabouts of her rapists, and the girl pointed to the wall ahead. In doing so, a familiar trail to freedom appeared before them. Artemis didn’t need her words to find out what had happened. She turned to leave the girls side, and as she did so, she asked the girl for her permission to explore her traumatic woe.

Artemis informed the girl--that such a battle was going to uproot her life, and that the world would only know of her as a victim, with all privacy being relinquished from her life. The girl finally looked upon Artemis, curious probably...as to why her friend said the word privacy in a crumpet-filled tone. Such silliness often helped Artemis on her cause, as she no longer needed to apologize for being filled with such guile, formality or an excitement for life. Artemis asked for his name and noticed the shift in her confidence. She explained that no man was safe to harm others without judgement...not even those hidding behind the hopes of an election.

The exhausted girl clenched her knees and began murmuring to herself-- “flowers, flowers.” As she turned away, Artemis felt her body come to a halt as she replied with a simple response "I see." She knelt beside the girl once more and asked, “who did you tell?”, and the girl grew worrisome in her tearful eyes. Each breathe began heaving and causing distress to the poor child. Artemis left and returned with her favorite toy, a soft orange ball marked with her sister’s name written upon it in an ancient language. Her big sister always made her feel more brave in moments of endless worry. She gave her the sphere and a small purple mirror encrusted with gems: Artemis had enchanted the mirror, as to let her friend observe the battle from the safety of their void. The girl needn’t be present for the slaughter of a pedophile, and so Artemis had resorted to ancient magic and spared her young friend from the extra woes.

Artemis wandered along the trail, gazing at the flowers and assuming the monster would appear to hunt his victim. He did, but only after being lured out. She crafted a woven basket and gave it to a honorable union head, bowing to his service and allowing the citizen to thank her royal gesture with due respect. The man took Nee, and retired without hiccup. The perfect shield for a pedophile--that just happened to be a wild Boar set loose in the middle of nowhere. Of course this loser would be dawning badges of stars and racially motivated hatred. Artemis waited for what seemed like seven days, without sleep or proper hydration. She felt annoyed when the piece of shit, showed up strutting in arrogance--to disrupt her commitment to boredom in certain terms. Mostly it bothered her that he hid behind blue gloves, and his volunteer work unionizing those serving the public in managing community woe.

Artemis didn’t like being disrupted. It was bothersome that she had missed catching him for so long, glossing over the land and hunting beasts as she pleased. Three decades was a long time for a violent beast to unnoticed. Artemis set out to prove that others had ennabled his sexual violence towards children--needing them to suffer at the thorns and horns of a child rapist. “He would be the ugliest Rose in the whole garden.” Artemis found herself smirking that her friend hadn’t any words for describing her rape, but just enough inner strength to formulate a single word. The young girl had saved other children in the process of her bravity. A clue was all that was needed for her to transform a awful story into a riddle. Artemis’s friends were always way cooler than her. It left her sighing in bored acceptance in a way. It made Artemis sad that she hadn’t come sooner, as though her hopes and dreams meant that she could’ve stopped the abuse--long before the year that the Boar and the Cyclops had criminally rigged an election.

Artemis laughed to herself, those two fools were always up to some neferious shit. It gave her pleasure to watch the Boar yell ramblings aboot bird massacres, dead sea creatures being threatened by winds--all in attempt to confuse the voting system that had once worked in his favor. He often contradicted himself when yammering out loud, as to which proper ballot would get delivered to his massive doorstep that dripped with cheap gold paint. Artemis yelled to the nothing around her “you’re never going to get your ballots--without the postal services, mate.” Her past in wondering why the Argonauts felt the need to yell had finally come full-circle. Sometimes it just felt better to yell it out. Not into a feathered pillow, oppressed by her fat face...but, just to form the words and cast them into the world willie-nillie. The oversharing of her deepest, and occasional "undeep" thoughts were left for the world to judge. It didn’t really matter since she wasn’t the one up for election.

Passersby would approve with the lack of acknowledgement, as her words were often deemed less-important to the mumbling hymns and songs that steadily protruded from the semen that slopped from their ears. She could appreciate that many had abandoned shittily-made music for that of spoken word. The Indigenous Warrior Tradition of oral stories and war-council-esque conversations took center stage to most of their forms of entertainment. Artemis had prepared for this exact time in the world, and instead of forcing herself to sit on the stand for judgement: she decided to face the music with a heartfelt novel that unburdened her ethnic woes.

She had gone back and replaced her words to reflect her worth, and watched as the world looked away in fear. Artemis was a hunchback...a monster coveted by men. That statement alone was a lot for any person to digest. It implied that she was not human. She wasn’t. Artemis suffered with silly laughter and sighs to divert attention to the inevitable. Her future told at the hand of professional...explaining that she’d eventually turn into a tree, as a nymph does. It left her with nowhere to go. Who could marry such a creature? A woman unable to satisfy her partner on whim--a person with chronic pain that fell in waves. Nobody deserved that death sentence, and so Artemis chose to be alone. It was better than living with someone spiteful to the things without cures, or the misplaced glances to avoid looking at the childhood scars that she labelled under the word woe.

She acted as though her love for Orion encompassed her, consumed her every thought. Instead--it was just her and her paranoia, wondering when the next child would begin to cry after seeing her with sticks beneath arms. At least his confusion was honest. Artemis had wasted her whole life trying to tell someone, anyone, that something didn’t feel right in her body. Her every smile was meant to deter the onlooker of her fate, hoping that they didn’t see her in a medical gown or lulled over sticks. Artemis begged them for normalcy with her smiles, her laughter meant to be a reminder for all the conversations she’d be absent for: a token of her existence. Her ability to rap, kept from her familiars and friends--forced to spill her life out to strangers over genuinely concerning material and content. Artemis had filled a literal book with her listed “unspoken” woes.

Artemis returned to her friend’s side, and watched as the young girl aged before her eyes. She was the same age as Mama Bear it seemed, but she had seemed blurry and shifting in age before. Artemis explained that she had plucked an ugly-ass Rose from along the trail--pulling it out from behind her back and taking a step back with caution. The girl feebly took the Rose from her hands, and began to weep clear tears once more. Artemis knew not of these light tears, for she’d never see such victory. Nobody was coming to save her from herself, and so Artemis did so with a book. She peered down upon her manuscript with such shame and confusion, just as her friend now did with her cursed Rose. There was no proper way to make sense of such personal woe.

Artemis was only left with a future of helping others, and understanding that no matter how she explained it, the contents of this horror story “was a lot.” Artemis didn’t know how to be helpful when she was bed-ridden, and the urgency of her mission had called her back to battle in the daily fears she wrought in--knowing that she was destined for a life of bone spurs and seizures. Artemis looked around their empty void, turning in shock to see that a swarm of Titans had started to pluck at the girl and yelling obscenities. She reached behind her back and pulled out a willow longbow once more-- aiming her deadly scope at the raunchy monsters that seemed to be attacking a child. The chaos was too much to describe, a random loon Siren: Betsy had found her way into the non-zero, and she was shrieking at the young scholar to attend school. Artemis called her aging name, and aimed her bow between her cross eyed gaze. The bird finally recognized her from another life, another mortality race they had both participated in. She stepped in to touch the tip of her arrow to the forehead of the beast, wishing only to slay a woman that caused so many scholars misery and misfortune. Students had starved at the hand of Betsy--scholars had perished under the stresses of academia and their daily lives. Yet she stood there--unapologetic and smiling with content in her ability to hold wealth and stand afar to such success driven woe.

Artemis had no choice: she lowered her bow and decked the privileged smile right from her stupid smug face. Betsy now had eyes that were uncrossed--proof that privilege always favored those who needn’t try. Artemis said “you’re welcome Betsy.”: removing her face shield, spitting upon the infamous grin plastered over a wrinkled smile. Artemis finally said with passion and meaningfulness that required indoor voices…”Go fuck yourself Betsy.” Artemis had cast her own soul into purgatory with all the condescending hatred she held for a culture that she’d supposedly been born into. Saliva dripped over her glossy teeth, and Betsy seemed unaware that Artemis had committed an act of bio-warfare: a folly of her own--for stepping into battle without a shield for heavily beaked face. Artemis wondered why the beast wished to annihilate the children, or use them as weapons of death during a plague, but knew Betsy would literally rather fuck off, than to give a straight answer. Her only priority was to force children to attend battle, and to ensure funding for her operational plans in preserving the fading memory of the Hydra: Betsy was promised monetary stocks, to charter theft into her families pockets. The beast had seemingly arrived on this specific timeline, to help encourage disinformation, rob the citizens of a proper education, and to cheat in an election.

Artemis was somewhat over the story, bored of the tone. She had thought punching the idiot named Betsy would’ve eased a tad bit of the malcontent. It hadn’t. She still had a handful of random beasts to handle, and actual things to do this week. She hadn’t the time to recall almost having drowned in debt, scholastic pressure, and agoraphobia. Artemis had been saved by a dear friend named Mel, just in the knick of time, and the pains of yesterday seemed to be freshly healing. Her life had been derailed, distracted by a fraudulent tent destroyed by a Viking that stomped around and boomed his voice across the land. She turned about face, hair crazed by the winds and her frustration in having intruders--landing herself back in a room with beasts plucking at the skin of a child. Artemis took the thorn of the Rose and pressed it deeply into her own skin until it resurfaced as a birthmark indicating which Betsy was the worst. The woman would be responsible for the death of children--just as any other predator. One preyed upon children to satisfy endless urges, the other preyed upon children to satisfy her unending greed. The Indigenous Warrior had set out to save her friend at all costs, binding the unrelated pair: to ensure due process could assist her torn soul in preparing all the damage wrought on by the Rose that repeatedly raped her. They were rooted in dimension where she’d be found weeping in pain for having survived repeated rape since the age of four and an academic system that allowed her to be unseen, unheard and designed to amplify such failure. Such were the stories of “scorned women, fighting alongside one another to evolve their political and human-worth: those resentful of being ignored by a world with the means to care, and tired of being raped on a whim. They were the nymphs and muses that turned the world--the women that inspired men and their greatest achievements with their empty smiles and buried woes.

Artemis stepped in front of a Siren named Theodora, a strange erratic Princess that gave the title of Royals all a bad name. The woman seemed to be stuck in a trance, her mouth moving...her lips subsiding with annunciation, but her volume too weak to understand. Artemis said “ I can fix that.”, and she placed her silver wand to her throat. Out came a hoarse voice, a thick accent, and putrid words. The national leader was dribbling on, boasting that she had woken up and received manicure to her talons, whilst casually wondering how many people in hijabs she could slaughter. Such dangerous talk over breakfast tea were the words of A Princess. Artemis hadn’t prepared for such genocidal talk, and she responded with a confused “oh, my.”: and placing her volume setting to mute once more. The woman grew animated by such and began to whisper to herself, demanding her father erase the “unkind” things she had once carved in stone. Artemis knew the face of a woman pleading for permission from their father, and she decided to punish her for having dared use her throne to expunge her sins. Artemis waved her wand in disapproval of the Princess that dared hold a title with such harvested hatred for others. She higher-ed the volume of her voice until it was unpleasant, screaching and allowing the woman to repeat her infamous words--anytime someone asked how she was. The Princess would live in isolation by the way of her strange curse, or risk the world knowing the words that she had blessed her people with. Artemis snapped her wand in half to make the spell permanent, bending it over her knee and leveraging two thumbs as she said “whoops” with a wicked smile. Her flair for political sabotage was a strong mediator in expressing her personality, dripping with secure avoidance and woes.

Artemis had a problem of thinking of the outcome too late, and this battle had really displayed that. She had gotten distracted, weeping blood at the mere sight of Betsy, and politely muting the Princess for a second too long as she deliberated how to DJ with objective fairness. She turned and saw a swollen man named Dan, his shirt torn and in rags. He bore the crest of a ram, despite not being affiliated with her beloved Argonauts in the slightest. He awoke and looked upon Artemis and the girl, growing an erection for seeing two women that he hadn’t bedded. The beast had grown tired of his harem and stumbled into the non-void that occasionally accidentally appeared. Such luck was common with the beast, as his father had died and left him a stolen fortune to play with. Artemis saw the girl stir in concern to the large man roaring of his conquests and lack of skills gambling. Artemis paced the giant, giggling when she found a slit in his egotistical armor. She decided to remove the crest upon his chest, and pin it to his “magnificent beard” with an enchanting spell. Artemis reached for her wand, and forgot that she had snapped it half for what seemed to be only done for dramatic effect at this point. “Damn it woman!” Artemis had no issue yelling at herself. It made it easier to deal with the forethought of such idiotic woe.

The girl found this madness amusing and she pointed at the floor to the two pieces strewn across the chamber. Artemis pretended to hold it mended at its seam, and pointed it in the direction of Dan. She missed--leading to a stray lighting to hit Artemis directly square in the chest. It felt like her body was screaming for her to wake up, a warm sensation brought a sensation of letting go all that she’d known. Artemis awoke on a couch that came from nowhere, laying in her own piss. She said “what the fuck.” and asking the girl what had happened. Artemis had almost died and awoke on her favorite couch by accident. She went back to the side of Dan the barbarian fool, and giggled that her curse had caused his beard to fall off in small tufts. Artemis attempted to put them back in place frantically, and grew anxious as his yes began darting back and forth. The unwavering hands of surgical professionals were needed for this craft time. Artemis saw the girl find amusement in her foolies, bemused by an stern lip and a few frantic sounds. Artemis shook her head in self-disapproval as to how awry the plan had gone while she patted floating handfuls of facial hair. Artemis knew that looking like a clown was really the least of her woes.

Artemis began to swipe at the clumps as they detached from his face, and saw the girl watching her in a bored fascination. She yelled “damn it, Dan!”, frazzled that the oaf of a man, had managed to fuck up her day by doing nothing. The man had been famed for doing nothing--and so Artemis took a play from his book. She left the non-zero and returned with a fellow Dan. A strange weasel of a man, a predator with too much authority, and too much access to children. Artemis de-trousered the pervert without issue, as she herself looked younger than her years. She painted his penis a strange orange color and giggled at her marvelous arts. Holding hands out with parise and yelling "art." Such a foul poster child wouldn’t be able to help her win any hypothetical election.

Artemis loved painting almost as much as she loved battle. She painted the name “daddy” above his ass, hoping to invite her fellow criminals to rape him in the black boxes filled with criminals. She looked in his eyes, and asked if she knew of a girl named Amanda: watching as his eyes become flushed with the darkness of pedophiles and demons alike. This was surprising to the young girl, and she gasped at the sight of a stout man transforming. The beast began to stir, and it had sent word for Amanda to enter the non-void. Artemis looked at the poor woman with pity. She handed her a box of wigs and a blue bird to distract the world from her plan to save countless children, specifically a girl named Miranda. Artemis knew that Amanda had already been cursed by Hera with madness, as she had seen her spit angry commentary at Dianne for quoting nonsense, and behaving lively and implied her confidence meant she were shameless and proud in believing that she was gifted in being “all that”. The girl had the dangerous eyes of Dianne-- hiding a hatred for other women, and masking secrets behind semi-polite hostility and superficial woes.

Artemis tethered the three together, and Amanda escorted them from their abnormal location inside the void. The never-ending bullshit that had been her arrival continued. While turning to face whatever noise resounded in their chamber: Artemis saw a familiar face standing over the girl hurling orders. Patsy, and her whimp husband stood guard over the girl, as Patsy screeched that the girl hadn’t the right shade of blonde crowned atop her head. The girl went back to her slumped and protected positioning in a curled ball--allowing the strangers to yell at her without rebuttal. Artemis didn’t know what to do, as she still hadn’t the slightest clue as to why they were able to enter the non-zero to begin with. She cautiously walked up to the couple, Patsy zero’d her attention in on Artemis: her blonde locks twirling in ponytail. She screamed in an accusatory tone “Is that my attache?”, and Artemis shook her head no and flaunted confused eyes, unsure what the word had meant. Turns out the woman had noticed her satchel, and had purposely mistaken Artemis to be the thief in all her naked brown glory. Pale people often found it easier to assume she was wicked, rather than to believe she could ever afford, or deserve such nice things. The woman forgot the accusation instantly, and grabbed Artemis’s arm as payment, screeching and clawing the stranger as she spoke to herself--whispering “her skin isn’t light enough” in a tizzy. Artemis was afraid of people, and the assault caused her fall ill with depression and anguish once more. She had been accidentally entrapped into a past lifetime she had desperately attempted to forget. Artemis became lost in the non-zero: a brown woman lost in the indefinite circumstances bestowed upon those with melanated woes.

Artemis awoke from her nightmare, foaming at the mouth. She wiped her chin with nonchalants, and asked the girl how long she had been gone. The girl wasn’t in the mood to respond, and so Artemis asked the husband of Patsy with the same muted response. The man was utterly useless, thought Artemis. Patsy had managed to strip away the first layer of skin of her her forearm, and when Artemis went to inch away from the attack: Patsy flew into a rage that reminded her of Hera. The woman lunged at Artemis, only to be intercepted by the young girl. The girl had stood up finally, her hair falling over her face as she acted as a barrier between her and Artemis. The girl did nothing, but began to speak “We’re not talking to you”, as though she was scolding them for something. Patsy began to hiss, asking the stranger what she had said with an offensiveness reeking in her tone of privilege. The girl made eye-contact with her audience finally, as she aimed words directly at Patsy this time. She said “What did you do?!” with a false voice of motherly concern...it had made the Titan wife angry for a reason unknown, and she began to yell for everyone to shut up. Artemis was lost on the conversation, and so she whispered to herself the puzzling quotes aloud without mockery. They were innocent enough phrases, but somehow brought on waves of frazzled woe.

This made the crazed woman hysterical. Patsy turned to attack Artemis once more, but this time her friend was ready to defend the ground she stood upon. The girl grabbed Patsy, latching onto her by her fraile swinging bird-like wrist in such a stark motion that it frightened Artemis. Such spookiness bothered Artemis, and so she was thoroughly freaked out when the girl came to full-responsiveness and began to say “What did you find?” in the voice of a pubescent male. Artemis shook her head “nope.”....she had momentarily wanted to nope the fuck out of the haunting situation, but was less embarrassed upon seeing Patsy’s reaction. The woman washed her eyes with darkness, screeching to nobody “My children. My children”, and ran from the room. Artemis turned to the husband and said with a rude tone, “That bitch left yo ass real quick.” The man just nodded feebly and asked to leave to catch up to his wife. Artemis said “sure” waving at the walls surrounding him, and inviting him to exit by whichever exit he found. The girl found it amusing to see such asshole-ery from a young woman, and so Artemis decided to crack her neck from side to side, and find solutions to ensure the couple landed on the right plane of existence outside of their void of unmentionable woes.

Artemis sighed to herself, hating that she was always left to find solutions for other people on a whim. She had seen the feeble husband to Patsy..walking directly into a wall as though he were glitching out. Artemis pulled out her shield and favored assistance from an old friend she called the pebble. The burly man appeared with a grin, asking Artemis how he could help. Artemis often smiled at him fondly, unfazed by his stature or beauty, but delighted by his might and smile. She smiled when asking that he take a knee, insisting that her secret was worth the effort with friendly grins. Such customs had been built just for Artemis in a past life. Allowing her to be closer to her people, even on the days she was left kneeling in pain and avoiding the inevitable seizures cast from Zeus’s unpredictable lightning. The gesture was enforced as a sign of respect to her pain, her discomfort and humiliation in standing as a Royal subject with a curved spine and wilting discs. He was always proud of others--encouraging people to lean into the strength provided by diversity and woe.

The stoney man nodded and stood next to the abandoned husband without questions. Artemis pointed at the floor, telling the less-than-worried husband that he needed to lay upon the floor to leave. The vain man seemed to assume he was to be disassembled and reassembled by magic, and he laid down on the floor upon his belly in his eagerness to leave. Unconcerned that a stranger had assumingly kidnapped his daughter. Artemis giggled in the direction of her friend, waving at the old man planking the floor-- left in utter disbelief to the foolery of such a large rug-of-a-person. “Im’a need you turn over, so this nice gentleman can carry you out dude.” The pebble covered his chuckle, and readied his wrists with a few cracks--preparing for legitmate physical labor. His ability to carry a smile was his only super power that supercedied his ability to hold up the world. He and the Warrior Pete--both had smiles that could easily win an election.

Artemis had given him the nickname “The Pebble” for this reason, as the kind man held the clod of a planet steady and guided it through space and time. The man scooped up the non-present husband from the floor, and the two women exchanged glances and muffled fits of laughter--as the pair was left standing there, resembling a dashing wedded couple. The Pebble turned to leave the void, husband in hand, and asked for direction as to where Artemis wanted him to be placed. Artemis stood in thought for a moment, and kindly replied to his question “I think we need to separate the awful couple.” The man smiled and nodded with understanding, “so you need them on two different planes of existence?”, and Artemis corrected him with urgency. She laughed to herself for having forgot of his might and ability, and placed her hands out to halt him from leaving. “No, I mean...for whenever they’re interrogated.” A meaningless response for the man, but he shrugged and accepted it without question. He seemed unaware that the man in his arms smiling was a desperate father...listless in his supposed woe.

Artemis knew the man would know she had meant when the time came, and so she placed a piece of milk-soaked pineapple in each of their mouths--and allowed for him to leave the non-void on his quest. Artemis set her intentions to guide them to wherever they had originally wandered from, reminding the Pebble of the time they had a Chief that stole from the citizens. Attaining countless “patriotic blowjobs”, as Artemis called them, and using public offices to keep his libido fed. The cheerful boyish leader that was famous for being a cheating piece of shit, and for having taken daliences on an island that belonged to Jeffery. Jizzing on a young female intern--had only been the tip of his perverted iceberg. Artemis wondered why the dead-eyed savages praised such lewd behavior, pondering if the same leeway would be given to a woman Chief. She doubted the integrity of the citizens on whole, knowing full-and-well: that those with ovaries would most likely never be able to meet the “high standards”, of those that completed a successful election.

Artemis turned to see the last Siren standing in the room alone. A woman she resented. She reminded her of Athena in a way that made Artemis thankful that her niece had been born second. The strange Siren walked up to the women and began to huff and pout by their inability to fawn over her famed power. Artemis didn’t give platforms for mothers that probably killed their infants, and so she muted her expression from the situation. The woman became unaware, and began pitching them an idea for a story to be displayed in the stalls of moving horses. She attempted to describe a story of a woman that was torn between three men that loved her, and parents with control issues. Artemis interrupted her bullshit to ask a question. “Where is Caylee!?” The concerned mother began stripping and etching "a beautiful life" into her skin with painted talons. Such were the normalized reactions to a missing toddler--a parent drowning in independence and scripted "woe".

The childish, childless woman began to lose patients for her audience and both of their confused stares, as she attempted to continue on with her squalish presentation. Artemis didn’t have time for her pale lies and lack of accountability. She grew angry with the young mother that attempted to act as though her child hadn’t been found cold, and bound in bags, left submerged in shallow woods. Artemis saw the woman was in a sort of manic trance, practicing her pitch for anyone that wasn’t there at that exact moment. Artemis giggled to herself, and began to etch a circle upon her forearm, a strange logo of a fox, set aflame. She said to the dreadful mother, “I’m sorry you chose to have a child.”: weeping red for the child that had been sacrificed a day following Artemis’s birthday. It was forever a week filled with neglectful parenting, and the burden of unprotected lives left at the mercy of such selfish drunken woe.

The woman glared at Artemis--holding her head high and arrogant in a way that resembled Athena. She began to ask her invisible audience if they knew how many dates she had missed, how many kisses she had lost out on, and attempted to convince them that her “missing” daughter had been the reason she was unable to hold trade or occupation. Artemis put out her hand in objection to her fantasy world. She said “This Bitch." explaining the events to her quiet friend in context "One: I don’t know why these men keep coming to you, I’m going to assume you’re good at sucking dick from what I hear from Jose. Two: You should be blessed you had a beautiful and healthy child born to you, how was she not enough to deserve a life of her own? Three: You’re a fucking idiot. You are not tied to that one place, move somewhere--anywhere, that they won’t recognize your basic-ass looking face lady. Four: you’ve never worked a year in your pathetic life. You literally spent thirty days getting sloshed and fucking a random guy--instead of looking for your “missing daughter” Caylee." The childish woman had met her match, because Artemis had gone head on against Athena a thousand times before--listening to Artemis “run the show”. Unlike then, this mother was enabled by her parents...freed at the hand of a jury, conflicted by their own verdict and a tiresome internal election.

She had enough of these assholes killing and raping children for fun. Artemis had grown weary of this woman--acting like the title mother meant anything to her other than self-recognition. The immature woman had learned it from her parents...no doubt, but a twenty-four month old child had been sacrificed on their behalf. Such were Traditions of the pale invaders. Parents attempting to steal grandchildren, and parents murdering or neglecting their children in jealous spite to the youthful love between elders and the young. Artemis didn’t care if the grandparents had pushed the mother to murder--all that mattered was a child was slain and her body left to decompose and be torn to pieces by hungry animals walking by. A grandfather distracted by an affair, a grandmother distracted by her disappointment for her daughter. Such a tragic tale, with only the forgotten victim being harmed by a loser female and her made-up woe.

The grandmother had spoken such hateful rhetoric in front of the world, and it allowed the world to decide that the pathological untruthful mother to be unanimously crowned as “The most hated woman in the country.” The mother would be free to walk and exist with her new "beautiful" second life without remorse. Artemis hated the woman for her ability to complain of her “situation”. Athena had the same sort of overbearing authority--as if you owed her something for the right to even stand in the same vicinity. Unlike Athena--this random bitch never shut the fuck up. Something that was strange and foreign to Artemis. She held her hand up with patience, and finally ended the Siren casting feeble spells in the direction of anyone that’d listen. “I don’t like your mother either, but that’s no reason to lose your shit and forget to do your job.” She’d always be crowned mom of the year, with a sarcastic tone and without the need for a public election.

The stray agreement to her shitty opinion confused the mother with a slain baby. “I’m sorry your mother forced you to let her hold Caylee right after she had been born. That’s some fucked up steam-roller sociopath mother, type of move.” Even Artemis knew there were unspoken formalities to childbirth and proper handling of a mother being gifted with her own child. Artemis forgave the woman for the beaming murder dancing behind her eyes, as there were plenty of people that had children when they shouldn’t have. Artemis furthered her point, “I’m sorry your mother shut you down when you suggested adoption, it should have been your choice.” Such were the worries of the snowflakes that drifted along the penis shaped landmass and worried more about reputation than the wellbeing of others. There was no way Caylee could’ve existed safely in a world of such disgustingly avoidable woe.

Artemis had wanted to save all those she could, but hated the helplessness she saw whenever it pertained to missing or dead children. She attached a small heart shaped detail upon her forearm for safekeeping. Artemis apologized to the young mother again, “I’m sorry your family is awful, but that’s no excuse to be a shit person." Something she had learned by allowing others to influence her in the past... a trait earned the difficult way, and begrudgingly avoided thinking aboot on occassion. She’d been kicked off Olympus for her wicked heart, apathetic actions and holding herself as the judge, jury and prosecutor over a random Plebeian without authoritative election.

Artemis awoke standing alone with vomit on her shirt, she had run out of her medicine for the night, and opted for a barrel of loaded cider. She raised the glass horn to her lips with glutinous joy and giggled to herself that her binding curses were witty and serene. Artemis hadn’t the luxury to misstep in her meticulously crafted life. She woke up afraid, standing alone and mildly angry that someone had vomited in her bathroom. Such were the luxurious traits of a woman struggling to grapple with the finalization of a huge chapter in her life. She was celebrating life, her spriteful legs, her ability to care. In reality: Artemis was a lost woman, evading an office of mental health and the dire impact of her degerative medical woe.

Artemis awoke and told Mel of her new found shame, and conflict in not feeling shame over her actions. Mel hugged her with words, and affirmed that Artemis had a drinking problem that needed to be kept at bay everyday. They gathered their tones and confidence from one another, and Artemis expressed her desire in healing herself from the disease that often left her running for her life in violent dreams. She began expressing a desire to write a book for the sake of excellence, and rationality to the meaningless that was her uphill battle with life. Artemis began informing friends and family of a man she loved and longed to change for--believing that his absence may be explainable within a time period marked by her uncanny ability to forget. His distrust of her choices was probably warranted through a different experience with her sloshed woe.

Had she forgotten that loving someone takes work? It was as taxing as the issue of her bevvy consumption. Artemis forgot to care for herself, and occasionally slipped-up. She awoke panicked that she had left her home and walked into the street--just as her dream showed a moment walking through the rain and past chariots whizzing by. Artemis needed boundaries and discipline in her life, and her mistake held the opportunity to make or break her life. She informed Mel that it was embarrassing and scary to lose track of time--not caring if she had only paid bills and investigated crime: preparing for her life to crumble just in case. Artemis gathered her information, how long had she been awake? Things tracible like the placement of keys and shoes were all that was left of a night forgotten. The real worries of a truly awful person, discombobulated by time management, angered by chunks of missing time, and a loaded bottle labeled: “woes”.

It had been any other day--Artemis was tired, and determined to appreciate all the hard work she had done throughout the day. She hadn’t needed to smile wickedly or be with saddened lack of gazes. She had woken up, and spoke softly to herself in the mirror. Explaining her name, and the fact she was an alcoholic. Allowing herself to be embarrassed by the genetic defect, and disgruntled that her life would be dedicated to righting all the many, many wrongs she had committed with the forgivable excuse of intoxication. She had done so many things to hurt people--so many horrible and harmful things. How long had she been this miserable? Artemis had lied to herself in a million different ways, and wondered why everyone had left her abandoned with her reflection at the end of the day. Artemis was a flower to gaze upon, a statue to be marveled and tucked away before bed. She was a muse to the people, and a wonder to peer over when she laid out vulnerable to a world prepared to take advantage of her unmended woe.

Artemis had gone to work, cured a hangover that refused to quit and leveled her life out with the aid of a fermented tea. She was proud of herself for having sent communications to the Kind-Hearted Hunters, and admitted to her past deviance struggling to hide her battles with fermented grapes and fine elixirs. Artemis pressed upon the matter that she needed to differentiate her troubles with pharmaceuticals, as she wasn’t sure why the words seemed coarse rolling over her tongue. She asked her family if that meant she had deserved all the things that were happening to her, and the notion was appalling to say the least. The tone in which Artemis needed to hear, as a woman called Hera had once told her that she didn’t deserve the water her body required, the food her mind begged for, or even the sleep she had openly wished for. Her loved ones condemened such abuse, and took it upon themselves to better placate the blame for her current woe.

At the end of the day, Artemis had only started being an asshole after things were impacted by sleep deprivation. She asked that they help in understanding herself-- because she had lost a vast amount of time, and realized she had been afraid of the mirror for whatever reason. She wept in humiliation as to what she had done to her body, her life, and asked why she was so self destructive when her life was finally getting to be what she wanted it to be. She had been reassured that the disease was common, and it was no less impulsive to those suffering from any other severe infliction. As they went over the list of gluttonous diseases: Artemis caught her eye striking in the direction of the Boar. A head of valor trophy she intended to mount upon her wall alongside a pair of milked antlers. Artemis had completed the decorations that polished off the entirety of her room, her home for the time being...a place filled with the realization of the true toll of intergenerational woe.

Artemis had reached her wits end as to what to with herself. She had a beautiful dream that she was pregnant and unaware. Even in deep slumbar she was afraid that an unstable ex would return to beat her into submission with the endless anger he felt knowing she had moved on. He was out there in the world, being a psycho with rage that hadn’t a name. Artemis called a man named Watts to the non-void to help her case. The man was average beyond belief, but he’d decided to create a mental illness to veil the murder of his wife and kids. He called it a Herculean rage, but he’d taken a break between blackouts. Choking his wife and slaughtering his three children. Not even the pregnancy of his first son could keep his trousers on, and the man gained notoriety for wasting time and efforts in the search. He smiled to the world--telling them he needed them back. Demanding them to return in order to end his woe.

He attempted to persuade the world that he had been possessed by an evil spirit, and Artemis allowed his truth to be so. Naming the spirit Watts no matter he went in the known universe. He had a short facade that fell apart upon the slightest wind. She handed him a portrait of his slain family, wondering why he had needed them dead in order to survive in the world. The man had a short-lived career of flirtatious audiences, and an even shorter trial--but at the end of the day he was never to be haunted enough by his crimes to beg for the penalty of death. Such were the neglectful struggles of the average citizen, burdened by privilege and good health. Too selfish and narcissistic to reclassify what was considered detrimental woes.

The girl sitting silently began to smirk at his story, and laughed at the notion that Artemis was making a valid point. Artemis corrected her tone, and asked “where is your kid?”: needing to file a report of a crime. She was hungover, estranged from herself, attempting to mull over events as to what she had done the night before: worried that her life was going to be over upon returning to work. Artemis was fed up, and tired of everyone being right on the topic of her being the worst. Maybe she was, and the previous night could serve as proof that Artemis had an issue with rational thinking. She was afraid that everything would be gone when she awoke, her job, her reputation, her wealth, her living situation. The fear of drafting up a whole new path by the whim of saddness she burrowed away for good reason, had been dug up from its shallow grave. There was no way to explain away her sullen self-serving woe.

Artemis had needed to learn that lesson by risking it all in one night, and she lived with the precautions that followed those actions. Artemis blurted out “I think I have a substance problem!” wondering what the woman thought she had been contemplating over. The immature mother stubled in mid-conversation and fell-back in her manner of defensiveness, hoping to mix in with her non-existant audience. Boasting of her motherhood, and explaining that she had to pick up her child from the nanny--Zanny. Artemis left the non-void and returned with a small fist landing upon the face of the smirking mother. She had seen the lead placed on tiral had been a poor stranger that lost her job, reputation, and finances over a selfish, baseless lie. “Are you fucking kidding me?”, Artemis hated this lady and needed her voice to express how wrongly the lady rubbed her. It was the worst qualities of Athena, without the family obligation wrapped into one ugly woman. Artemis continued on her journey--sending her back in time to wear such crimes upon a forehead. The world could stand as their jury, and watch all the beasts involved repeating their crimes with mannequins, blinded by Artemis’s magic--veiled by their own selfish woes.

Artemis had called it any other day, as her book had been written in fragments, scattered like the stars dusting over the blackness they called space. She had called home to say that something in her body was off, not wrong, but not like everyone else’s. She was tired of being embarrassed by her actions, afraid of her own words, and unapologetic to what that meant for her life: holding the draining title of drunk, or sloshed was the toughest part of her life. Artemis lived in the fear of her need to be ashamed, and worried that pain was soon to follow her wickedness. She was asked if she had tried hanging out with people in her free time, and Artemis felt relief in the good news that she got along with those she worked with. Implying curiosity to the notion that the Kind-Hearted Hunters had meet the worst version of her. Then later mentioned the same things to others around her. She had wished for them to become friends, an odd aspiration for grown people, but needed such labels for her to value herself. She had wanted to earn the respect of those she worked alongside, and she felt ashamed that she was nervous in losing her job over a drunken loss of six hours. She said “I’m tired of having to backtrack whatever I did, and I’m sorry for whatever I may have said or done to the undeserving people that just happened to exist in my world”. Artemis was reminded by her family that she was loved unconditionally, forever a part of their home and sharing the burden of healing her woes.

Artemis lived enslaved to a thoughts of suicide and pain. Even upright and tall...she was a monster. She had reached for cans and bottles, even in her most hungover of days. It had given her the chance to care about her life, but in a way that was dangerous. Such things had come to an end the night before, the reckless binges taking a toll on her confidence and creativity. She said to her friend "I think I’m a loser, and that’s why I drink. At least if I’m a drunk, it would explain why nobody wants to be around me. Maybe my parents saw me as a baby and thought to themselves "that’s an alcoholic, it’s no good--just throw the whole human away.", or something along those apathetic lines. "Maybe I am the worst, and I’ve just been denial. Either way, my parents threw me away like a bag of rubbish." Such words made her sick to hold inside her whole life. The accumulation of shitty feeling and shame had forced Artemis to seek out criminals in the future, and further gain some sort of value from the life that she felt was riddled with planted woes.

Artemis had ripped out her own heart to keep the Mechanical Boar from seeing her weaknesses. She began to leave her intentions splayed open to the public. The realignment of her heart was encouraged, as citizens shared their stories of public drowning, and begged Artemis to forgive herself. They seemed astounded that her grin hid such turmoil and self-sabatoge. Artemis hadn’t ever let anyone see that side of her, and it bothered her to know the public cared about her self-forgiveness--more than Orion ever had. The intemperance of their empathy was proof of a large hand grasping her throat: the loaded weapon to her head. Artemis had used the phrase a lot in reference to what was now apparent to be a bottle, but she had waited to tell her readers that it had been a loaded weapon of a more tragic caliber. She was unsure if time could heal such a beautiful woe.

Her life could be defined by the sobering action of a leather braided belt and a single chair. A random day where she had walked away and said nothing, because it was easier than asking Orion to care. Artemis had needed the reminder that her depression and alcoholism were of equal importance to who she was, and so she placed them in a single poem. Artemis required for her simulation to be completed in late stages of pregnancy, as a calm and angered woman: A person left facing the music with nothing to lose and everything to gain. She had developed a technological game: dripping with danger. The circuitous epiphany fulfilled by pouring out a basin: she’d be overwhelmed by the bottomless quenching thirst brought on by the emotional basin, as it was a tool in proving her denial of a substance issue that inevitably flow over its smooth rounded edges on any given day. Artemis knew that her time pretending that she didn’t have an issue with bevvy and drank was over, as her life displayed that of loneliness and endless woe.

One day a woman with blonde hair appeared crouching before her: claiming that her name was Erin, and priding herself on her ability to Tinker with fate. She told Artemis of a horrific story of a mother that had boasted of a nanny Zanny, and the meaning of such mild descriptors where often meaningless to her in scale to a story of slain child. Artemis wandered off and asked her niece of the meaning of the mystery skewed in fabled lingo. The youth-- being the risk seekers they are...always seemed to knew the code names for such salacious things. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Artemis hated the updates to the story...she disliked the mother in every timeline. She had so many worsening feelings, and wondered why she needed dreams of sprinting towards Orion to ease her mind. Artemis promised herself that she would take care of her body, forgiving herself for past issues in understanding the fragile nature of the squishiness in being mortal. She was a ball of moosh, held to a frame made of calcium and packed in by way of spinning and gravity. Artemis told the woman with golden hair, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, please...where were we?”--needing the woman to continue on with her pieces of evidence that couteracted a story of unsolved woe.

The lady continued her story on those that were "voluntarily missing". Artemis settled herself along a fire, and listened to the gruesome details of a true story filled with neglect and despair. The woman seemed to have memory issues, as she began to glitch and awaken in the void with Artemis through a series of trembles and hard blinks. The temporary spell was broken, and Artemis used the opportunity to hug the woman: stating that she had accidentally glared in the direction of her arrival during a violent dream filled with an endless hallway and red doors. She clutched to the stranger that held horrific stories uneding, and explained that her family had been frantically looking for her. Artemis had left the door open for others to Boson jump as needed, but occasionally randoms found the cursed door that was hidden away in the corners of her subconscious mind. It had necessitated that Artemis repeat history, killing an innocent person in her spiteful distraction and repressed woes.

Had this been what the readers had wanted from her the whole time? Had the audience gotten jollies from watching suffering or hurt in another human--out of boredom or lack of self-importance? She knew they’d forgotten the challange ahead...one daring the reader to drink, each time she held a weapon to her head. Artemis felt indifferent to the citizens, as they thrust themselves in her view and occasionally forgot the usually positioning of simplye things like their arms or the placement of their authentic smiles in her presence. She had sensed a bigger brother using her suffering as a form of sick entertainment--unveiled by the pathetic public suppressing emerging grins and glances. Artemis gifted herself with her favorite meal, telling herself that tomorrow was going to be better because she knew sobriety would be the only way to untangle her anguish and dampening woes.

Artemis attempted to track the chastened woman: cursed with spell of static and flitting memory, but caught up to with the delapidated individual just in time to hear her last words. “We’re in the Matrix...It’s all a game, a thought experiment.” The calamitious words of a true optimist. Nihilism had ruptured a fracture that separated worlds. Artemis explained the unrelenting guilt that festered for accidently have cursed the puctilios woman with her gaze. The woman had fallen under the spell of covetous: seeking answers too complex for modern man, and having stolen a shield that belonged to Artemis in the non-zero. The woman lay unaplogetic in her arms, and pendantic for solutions as to her fate: “You’re from the future?” The woman seemed puzzled by the dates stamped on portraits, and the mere notion of chariots driving themselves, but sedulous in displaying her rollick of such a fasinating future. Artemis slipped a grin and sly giggle...saying “yeah.” in a way that expressed ardent excitement that the woman had found her and uncovered her fretful woe.

Artemis used their limited time to explain that she had died paying the exorbitant price for her sordid life. She had been meek and drowned on hatred of being deem piteous. Her older sister Athena had found the words to be impactful, and crafted a digital space where her memory could live on: needing a lost sibling to be remembered for more than having lived ignominiously. "She sounds like a really good big sister". The woman had found Artemis attempting to make sense of their shared fate, and halted her tears by admitting their assiduous love for life. Artemis was indifferent to the things that she couldn’t change, permacious to the belief that another sibling was on the hunt for her life...she assumed Athena had crafted the simulation as an apology for her absence, as a mortifying apology for having let Dianne slaughter a younger sibling--for repentance to misdeeds of forelorn and woe.

Artemis recalled how the shrewish sibling had made light of the topic of her substace abuse issue, and felt mild relief as the woman discarded her for being recalcitrant in projecting an image of prefection. Dianne had made countless jokes aboot denial not just being a River in Egypt since Artemis was a kid, but none had felt more suiting. Artemis felt brave in recounting her conversations reporting the ruinious child abuse she had survived at the hand of Dianne. Her spine was collapsing under the weight of all the inglorious guilt that came with struggling alone in the dark--she were always sprinting down the same hallway and attempting to seize a handle of a door dripping with blood. At the end of the day....there was no one that had heard Artemis pleading for her life, and needing to shake of her paranoia-filled woe.

Artemis accepted that her choleric attitude was cast at anyone that stood in the way, and welcomed those that greeted her past one-dimensional questions. She longed for people to understand the depths of her reflection that bore an image of diffident and demure kind-heartedness. A woman that now let herself hear the pleas of those she love, and proud that they had finally helped her label the pain that had once made her insufferable. A pain they called hurt. Artemis bore the title: Shameless in her actions. Dianne labeled: Relentless in her desires. Athena: Ruthless in her existence. This lie had made Artemis begin to laugh to herself, so much so, that one day it boiled over, and became a tick. A tick that stood as a valent reminder that she needed to question the present and fight to remain alive, or die as a shameful waste of human. Family had reminded her that the disease was going to be forever, and that she needn’t worry that judgement would fall like a wrath at any moment. Artemis had decided that she was definitely too cool to die of drunk asphyxiation, and she now cared what people think. Such were the words of a lost wife, a woman with plenty to lose, and nothing to gain from allowing a weapon to her head to stop her from making a better life. Artemis now had the dream of creating a nest, a place to hide away and tend to her sobering woe.

The girl standing in her cave could see the static and fire, for having been trauma’d into believing. Artemis told her how she had once challenged herself to hold up twelve bridges, and taken knee and seizures in return. The citizens now tore apart the city, looting and protesting by night, and quarantining by day. Artemis had wanted to create a cycle of fidelity, by replicating the decor in her flat, and writing a book in her “free time”. She forgot her past struggles with addiction and shameful bouts of tempting fate. She was cursed with insecurities and a large ego, amplified struggles in drinking had meant she was possibly "the worst" kind of person. It had made her sad enough to try and hurt herself and eventually write a book. Artemis asked what year she came from to distract from her moseying thoughts, and sought relief. Wondering why her first thought had gone straight to a Princess with a revengeful black dress, and not to her immediate family connections. Artemis had only questioned a few things, here and there--but allowed the mystery of such true crimes to bring a wicked twinkle to her eye. Artemis had loved the judicial system more than she loved her woes.

Artemis held a weapon to her head once more, her laughter being a catalyst for a calm gesture to a woman in dire situations. She needed Orion to understand that she was unexplainably apologetic for the things she had done to demean herself, or allowed to happen to question her own worth. Orion didn’t seem to always grasp the severity of his role in her life, and no band of gold or silver could change that. Artemis had no qualms with lying to Orion, and so she lied about the shape of a weapon. She said “It’s no different to how my brain operates”, and when he heard stories of what she had done to "their reputation: he, himself, would have to hand her the loaded weapon. She had needed proof of his hatred towards her, and he had easily handed her a belt in response to a few encounters and the decision in resenting her anguished woe.

Artemis felt her hands tremble, the tightening leather felt warm and familiar to her, like a returning lover. She held it, and felt its comfort to resemble the ivory keys guiding her words. Artemis raised the loaded weapon to head, knowing she was close enough to term to pass along her echoes. A word she had used for her children. Each winter being a blessing, as long as the woman resisted from raising her arm and pulling the beloved weapon to her head. Such harsh and scary words were those found in pregnancy. Her calmness was a wonder to see, a fucking nightmare for any male with maternal instincts--or an excited person forgetting that a human vessel held its own personhood...their own woes.

Artemis had forgotten that she had drunk a lot in her younger years, and felt bruised in admitting that she had an issue with a liquid that reminded her of the lush Hera. That woman didn’t drink a lot, but she had a reputation for being unpleasant. Such were the standards of any drunk, and so Artemis thought little-to-nothing of the gossip. Now, she had wondered if she had been suffering from withdrawals, unable to do as she pleased with children present. Artemis now knew that you could drink spracely, but all it took was the one bad mixture, the wrong sip, and a life could be detrimentally rearranged. It was not a risk she was willing or wanting to take. For the value of her name--a second chance she had been given, and the welcoming arms of all those she loved and respected were waiting for her at the door. Artemis watched as they flooded in, having traveled far to listen as she admitted to a fixable problem with drinking. She began finally stitching her words together and weeping as though she had long awaited this welcoming home. It promised her a night of well-deserved rest from a lifetime of relentless and unforgiving woes.

Artemis had wished for a wedding dress earlier that day, having envy in seeing a blushing bride earlier that day. She was in no postion to marry Orion, as she hadn’t yet learned to take accountablity for herself yet. That had all changed today. Artemis found her heart lighter, her stomach aching, and strange feeling that everything was going to be alright. She had been blessed with a dream of a stranger: an amused man with a charm and unforgetable laughter. He had stepped into her life: begging her put the weapons down from afar, and making light that her actions could be defined as the Mood of the Day. He had found her through tethers of static that bound them together: seeking solace and silently burning stages down with the charisma that masked his woes.

She had woken up ready to live, and sorrowful for whatever she had done to push whatever opportunity stood awaiting past her door. A coma had been what she recieved in favor to her cowardace attempt to prematurly exit to life. Artemis had gotten lost in her love for love, and forgotten that her orphaned house wasn’t quite a home. She had learned to love herself, and forgot that Orion had once almost destroyed her with the ammunition of her own woes.

She had given her everything to a man that cared more of his public image, than the health of those around him. Artemis had only needed his love, and her love could never be enough. One day--she had felt the absence of Orion, and the weapon in her hand had gone off, and Artemis was shot in the temple...resuscitated and sent back into battle. She wondered what she really looked like, or if it had been just a beautifully crafted dream. Artemis hid away her poetic love for holding a loaded weapon to her head. There hadn’t been any room in Orions life for her to even mention the past she hid away behind a kind smile. He could fucking care less about her orphaned woes.

Artemis had trade and occupation of a technician in the past. She had learned how to take a step back and assess a situation or problem. She had wanted to be skilled in judgement and diagnosis, and her drinking issue was easily solvable to the common eye. Artemis had needed the world to see her pain, what they had done to her--and so she blindsided her husband, by forcing him to be outside of their simulation for a short duration. She hadn’t any idea that there was a possibility that he wasn’t Orion. He had arrived to see his pregnant wife laughing and weeping to herself, as she held up a loaded weapon to her head. Artemis had wanted a refresher course on adulting one-o-one. Artemis had needed his eyes to scan the words she had crafted, the suffering that weighed heavily in every breath. Artemis had a fear Orion would divorce her one day, happy with his heir, but bored with her--spiteful even. He’d probably want to leave her, with no next move, but knowing he hated her enough not to be her husband anymore. Artemis hadn’t wanted to get married in the first place, knowing that the embarrassment of giving back his last name meant their love story was forever over. She had used a simulation to present a solution to his dispariging married woes.

Artemis had communicated with Dianne earlier that day, needing her to see that she was changed--truthful even. They were starting a book club, as to relate to their spooky niece, and Artemis was excited to see that tea parties were still fashionable, and ready to buckle down and draw up ties and tethers to monsters and awful people alike. Artemis was tired of pushing people away for sake of Tradition or cultural norms. It would be her non-Indigenous Warrior friends, a crew of overworked and underworked: trying to keep three ships afloat. They would say things like “Thank you for doing that”, or “You’re doing great.” Artemis felt shy in knowing that she had finally understood that respect meant starting with herself, as she was sober enough to care. She dampened the wifts of smoke that stuck in her hair, holding it for the evenings and her creative time. Artemis needed to need her beloved plant: it helped her forget the sorrow she felt in knowing she was an orphan born in a world that praised laughing at strangers. She would never be seen as more than the barf that had once laid upon her chest to them, the ugly side effect of their dreams. The manifestation of all they had desired her to be. The drunk Indigenous Warrior, chased off with hecklers yelling “go back to the Rez”, capturing her portrait and cursing their families. Artemis had no other way of explaining to her readers--the importance of their impact upon her life, their influence in dictating a weapon guided by the unending paranoia of strangers flapping fat hands and attempting to not look in her direction. She had felt ever snicker, every false burst of laughter, the staged joy of unpaid fame seekers...each forced conversation by strangers attempting to be comfortable in her highly speculated life. For this, she set forth with a cloud of Avien in her winds: walking her readers home and away from her woes.

Artemis told her new friend how she had fucked up along the way and lost her husband somewhere in the chaos, crying for the strange man she felt the need to love him--without assurance of equity. Who could love a woman so used and defeated by the world? Obviously not Orion, by the looks of his absence. Artemis had needed clarity in appreciating all that she had worked for...all the goals she still wanted to achieve. She needed to move aside from herself, to make way for the person she had wanted to become. The non-void held her captive every night to repent for her sins. Stealing sleep, and replacing it with tasks and chores. Artemis told the girl of how she had needed sleep, but alas it was without replenishing qualities. The girl saw she had begun to doze off in her story, eyes heavy from tears and shame. The girl picked up the sleeping goddess, smiling that she was comfortable enough to sleepover in her non-void. She decided to carry her to the ledge and dump her off in the past to recount her orphan woes.

Artemis had seen the citizens hit their own children, starve their own relatives, molest the innocent. Artemis had seen all they had to offer--and wondered why the pedo uncle was valued higher than the raped child. Artemis glared at her readers, why had they laughed? Had her anguish not been embarrassing to them? They had called her brave. She had “survived the worst”, and now she had “earned” the dream they often belittled. Her skin was still fucking brown at the end of this sentence. Her finger twitching each time she laughed, her tick was stronger than anything they had known about. Artemis shrugged and said “I know, I thought you guys were joking about me being an alcoholic, and I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself.” She had once had a tick that she called Trichotillomania, but she had tossed it aside in boredom, a weird scientific feat she wasn’t sure who to report to. Artemis felt out of sorts without a tick, and so she picked up a loaded weapon and held it to her head. She had forgotten she had crafted the gesture in a drunken stupor, and how frequently she thought of the second plan that lay hidden away from the world. The world wasn’t ready for her particular brand of woe.

The story had left her husband and his “best friend” to read aloud, and soberly observe a pregnant Artemis holding a loaded weapon to her head. Artemis had stood outside her own door and said "please come home, I’m an alcholic and I’m really sorry." Her rapid tears were honest and the stranger passing by had confirmed that she was ashamed and truthful. Orion had moved aside to make way for a man in white linens. He would later blame the sitution on Artemis--as he’d deem the sitution unfair and suggest that she was to blame for his bachelor woes.

Artemis had realized that the words he held were hollow, without pride or caring tone. His "female friend" that had always haunted their early attempts at romance lured in every corner. Orion was kept in her life for status and symbol, and she had deemed that Artemis was just another “thing in his way” very early on. Artemis had invited him to return to her side, and he objected in fear of confrontation. “I told you that you can’t fix this”. Artemis wondered why Orion hadn’t heard her whenever explaining the struggles of keeping her drinking in check. So much so, that she dedicated a whole fucking book and crafted an elaborate game, that reminded them of the tribulations she’d overcome to dispell a lifetime of woes.

Artemis was thrilled to sleep off her shame and worry, knowing that she was ready to put in the work and see what life she had been missing. admiring the thoughts of what one more day to collect her thoughts could do, and how many emotions would Hard Carry her career and correct all that she had wronged. Artemis had known her voice wasn’t her own after her friend Sydney made light of her own blue eyes. She had been born different too-- her eyes blue and her skin dark, her ears without. Artemis had heard her make a joke of being deaf as result to her beautiful eyes, and wishing to rather have hearing lightly, and the fairness in her voice gave Artemis a familiar comfort. Her name itself--had made her curious, as Artemis already had a Syds. She spectulated if her perfectly punctuated voice was by chance, or how she had rounded it out so naturally. Artemis knew holding a weapon to her head would save the taxpayers, as they complained of assisting her community, skirting a categorized race as an inconvenience unless they required a mascot. Artemis hadn’t the efforts to argue with the uneducated, and so she settled on holding up a weapon to her head. Artemis wondered how many times she had thought of the open beverage in her icebox. A reminder of the mistakes she didn’t care to repeat. Artemis went to bed...smiling, and knowing that her husband and his friend would read the fresh ink aloud the second it began to dry. Her smile was warranted, but no longer if he had decided to be absent in her life. She had yet to meet the man strong enough to barge past a static door, and drag her away from her limitless woes.

Instead of providing her with redicule and absnece, he’d lead her down an aisle. Both men at her door had best men that wore skirts, as one would be a cunt-of-a-woman, that tore away the dress of a bride and the other was a fasionable man that just liked flashing his fashionable long limbs. Both best men had proded their groom at her door. One was adored by the public, and the other was detested...almost like a woman attempting to steal a wedding, or blackmail a man into submission by way of demoralizing cruelity. She wore a shredded dress without the magical ta-tas to lead a groom. The tall woman spent half her day with straps askew and her breast exposed. Heaven forbid she let Orion make his own choices--vile in her efforts to be included in his long-term goals and plans to start a family and home. The other groomsman had only missed his best friend, and grew worried in seeing Artemis fall to a spell of her buried woes.

Such were the woes of a woman forgetting to tend to her drinking problem. Artemis needed the validation from Orion, that her presence was valid, and that she was valued as a person. Instead she was gifted with a formidible partner. Artemis had wanted to hurt him, and she knew that him walking in on her standing proud and pregnant would be too much. Correction: seeing Artemis hurting and holding a weapon to her head, would serve to be too much. He had wanted proof that she were too broken to find love. Artemis had lived in a world where she had let him use his old friendship with a female from the North--to overshadow anything that resembled himself. She hadn’t cared, and curtly knew that Orion would marry ten randoms before he settled for her, as the strange friendship was often too uncomfortable for even her to witness. She took lesson from their friendship and his absence, and gave him the last birthday present he’d ever need. Artemis wished him good luck, and blocked him from communications as a gift: suggesting that his snarling female friend was now in charge of his unpleasant woes.

She assumed their sex had been like an exotic sighting of two drunk long-necked beasts--spotted gangling and somehow, dryly methodical. She would just shrug her shoulders and laugh, walking away at times in discomfort to their friendship and hiding tears in her eyes. Artemis had taken up the habit of secretly associating the third party in their marriage as the weapon that Orion held to her head. Such were the buried words of a woman scorned by abuse, forgotten by a man that assumed he had earned the role of husband. Is it madness if the precedent was set? Is it a crime if it was done in order to escape a horrific crime? Had Artemis expected that Orion would have no issue holding a weapon to her head? Such were the sincere beginning questions of a woman afraid of the man she had once wished to marry--a vulnerable girl that had found out her flaws and diseases. Artemis had needed Orion to hand her back the loaded weapon...if only to prove her point in one fucking story. Artemis held the weapon to her head and sighed, pleading with her eyes, as she avoided looking at him: wanting only for him to come home and realizing that he took sadistic pleasure in causing her mounting worry and woes.

The box was forever unopened and open to the women trapped inside, lost in their scorn and helplessness. The blonde woman named Erin had seen Artemis sleeping in all her petite glory, and wondered why she felt so much of the pain meant for others. Artemis needed to guard her tender heart more than she needed to guard her body, and the voiceless girl had needed her to value both. She gifted Artemis with sleep, and ask that she work on forgiving herself. Artemis needed to hear the words said aloud, and she needed them to be meant whole heartedly. The girl wished her goodbye, erased her memory, and lightly tossed her over the side of their void once more. She smiled wickedly, at the slight idea of Artemis waking up in shock of the event of haphazardly falling through the night sky. She had the courage to guard the post alone, and took fondness in the idea of freeing Artemis from her endless agony, whilst simultaneously reconciling generations of woes.

Such were the irking nuisances of women scorned by rejection or love. Artemis hadn’t cared until the realization that Orion felt too far from her embrace, and she had never been so afraid of herself. Not of being by herself--but of the idea that it was probably scary to love a woman that loved so passionately, and feared so heavily. Artemis didn’t deserve to be the second to anyone, and she’d rather be alone than to feel alone in the embrace of a spiteful man. Without Orion’s touch and his kisses goodnight, she felt compelled to hold a loaded weapon to head. Artemis had settled on accepting her reflection, and embracing her ability to grow. Eager to meet the woman in the mirror and wanting to boast to her friend Orion--over her ability to self-identify. She had wanted to be brave enough to control the depth of scarring found on her skin--needing to coddle her own woe.

Artemis had taught her Aggies that the third time of participating in anything was considered a hobby, the intentional developing of a pattern. She now stared into a mirror, taking value in her name, and accepting the traits that a vice held less value on the third day. Not because she counted the days since her last drink, but because she drew herself into the present and created an aura of accountabilty. She knew it would be easier, just as the word hunchback now had less impact on the harsh feelings held towards herself. The words were no less true than they had been before, except now she meant it. She could speak on the topic in which her body malfunctioned in different ways. Evidently she had gotten too good at hiding how bad the situation was. She was shattered in spirit--hurting beyond anything she could explain. A woman teetering on the edge of sanity, and brilliance at all times. A dignified man, suffering from alcoholism and raising her arm in objection. A weapon pressed in the temple and tracing up to her forehead-- her snakelike calmness and Orion’s inability to enter had given way to a path that was filled with adventure and the promise of understanding her past filled with frightful woes.

Artemis had only wanted to be better than the words others used as descriptors behind her failing back: the discouraging and unhelpful words meant to topple her over. The bottle would mesmorizingly never be empty, and she would always love, and need, the gesture of holding a weapon to her head in its replacement. Artemis thought she pitied the fool that attempted to take a shot of vitriol liquid each time she raised her arm to head, and so she challenged all those that had laughed at her. To her face, on the benches they sat awkwardly upon. Artemis dared her asshole-ish, and judgemental readers to drink on her behalf...believing that she was not the soul root to all evil and chaos. Artemis had only raised a weapon to her head to keep her violence at bay, but she had heard their judgements. She stirred havoc in a single night: pleading that they dare and challenge fate trying not to die --whilst reading a seemingly endless chapter. Artemis had wanted the reader to take pity on the thirst she felt deep within her bones: wondering how many would end up waking up naked, and apologetic to themselves for having doubted her realistic woe.

Artemis was desperate in needing her magic words, because she had needed her readers to see how badly the open container in her icebox haunted her. A beautiful glass horn with an “M” etched along the rims side was forever to remain empty by choice of no body but herself. Artemis smirked because she knew her readers were little bitches--and that they didn’t need her to point out their flaws. She had chosen to edit such a lengthy chapter with the hopeful chances that they may find empathy in her fearless ability to hold a loaded weapon to her head...wondering if they could handle one fucking day in her fanciful shoes...grinning wickedly, as though she almost felt guilt for being absent the following morning. It was not a disease to partake, but a selfish illness to be shameless in the impact it had on others---on herself. To be so far removed in believing that her actions were without consequences. It was sickening to know how many times she had woken up groggy, naked, and took it upon herself to repeat the same mistakes the following day. How many would be left to repent for their actions the night before, and how many would uncover their true selves in the act of striving to understand the basin-less depth of her drunken woe?

Next Chapter: *[ XLV ] Artemis and the Viking*