It would be quite apparent--that Artemis had missed a drawn window of opportunity, looking back upon a titillating story: allowing herself to disappoint all those that came in contact with her life. She had no words to describe the depth of sheer anxiety--her innate fear of people...let alone explain the tirelessly strange spells of fainting by unwanted contact of the skin. She’d stare at people and grow concerned by the audacity and lack of boundaries afforded to a demi-goddess; awaiting for Athena to burst past the pages to lambaste discomfort in observing the world strip, shred, or pluck away at an afraid younger sibling named Artemis.

It was a stupid chemical overload of cortisol, and and exhaustion of energy-- that forced her to take naps under the false pretense of tiredness. More often than not, her brain took comfort in waking up in Athena’s arms, apologizing for the things well-past their control--chipper to be nestled in an older siblings embrace. She had hated this false-allergy as a child, it occasionally had left her stuck in a dormitory room or hyperventilating in public restrooms as an adolescent. Burning marks of dirt welted tender tissue, reminding Artemis of a juvenile sentence--hidden away from the sun and the general public, serving life: for being abandoned by two loser parents soon after birth. Such were the girlish nervousness she felt--whenever attempting to build up the courage, glancing at a reflection in a room of locked cabinets and deciding to scrub away the spoiled tissues of such; to continue a visit and bask in the confused gazes of a charmingly strange Viking.

Artemis had expected him-to help her on the mission they had started, and so she locked him up with a woman that was expected to bring forth a child named Caylee. The sacrificial lamb, ripped in two by the truth and reality. The world had loved a small toddler, more than her selfish mother could ever comprehend. Artemis knew nothing of such maternal love, but felt everything--of the worlds needed to care for children; cursed to survive upon darkened paths...dredging the storms of neglect with a head hanging low. Artemis had chosen a timeline...to prove the depths of mortal evils to a man blinded by privilege--to occupy his mind with the scattered pebbles of truth that had built up her makeshift path. He had respected her need for space, after staring at a reddening mark upon a wrist--his implemented injuries were like a bracelet; charmed by the reality of wanting to be nearer to others, but sensing that his place at her side wasn’t realistic in the slightest. Artemis had smiled-tucking away thin wrists from sight behind crossed arms, a man had fouled a shot that was left uncontested and leaving traces of unfairness with unwashed hands. Their instructor of athletics was left observing the earnings of orchestrated athletics that danced gracefully upon the professional stage of an aging Viking.

His vision had been skewed, and his antlers fixed--to announce his taller-than-average presence. He’d eventually move past a profession of wearing large horned hats--compromising with a uniform holding a crest of a strange sounding bird: yelling and delivering mail to the unprepared citizens. Artemis had cursed his vocals to display his annoyance in her absence: yelling "accidentally", whenever he was bored of the company he spoke to, or missed the strangled brow of his favorite partner in crime: Artemis.

She had admired him in ways that reformed his swift step, to include a wounded limp and garnered her ability to care aboot others and their health. Artemis often worried he was out in the world--casually yelling at strangers, and it left her with only the option of sighing: in helplessness at whatever his absence did to her heart and vice versa. She felt a guilt in the unclaimed affection over their past friendship, but smiled as the moon arose with a calm and steady hand. A gently tied-white thread proved that he and Artemis were innocent in their admiration, too shy to choose a direction in a moment where time had split into two paths. She had said "what?....and he had said nothing, admiring the views of a blushing woman--dawning a white robe, and pink shorts; holding a ponytail high in the air and unironically declaring her potential love for those holding the title of Viking.

Artemis had become indifferent to his hypercritical compliments, and often closed her eyes in disbelief. He held the keen talent of never shutting-the-fuck-up: unless there was a strange tension lingering in the air to address. He held her athleticism to the standards of an Olympian in training, and Artemis was left to barrel down the reality...that she was not. Mostly on the Mondays and Wednesdays. He’d demand that she’d pick up a morning hustle, and Artemis would waddle by--reminding the forever elderly man, that she was already in motion...and that his place in her life--without the formidable title of coach; meant he was doing too much at nine in the morning. He’d often grumble at one worded replies where Artemis threw rude comments and outstretched palms--those often unhelpfully aimed at women in his direction, as she told him to "relax." She was forever, overlooked, or deemed as too-petite: to be of value to a University that employed the Viking.

Their friendship had left her feeling pathetic and vulnerable enough to rake-up the fake courage needed to be cast center stage--riding high in ego, and earned confidence of athleticism; whenever she met Orion...years down the road. Artemis had used the opportunity to retry personality, to be subtle and more prone to boredom than she had been with the previous infatuation. The curtails of failure--had given a lessening in worry to the butterflies in the arms of Orion. His opinion to her newly mantled personality was heavily rewarded in the form of sexual aggressiveness. He had seen Artemis basking shamelessly in a few fleeting moments of glory, growling on public wooden stages....declaring a show to be painted with victory with a few words mouthing "let’s go!", gifting a paid audience with a show...holding clenched fists and an unpredictable turnaround of battle: wielded by the effortless teamwork of Yoyo and Artemis.

Her stature was larger than life--her showmanship worthy of posters and small clips of moments to be cached in the memories of the crowd. The struggles of being born an invisible citizen--had gave Artemis the courage to demand respect with the ego needed to properly take value in the gift of having a cannon for an arm. Polished at her own expense. The swirls of crowds applauding the unnoticeable: the bounty of beautiful memories had brought her a strange glow of self-assuredness. It was a great joy--to hear announcers double-check the physical stats of a woman broken down by the world...forced to call herself a potential goddess among mortals with the often forgotten and outdated name of Artemis.

Winning on courts, often meant winning Orion’s heart behind closed doors. When she aimed one-worded questions of "what?" in his direction...she was met with kisses--draped by whatever eager self-doubt lay in the unspoken silence. Artemis became easily addicted to his passionate approach, and even allowed Orion to do more risky moves that she’d usually reserved for well-developed relationships in the past. He skipped steps with ease, dragging a blushing Artemis by her wrist to a wedding chapel of an undecided location. He had wanted spectacle, and she had only needed the attendance of judge and witness in a calm marble courtroom. Artemis had nowhere to be, and so she sat patiently waiting, gleefully reminding herself of Orion’s many talents with rosey cheeks and pride: recalling his past conquests. Hoes be busy--hoe-ing. He had asked to hold a title of official partner, moving into phase one...and Artemis had sighed, afraid to bring up an ex; stalking her past territory lines...because Orion didn’t like things considered unpleasant, serious-in-nature, or un-fun. Explaining reservations in what that’d mean; in terms of excepting that his next rushed move...would probably result in the titles of husband and wife. It’d be a whole thing. Artemis had found love by taking out her sexual frustration out on Orion, and one day...he had proven his lack-of-readiness for such mature relationship statuses. Artemis held her head low, asking for him remove himself from sight, avoiding whatever conversation would pan out--if she were to place important government work aside, and admit exhaustion or heartbreak in abandoning a left-behind Viking.

Artemis had no shame in how deeply she had wanted to love Orion, but was unwilling to hold him to lesser standards--than the ones held down with a friendship that went nowhere, but spanned over years of hard work and open communication. At the end of the day: Artemis could care less about the opinion of a fuckboy, too conflicted by the missteps that she overlooked with a grey-haired man; self-blinded by a need to worry about the opinions of others and an outmoded take on romance. She daydreamed of a pleased hand grazing Orion’s beautiful tattoo, as it sprawled across an upper chest in the early morning. Artemis wondered why Orion had felt the need to have his way with her--just to leave...without a fraction of a thought to her feelings. The need for his distance was something she cared little to actually fix...since it was easier to roll over and to take the space to herself--to cut ties in moments unappreciated by Orion, and to know that there was compromised expectations; easily lowered to make due with the unspoken suffering of missing the well-cultivated friendship with the Viking.

The notion of Orion leaving her side was the least of the worries drafted in poems, upon realization of the reoccurring fatigue that echoed in the futile arguments of his flexible and unsubstantiated boundaries...laid out for only a female friend. Artemis took true worry--in observing the strange woman as she accidentally taught the authentic dangers of casting an overshadowing vote, as to what was worth being considered as "legitimate". The moment of hopelessness and defeat had allowed Artemis the opportunity to unleash a crazed and perverse Mechanical Boar loose--simply to prove a point. Orion was in blatant refusals--lost in the sauce of his own reflection, and deaf to predominant conclusion that he was nothing more than a Mark, and his female friend forever rubbing one out, as she inflicted her gross and Helli-sh personality; wasting away his entire youth while accosting and harassing anyone that he chose to care for. There was nothing to prove, outside of the reality of doing less, since mental-unwellness rarely stopped at one door...one home...and that particularly disturbing version of friendship-- didn’t really have anything to do with Artemis.

Artemis had seen the writings on the wall, and denoted the potential titles and trails that were no longer viable options. There was no love worth compromising her actual safety over, and so she cut the losses short to avoid divorce fees. Closing the lid to a golden apple--with a calmness that brought a warning of closure, and asking Orion what he thought would happen...if the title of girlfriend; didn’t fit into the agenda and skewed reality of a female friend. Artemis often treated the woman like a child, or as though dealing with someone lacking in mental acuity...to be handled with soft gloves at all times. She asked at what point...Orion would plan in reaffirming this proposed title to his female friend...eventually yelling and questioning as to how little he thought through the scenario, the aftermath, and her overall safety--when posing the obvious occurrence of laying down solid: information to an unstable person. Artemis felt beady eyes follow moments of isolation, the mundane times that were manifested into arguments, as she warned him and pointed out the traits of Jodi...laying down the trails already walked by other women that hadn’t known any better. The none-joke of not wanting to be homicide’d later on down the road by a loser avoiding professional help--had less-than-nothing to do with Artemis.

Orion had assumed he’d already vexed Artemis with a golden penis--and Artemis had said less: walking into the unknown to save herself. Annoyed to put deadlines on hold--to carry on a conversation that went in circles, offended by his inability to ponder the very real occurrence of his female friend breaking and entering Artemis’s dormitory for an unknown amount of time, and how jarring it felt to be Artemis--left without answers, as to why the creepy woman felt entitled to bend laws and social norms at the expense of whatever title and deeds came along with being Orion’s friend. The depth of foreplay was so contorted, and twisted that it felt like something that’d be more appreciated by a pale and disgruntled Viking.

Artemis had left the Viking, moping around and collecting the words needed to reprimand her for leaving him without notice--despite the fact Artemis had mentioned discomfort in the actions of his new partner; asking a gaggle of immature women to capture portraits of her without consent on a random evening. Their employment as people working within higher education, was suddenly less-important than the unified goal of bullying a student...and that flourished into a larger issue as the arguments arose in public settings. Artemis had asked what the old man was hearing...when tears were no longer something that he cared to look at. The friendship had crumbled before their eyes, and she had admitted true defeat---saying nothing and taking refuge along the Salish Sea in the middle of the night. Artemis wept in disappointment and rage--eventually, offering herself up to the few professionals that had lowered a half-alive body from a wooden beam. She saw the courage it took: to write suggestions of medications with shaking hands and to follow procedure, as conversations around the weapon of leather braided belt transpired past the appointments they had taken for granted. She felt their wandering gaze attempting to lock-in on saddened eyes, as they asked for an end to the apologies--in the inconvenience to the sober actions taken. The stoney glares holding her at least a thousand-miles away from their kind words: were no longer worth finding discomfort in...if it meant they had done their best to help a woman named Artemis.

The people that cared for her heart: were ones that saw the confusion in self-worth that was dismantled at the hand of the Viking. There was so much evidence of her caring....of the need to ask for help from the wrong people and being left abandoned to clean up the messes made; to preserve what little was left of their once admired friendship...all while the man refused to see her trials gifted for existing in his orbit--and objected to hearing the things impacted without due cause to the actions of a woman that was somehow deemed more sane, the safer of options...to the one pin-pointed issue of the orphan title, that somehow forever and always defined Artemis.

Instead of dwelling on the many ways two men had enabled the mistreatment of Artemis...the world began to collapse at the hand of teetering emotions, and the imbalance of expectations given to two women--in fair comparison to Artemis and her handfuls of adversity. She didn’t look down upon strangers, but took a moment to set aside pity for the two individuals willingly drowning is selfish immaturity. Artemis looked around, the word had fallen into chaos. She had grown tired of carrying loaded weapons of intellect and telling herself shitty antics...just trying to provide context, as she stepped up in life. There was true terror; found in fleeting new rooms... filled with a variety of unwelcoming circumstances. She had taken knee, assuming that one of the two entitled men would eventually care about her existence, and instead...was dashed away to safety by a gaggle of young people: that began to take turns standing at her side...occasionally asking what to do, without demanding she continue forth through the pain. The next disappointment--lay in the fact that her niece and nephew had never been in attendance; preparing for such important battles of placing checks and restoring balances. She worried the two young adults had inherited Athena’s unreliable selfishness. There was a strange relief in watching young people find threads of anger, as they began to question how much the world had demanded daily from the continually overlooked and undermined generation that somehow defined Artemis.

They ask her to rest a hospitable grin, and how to find the armored verbiage to bear such unapologetic smiles...to set forth a unified path and encourage a better tomorrow. One seed of failure could place two seedlings of success in the grounds three springs later--and the tell-tales of failure from day one were the responsibility the corporations had attempted to squeeze and punish without due-reciprocity to their own easily amendable written rules and expectations. The harsh financial seasons were seen as a non-priority, if it meant anything less than one hundred percent compliance, and the risks of missing out on the occasional lick-of-the tip by shadowy overlords via bonus blood monies. They hadn’t prepared for the generations born with nothing, and unable to take abuse laying down...the world was forever captive to small footprints of orphan-raised citizens such as Artemis.

Her generation had all raised themselves and their parents in some fashion--thrown into the trenches with all of their rights dried up upon hiring, and rooted in bullshit--comparing trauma, as though it held a fair scale to the rights of corporations. They had taken a willow branch and thrust it upon the impoverished working class...claiming they had done it to themselves and incurring taxes for the choices to fail, or run away. It was easier to claim that the sickly tree held the rights of a person, without providing the branches proper recognition of personhood--there was no true fairness when negating the fact that the sprouted branches provided its roots protection from the elements and offered the seedlings: enthusiastically bearing future reasons for flourishing seasons. Artemis began to sway and rely on the younger generations...bored by talking to nobody for the previous decades, and paying too much in taxes for the experience of "freedom". The nonexistent tree began to wither with each formal complaint, the impartial army of litigating warriors had bore imbalanced weight upon the already-struggling roots. There was no fair-compensation to the battles already lost--and Artemis carried the torch of discomfort, knowing that it held deep importance to the branches of workers, reluctantly producing the next generation of leaders and laborers. The lesions of footprints had been thankless, and without financial reward for hard workers such as Artemis.

Each young citizen that observed the diseased roots and wilting leaves, had seen the world Artemis had shredded vocal chords to preserve. She began to awake excited to meet each battle, albeit as the conductor or consultant: too proud to argue with agreeable and curious citizens, all armed and ready to take moments of discomfort in stride--if it meant the awfulness stopped spreading for only a day. The notion of a Hostile Government Takeover was less-threatening with welcoming beats dropping upon the floors of unaffordable houses: its endless remixes--weaving a beautiful tapestry that was meant to make a fallen overworked, and overly-obedient entertainer named Tim proud. The exodus of professionals being treated with unprofessionalism had been something that sent ripples upon an unscripted future...the heavy hand of raising a brave fists to the sky...to blow life into an invisible whistle and except whatever storms of retaliation came with doing the right thing--were all events that had already come to pass. The rewards were nonexistent to morally-driven people, those cautiously standing guard behind desks--such as the fallen angel Tim, and a crawling Artemis.

Combative emotions had often disqualified Artemis from the chance of romance: with both Orion and the Viking. It had also brought forth a chaotic force of men, needing to take title in being seen in her eyes--wanting to be placed upon the scales of equal partnership. Her indifference to the discarded men--easily outweighed Orion’s desperate flurry of ex’s and random women that swooned and fell in line as he sauntered by. Artemis found his past with women to be funny, as it was both fickle and cruel...occasionally leading and ending at the mistaken identity--that he and his female friend were siblings. Artemis didn’t have to make shitty jokes, in their presence...because their strange coldness was often unwelcoming enough to deter any poor female that dared step forward to contest the creepy friendship--dare they ask for unreasonable things such as boundaries. Orion’s need to negate time for a mean person was a pretty big turn-off for Artemis.

Artemis had shrugged after the second time addressing such callousness: calling him stinky-butt, when he accused her of jealousy...because he often reminded her of the gymnasiums he ruled, and the concept of fair-competition was not something comprehensive to someone avoiding medical attention for mental health reasons and a grown man enabling such ugliness. The only human that could smell nearly as raunchy--had been his woeful friend, a woman with sweaty knees and a less-enduring personality, complete with parroting abilities that were a marvel to spectate. It often made her chuckle in moments of safe solitude...watching his friend mimic Artemis’s step and dribble, but failing spectacularly to capture and claim the hard earned talent and natural talents that belonged to someone else. Such were the lessons of femininity and ego that she had overlooked, occasionally forgetting that her place in the heart of Orion as a priority: made Artemis out to be an easy target. Artemis had been careless one day--disclosing to the lingering woman, the unforgiving folly in heartbreak over the lost friendship with the Viking.

The loitering woman had enough ammunition to deter Orion--claiming distraction while Artemis was busy reaching for the stars had been a cover for emotional tracks left unxplored. The woman took credit for mending the heartbreak that hadn’t yet occured, and complaining that she was to be left picking up the pieces of a destructive path. Artemis was a bystander to their toxic “friendship”, and she used their obvious and verbally ever-present past sexual relationship...to gain an excuse to visit a man she pretended to spite. She felt her step was on shaking ground, why had Orion glared at Artemis’s blushing cheeks with such disdain? There was no way to lay a record straight while an obsessive friend stood at his right...hissing in his ear; spells of insecurity around the fact that Artemis had once whole-heartedly adored a grumpy and aging Viking.

Artemis hadn’t ever made a move on her male friend--allowing him to admit her role in being his best friend, and calling him selfish for not trying to be even that in her life: walking away when that title wasn’t enough. She often daydreamed of their paths crossing--handling his words with caution when knowing he was a secret that sparked a strange hint of danger into Orion’s wandering sight. Artemis had no intentions on letting the men meet, as such calamity would could potentially cause her heart to explode--so, she moved mountains and casually split the world into two: dividing her thoughts on each in separate sessions of mental mediation. Neither fool could salt her game in absence, and she left them to wallow in their self-pity--looking past the horizons and returning to an amused state of curiosity and hopefulness while contemplating what such a husband would look like. Both men had wasted their earned time...asking, or demanding that she spend the day holding up the mirrors of deflection that they loved so much. It left Artemis bored and conflicted by the charms of Orion, and severely disappointed in the never-ending vanity of the aging Viking.

Artemis was the emotional punching bag that fed their egos, as the truths of mortality set in. Forever cast as the sufferer, the fool: cherishing those without the ability to take pride in mere idea that she existed. Her life was manifested to accommodate the two men that sat beside her, one holding his large arm beneath her chin, and casually suffocating the woman that held his true feelings: the other directly in front of her, gazing at the waters of youth that called shamelessly behind teary eyes. Artemis had often rolled her eyes--whenever she caught them attempting to find any reflection-prized surface to peer upon. Desperation could be viewed in their actions; taking turns to shift the gaze of a stranger, and to garner the prize of their own beauty in moments of insecurity. Artemis had felt the looming doubts of their caring; weeping in realization that she may just be a pawn in the delayed twisted marriage of Orion to his second wife, and a man enjoyed looking down upon a troubled youthful heart--severing the memories of their friendship to be placed deeply away in the days where he had led the charge for men under the title of Viking.

Artemis had ripped herself into pieces to accommodate their neglect, she had allowed them to degrade the value of patience, asking for her to kneel beneath their “greatness” and walking away the second mortal flaws reared. She was nothing more than a figurehead, a Princess to conquer or ridicule with each step. Artemis was a physical object of their affection, and nothing else. She was a hole for Orion to keep his dick wet, and a pathetic story for the Viking to boast over in light conversations pertaining to a midlife crises. Artemis was their object of self-loathing, a female; lacking certain female qualities that fell within their indecisive standards. There was no-room-for- error when holding the memorable appearance and laughter such as Artemis.

Artemis had dreams and nightmares of their love, of her worst fears in bringing a golden giant into the world--left to accept that only pieces of her were worth loving. Orion had only wanted a piece of her smile, her blessed genome, and caring group of friends...nothing else. The depths of his selfishness never ceased to upset Artemis, and so she crafted a game: comprised of a set of stairs and an empty doorway. Artemis had waited to explain such temptations and curses for reasons of amusement mostly: observing as the citizens flipped their attitudes or avoided her altogether. They thought fair-karma came at the expense of their own lives when capturing golden portraits...and were left helpless when their own family paid the price with their lives. The elderly and youngest of life weren’t spared from the rules that dictated the laws of land--death would come for anyone in personal proximity to those participating in the activity of accosting, and openly stalking the privacy of Artemis.

Her wavering patience for the two men--was weighed by their own perspectives; as each knew of her personality disorder, as a Siren lacking in empathy--but only one man...would admire her for asking professionals for help in clipping the wings of lies and a love of liquid destruction. Artemis had been cornered; in explaining herself after a moment of felt dangers swelling all around her. The childish deflection of innocently holding out a right arm: just as a rouge orange ball forcefully landed itself in an outstretched palm--had been painted as abnormal by a neighboring witness. Orion’s "female friend" was eager to ramble on about the astute demeanor, and worked diligently to point out Artemis’s ability to frighten the world while holding a nervous laugh. Artemis placed the ball down gently with one swift movement, and broke a guile smile: pretending to be surprised by the incident, but knowing that the damage had been done--she had already been in a mode of self-preservation...due to the proximity of a self-declared enemy sitting on a shared bench: protecting herself from even the most harmless of accidents was condemned and brought up in moments where nothing was wrong. There was no way to straighten the knots of such bizarre harassment, and coming clean on a diagnosis in private...had been the only reasonable option for someone--tired of being painted as unlovable and unworthy of such, by strangers dead-set on destroying Artemis.

Orion would hate that Artemis was prepared for the inevitable and the unpredictable head-on, she had been fearless and providing everyone with compassion...outside of herself. He chose to believe that she were stuck role- playing an aloof character, as to give him less reasons to protect her--it made his life easier to culminate reasons from thin air, and to hate her for being the things unchangeable at the expense of his "rare love". At the end of the day, she was simply herself...a woman torn between two cultures and two men: forced to uphold threads worth cutting; to end ties with daydreams of the title of a fallen deity named Artemis.

Artemis had loved these men more than they had ever loved her, and one day an injured spine gave-way, and each suitor became angry by her inability to hold up their egos. She crawled to the finish line that stood across the room, and ejected herself from the simulation by the way of a key. A totem that Artemis had thoughtfully handcrafted and etched out the shallow names of all those she had come to care about. She was left without husband...without patience--without a single fucking care, as to what these two men thought they deserved of her body. They had come to her door unwarranted, and without proper plans to care for the broken parts of her soul, and a childish game that set out to prove just that. Artemis had used a book to set elaborate traps and expose the endless demands and expectations of man and hypothetical wife: specifically that of Orion and the Viking.

She forced herself into a tower willingly, and watched as the men inched their way to reach for a red-handled door. Neither knowing they had only met a handful of times in person, longing to observe and abandon her in states of physical okay-ness. Artemis never let them see her with a hunched spine or unending tears, allowing unaffordable walls to build themselves around her tower--to barricade what little was left of her from the outside world. Each man--would place his hand upon her thigh whenever he lusted for a kiss. Artemis knew only Orion had kissed her in physical reality, and so she was often put-out by the hand of the Viking...fighting a sleepy wave of annoyance that kept her from author-ly duties. Artemis was a man of science: so she needed tangible proof of the unrequited burden they expected of her, forcing the men to lay a golden egg: proudly dangling upon a blue ribbon around her neck whenever they reached self-counseling orgasm with rosey-cheek’d daydreams of bringing Artemis a child. It made for many women to hate the paths abandoned in spite, as the two men abandoned their personal lives: mid-position...to barge into a secluded room and display their disappointment in whatever current sexual partner. Artemis had been awoken during one of these ceremonies, and giggled that her chest gleamed with golden eggs, as her men were busy satisfying their primal urges. Silly quotes like "O my." were very familiar to anyone that knew Artemis.

How many strangers had met her and accidentally exposed their feelings? How many--male friends and respected individuals would she have to return the non-golden eggs to? Had her smile been cast at strangers accidentally...or what implored them to believe that they deserved a piece of her to cherish and hold forever? Artemis began to shake and grow worried that many of the eggs had only belonged to Orion--since he was an unpaid professional at the sexy-time stuff and a gentleman...in the sense that he was always taking out the trash. Artemis made a silly game that displayed just that, allowing fathers to be proud of their maturing sons and relieved in the assistance of chores...even if it was doing the bare minimum. Artemis became frustrated with growing trash build-up meant to cue Orion to the cold side of a bed: knowing he’d only trade labor for kisses on his more lonely days. Artemis had been the rain to his day, the lost soul that needed his direction. Orion had only seen Artemis as a womb on wheels, and she looked forward to displaying the burdens of their affection, and the initial meeting between her charming Orion, and the dashing Viking.

Artemis crafted a game that forced her to remember the worst week of her life--trapped in a timeline of a modernized, but equally neglected Ephesus, sprinting for her life...wanting nothing more than for three cursed sisters to be okay; even if it meant being separated. She looked around at the proof that each man despised her to an extent, and sighed in relief that they had only given her golden eggs, and never forced her to carry the burden of accepting their “love and affection” in the form of a bundle of cells. There was no reason to lay the role and depth of morbid jealously solely upon the shoulders of a women, when the famous flight and disaster: one-hundred and eight...painted a larger picture that better explained her fear of people. Self-preservation was considered to fall under the spells of mania, or paranoia in the eyes of two selfish men: easily written off and discarded until traits of such mental instability bled past pages and impacted their severed lives, and they were unable to point fingers in her direction without the actual presence of Artemis.

Artemis was left in a room; forced to face her mortal flaws...with the two disruptive men pacing angrily as they dealt with their many, many feelings: blinded by indecisiveness in the disappointments of a huntress aiming fair diagnosis and wandering off to address wounds. Artemis had forgotten that Orion had been in control of the bubbles and their magical properties, the divine power that set the Sampo alive: with the assistance of Orion’s lovely off-key voice. The Viking had been their eyes, the scout and engineer that kept the others eating and drinking throughout the game...trading his idea of her worth in a bucket that was never to remain empty. It gave her relief to know the world could see the two men for who they were, and to know that each man needed, yearned to cause havoc in the unknowing life of a an already predisposition’d Artemis.

Artemis had been the one--that needed to go back in time, as to remember her humility: forever left holding up a mask of different characters. She had dreams of divorcing Orion, and the flipping of a chariot that resulted in her death and the avoidable near-death of an innocent child. She often awoke weeping in shame, clamoring to sweaty sheets as she attempted to land in reality. The adrenaline found in sobering moments of looking in a back seat and swallowing an entire planet as she yelled "No": letting go of a failed marriage to preserve a single life...accepting that fate was dictated by a mentally unfit stranger, enabled by a power-hungry mother that sat as a passenger to stalking and attempted homicide. At the end of the day, there was no real form of winning for women like Sherri--dragged to the gates of Hades by the hand of her husband John...there was no reason for such mindless bloodshed for women as knowledgeable and overly-cautious as Artemis.

She held firm to the belief that discomfort would pay off, needing to avoid Orion’s world from crashing down all around him: knowing deep down that his childish traits in explaining things to a female friend would only place further bounty on the lives of people he claimed to care for. There was no reparation for the guilt--gifted when realizing he had personally set the wheels of death in motion: "encouraging" a female friend to take action without saying a single suggestion of such...by simply stating a location and triggering a manic episode with his bummed-out attitude. Mundane activities such as school pick-ups were seen as erratic--when followed by an appointment with divorce representatives...because a female friend would always choose to paint disturbing chaos into portraits of families that didn’t belong to her. Such blinding sickness had nothing, and eventually everything to do with Artemis.

Artemis had trusted Orion with her life...her genome, and all he proven--was a selfish need to claim a stake to her wealth, and a piece of failure to remember her by. She had proof that he had never loved her to begin with--his insufferable need to please the opinions of a strange woman had finally taken its toll on his life. Artemis had left him...without new goals in moving forward, without plans as to what her and their shared child would do next: weeping as she accepted that a loved child--deserved a better father figure than Orion. Artemis felt ashamed; that she had gone decades under his spell of love bombing, causing flashes and bangs to disrupt her visions for greatness and what little firm footing was held financially. The lucid and reoccurring dream often left her relieved that she hadn’t chosen to marry Orion. Artemis hadn’t wanted to ever live a life of a lie--pretending that her mind didn’t occasionally wander to the warm embrace of the absent Viking.

Artemis had a beautiful dream of being married to Orion, a child that loved her, and a husband that was substantially too attractive for her generic looks. Her dream was cast into a nightmare following a single question pertaining to a threesome with his newly divorced “best friend”. Orion believed her to be inferior to him in every way, and Artemis retired her role as wife: insulted by the suggestion and deciding to play a child’s game--to remind her of the woman she had once been. Artemis had seen that Orion had never taken his hand the thigh of his “friend”, unless it was to gift Artemis with an egg that demanded the attendance of a fertile womb. Artemis had "caused" all the pain that transpired by saying mean things like "ewww."--knowing there was nothing worth arguing over and that a single word could cause the destruction of worlds. She had grown to hate the game, the heavy eggs crushing her spine--until she was left chained to a throne on wheels or laying in the position of a beached whale. Artemis would have wasted her life--bending over backwards...to try and prove her love to Orion, and feeling guilty that she had used his narcissism against him: to distract thoughts of jealousy he felt--in knowing she may be daydreaming of another man each time a door looked more intriguing than his gross display of affection with a female friend. Artemis had used the game to escape an ugly reality, and visit an old friend: an equally moody man that she had dubbed as the “handsome Viking”.

Artemis was not to be loved by either men, just a woman to chastise and yell at most days. They were three of the most rowdy blind people, and often yammered like intoxicated squirrels. The setting of time dialed in at a rapid pace, and their simulations exhuming at full-speed: the commands of a machine powered by the evils of man. Artemis had forgotten if she was married or divorced, a mother, or grieving human--the machine had fine-tuned itself to the most difficult setting: throwing her into the world defined by the title orphan. Why had her dreams started at such a young age and worsened? How long had she been falling through raindrops and glass, as she turned to coddle an infant for the last time? Had she been in a coma, or was it all just in her head? Artemis was confused as to what was real, and what had been scripted into her memories. Had she demanded the machine be fired up: to escape her failing grip on reality, or had they needed her to find sobriety for the safety of others once more? Artemis was a prisoner to her own memories, to the prophecy she coveted in tiresome dreams. Had she even been born yet, or why had the world always demanded she fulfill the role of martyr and ruthless Indigenous Warrior? Such would be the beautiful mysteries of the human experience, each of the timelines unique and overlaid perfectly to build a universe that lay upon the back of Artemis.

Artemis had crafted a game of puerile...one only made to amuse and entertain her two wicked sisters: with Athena being her toughest critic. She had planned to elevate their mortality quota by distracting them enough to erase their proclivity to blood-drenched crimes. Artemis had made light of their magic plants and oils...but, forgone from exposing the truth to her readers... for the protection of the simulation at hand. The citizens were fucking idiots, and Artemis had wanted to prove it with every fiber of her being: what lay outside Potemkin Village would be the costs of their sins. She replaced their fine grape drank, with a fizzy purple liquid: Fanta bitches. Artemis replaced her magic plant, her “pots” with an actual pot, and a silicone brush that dripped from the end of a stick of bamboo. The coral colored kitchen utensil served as a drumstick for Athena to use...presenting the participant with discretion that “almost” distracted onlookers from randoms holding their breath and yelling their true feelings. Such minute details were always to be funny...when placing Athena at the helm of such chaos, breaking and entering the homes of strangers to pillage cupboards and observing such unique stupidity of an overly-thought out game drafted by a fed up Artemis.

Athena lit a candle: to create the sensation of smoking, and often held a look of exhaustion to the obnoxious sounds she had to entertain--bored that they were yelling aimlessly, or giggling--due to lack of oxygen reaching the brain. Artemis had crafted Athena a post and duty to remain immortal--forever longing to be nearer to a sibling and placing a spotlight on bratty imagination...when thinking of the true absurdity in such ceremony. Athena had been holding the drum of destiny for far too long, and the world had taken advantage of the hack-ability of the feature. Much like the lazy loser Elon: the back door had been haphazardly left open...giving way for errors and a flood of armed strangers to gain access--to all that was the otherwise pathetic life of Artemis.

Artemis laughed: knowing the drum was nothing more than a black and pink pan, and that her pens, "los penjiman" had been exploding blue and black over her crispy outfits to the sheer dismay of Athena. They had made jokes of “dabbing”: not realizing it was the tip of a sharp quill being dabbed into their mouth. Artemis had once lost her sister to an ongoing battle with substance addiction, and forced life into her corpse by way of a sickened simulation. The existence of both big sisters was paramount in order for the machine operate--the world couldn’t exist without her fearlessness, and others need to try and uphold and support Athena and her bottomless rage...the world wasn’t able to make any sense without her owl-eyed presence and the other sister gifted with quirky dances. The world had already wrote off the talents of Artemis within the first chapter: unaware that she had dropped a pot and said "shit"--forgetting where the story began and ended and having to start over...to entertain the two eldest siblings that had wanted to deeply to love a selfish Artemis.

Instead of a sad reality...Athena had saved the world. The memory of a woman worthy of the title of Olympian had been worth something in the pages of a grieving baby sister. Instead of a life drafted by the hand of chaos, Artemis had taken the reigns of her life--drawing armies with a sobering plan. Creating a temporary exit for the lost citizens to take whenever they fell inward, converging in a moment of hopelessness upon their own souls. Athena had taken up a childish task with reluctance...only to convince a child with stress-induced anxiety to sleep...needing a break from a weeping Artemis.

Artemis hadn’t cared she wasn’t as valuable to the ungodly accomplishments of Athena, since studiousness was considered insipid on this timeline...for whatever reason, but she had taken great insult to her Papa placing bets--waging Athena to be mightier: knowing he’d already broken down Artemis by way of molestation. His anger in her avoidance in writing, had left Athena to take the lead--whereas, Artemis fell ill to a nervous breakdown instead. They stood in an empty cave...observing the lives of the shadows upon the wall--with nowhere to go, and no home to return to. The birth of a handful of poems came at the behest of the arrival of a chaotic pair of non-twins and a lovesick adventure while fleeing the judgement of a conflicted Viking.

Artemis had crafted a game--a garden of words just like Athena, meant to plan a safe escape route from the tortures of their simulated lives. She had finally told her trusted Kind-Hearted Hunters of her fears of being disciplined, by defining the ever-extending boundaries of whatever inhumane treatment was allowed by a single word. Artemis hadn’t noticed Rindy was a grey fox--a woman of great medicine, ready to lift the spirits of a child...born without an understanding of feminine leadership. Until the defining moment where she had reached rock bottom--placing down a shield and guzzling down a bottle of poison in the search of fun, and or, sleep lacking in dreams. Rindy carried Artemis across the room, dragging limp legs to her side--apologizing for her indescribable pain afforded as “hurt”. Instead of simply letting go--of a life cast as the role of a fucking loser, Artemis smiled a wicked smile...asking the world to place her disabled body upon a scale of Justice: to compare it with a buttoned-up student named Hollis--a man that had been pushed to the brink of "insanity" by his enabling parents that said matching words like "honey", and chosen his title of a fucking loser...for reasons that were entirely incomprehensible to someone as well-adjusted and compassionate as Artemis.

Artemis hadn’t told them of her plans to seek justice, freedom, and retaliation for a stolen childhood. Instead...she let friends carry her to the courtroom that called attendance through subpoenas and the lottery of affiliation. Such were the unending turns and twists of fate: hers, held on the ballot of a jury. Artemis didn’t believe in whole lot, and the outlier of expectations in blindly believing in the innate goodness of the citizens had been one of those things that made Artemis unique as a community Siren: sociopath tendencies bolted in such firm beliefs, where many had often sought self preservation only--deflecting morals to mirror their own. Instead of pleading for death penalties to reward the adults that had committed crimes against children: Artemis demanded a moment of justice for the child she wept for--an orphan renamed after the Greek Goddess Artemis.

You see--Artemis was not a weakling as the status of other mortals: life came with her hesitation in doing things considered immoral...the lines of rational thought; separated her inextricably from two older sisters...one holding a brick and the other clasping a candle. The divergence to impose harm on others was considered to be lacking interesting and vigorous actions to two sisters: unable to care for the value of life outside of a struggling bloodline. Outside of the cave of darkened thoughts and intentions, there stood a woman--forever dragged along the ground by her hair: scrambling to find proper footing, and choosing to take a knife to locks of gold and auburn. Taking knee and holding a shield of risible forbearance--wanting only to be cast as the villain of the story, taking warpaint to pallid skin and naming herself Medusa...returning to the indignant timeline, to try and gauge what sicknesses held her two prized sisters chained to a dead planet. The depreciation of her warnings would come at a cost--greater than the surmounting pages of an impoverished and depreciated Artemis.

She handled marble keys and unarmed methods of securing property and persons--bringing a saturated loneliness that fit the morbidity of the occasion. Artemis awoke living in a nightmare that bleed over frayed pages: guarding her every move, and alarmed by the accuracy of predictions. A reign of fire fell from the sky: showers of greed and negligence didn’t impact the Indigenous Warriors, as they were preoccupied in coddling their woes as prisoners to an unnamed war. Athena’s spirit was filled with spite: having more than enough time to step through time and observe the many ways Artemis was disused...the tempo of a confused elder sister pacing the disasters to bring forth spells of vertiginous-laced death. The world deserved everything that was about to happen to them: three sisters had merely been the conduits of such bad news. Three orphans: were about to casually destroy the world with truth, sex and lies. Artemis closed her tired eyes and took a deep breath, ready to face the monster that allowed the path of diverging normalcy. When her eyes flashed open--her family shame had grown, but so had her courage. There in a dream sitting across the pub from her--was the only other human that had ever frightened Artemis.

“What did you do...Papa Jim?”--he had nothing to say, a glass of water lay before each of them. It turns out...men with inclined preferences to harm children, rarely found adults worth the time to acknowledge or hold conversation with. Gross. Artemis knew her speech was limited in such tempered dreams: his death meant little to her now, and curiosity brought forth the courage to write a book--to express growing conclusions that would eventually be backed by three other sisters, each predating her birth. “Ask him.”--the hissing voice of Hera bubbled to the surface, but fell from the mouth of Medusa. The face of her once beloved and trusted Papa Jim--was not that of a jolly man, but the beady eyes of a man potentially facing the consequences of his recent past. Artemis crossed her arms in entertainment: knowing she had been reformed and that authorities could scrape the bottom of the barrel for her sins on any day...where he had died a relapsed pedophile--forgetting that children are forced to grow up...the second they are robbed of such humanity. As she touched the glass before her on a high-lip counter: it painted itself tranparent, whereas his remained wine. A darkened portrait of The Final Cut could be captured in a single glance: burrowed away in the family secrets that had almost destroyed an adolescent Artemis.

Why had Artemis had her dreams held of such ugliness--had she not suffered enough? Were her dreams even real, or had she just invented a timeline where everything added up? She was tied to the perverse monster for all eternity-- wondering why he had hurt her emotionally with crude jokes, and groomed her to accept neglect and emotional abuse regardless. The traits of a man treating a child, as his nagging wife began to thread an ugly tapestry--her hand unsteady...until it wasn’t. Artemis was no victim to the data provided--the conclusions of the already weary readers was nothing more than a reflection of times: retooled to make reasons for an orphan that blindly believed she deserved to be loved and protected in some capacity. Instead; all that was left--stood in pile of tattered love letters of a raped woman, clawing her way to the top in reality and a horrific novel that was to be avoided by all those that actually knew Artemis.

Artemis had hid herself in plain sight of the Mechanical Boar, and left his head out to dry. Mind you...it was still attached to his body, but he fell injured by the world lambasting whippings and expectations upon his wide rear--her small foot anchoring a leash to the soils. His neck began dripped with blood, as plans of adjudicating responsibility began to swarm a position of vulnerability--a loosely fastened leather leash was tightened by no one other than himself. Artemis said egregious things in untimely ways: reminding the elderly beast to be careful--since time was not on his side, holding the ever-famous smile and boisterous laughter at moments of silence. The world was watching his every move: waiting for him to fail, just as they always had Artemis.

She was needing the Mechanical Boar to dig his own grave, to reserve already-frugal financial resources...all sensations that were all-too-familiar to someone like Artemis.

The man-baby refused to take a nap: jumping from one heartbeat to another. Never settling on an opinion or rational thought. Artemis had chased his stupid soul across that galaxy, only to fall upon her own sword and drown in a river of denial. She had forgotten the importance of a first lady: reoccurring the role of a dangerous foreign-born weirdo and his global litter, of like--at least thirteen children. The presence of a sweaty balding man placed the wheels of evil in motion: only by the act of a Mechanical Boar taking hind knees, and shoving a pale shrimp-sized dick deep in his throat on world stages...to mimic the sexy arts he loved with gusto. Mad gusto. All the gusto. So much gusto, that Artemis lengthened the leash...giving image to a private affair--a bit too passionate for her liking, not out of traits of homophobia--just out of the lady-like demeanor...of preference to be far out of range of others private matters. The world said nothing as the Mechanical Boar flossed his teeth with coarse pubic hairs of such a creep: greed was their biggest turn-on, and no amount of wealth could satisfy their urges. There was no need for her to be a third wheel to such alpha male rituals: the seed-filled cum of two balding men had less-than-nothing to do, with a polite and mostly professional Artemis.

There was no rest for the wicked, there was no fabrication of such history...there was only mortals and their actions, and the comforting lies they told themselves--to make way for the excuses of inaction. The last time the world had embraced such evils: the world held its breath, eventually pleading with Indigenous Warriors for strategies outside of the norm...needing the winds of change to brought on at the hands of man--in a moment of desperation. Artemis had laughed out loud--loving the idea of entire military complexes being hushed by the true might of intellectual weapons. The fateful words of "I told you so" hadn’t been colonized by women...but by the handful of surviving Prisoners Of War--that took it upon themselves to step up...and to be the leaders the world needed in a moment of unprecedented evil. She’d smelled the scent of death laying in wait: taking crown, as the most wicked of the three-nurturing sisters--performing verbal spells of anger in professional appointments; reserved for grief and complex trauma disorders. The ticking-clock of destruction wasn’t something that belonged solely to Artemis.

Two elder sisters could be witnessed--being open with their familicidal or homicidal traits, and Artemis somewhat hiding a fear of the unpredictable spells of postpartum within a book. The self-loathing of the three fates was a never-ending in the battle to the death. Artemis had known that the participation in a deadly game had been fair-enough proof that a man named Papa Jim had meant her harm, as he had seen Athena hold the blunt-bricked rage of Burke: using a game to potentially rid himself of the only witness to his crimes, and further pull bounty and loot...to place bets upon the more angry of the three. Leaving only--an occasionally overlooked and un-diagnosed middle child and a seemingly content Artemis.

The man sure did like to gamble, and Artemis had finally seen him for the creature that he was. A mortal chained to undeserving trauma: kneeling to the Hydra in a shameful act of oral sex, or listening to the abuse through the walls. Had he missed the agony? Why had he introduced her to the monster known to Artemis as Yani? Artemis wasn’t supposed to know what adults did, but Papa Jim had been eager to nap on the couch-lounging with a twisted grin, whilst she observed the sinful acts and asked two sister to just turn off the confusion and go to bed. The two elder sisters could care-less that such profane visual trauma would forever impact an afraid Artemis.

She glanced over and felt annoyed--looking over at the adult as he lay pretending, sleeping and excited next to three young girls...relatives or not: the flickering of eyelids would frighten any parent, auntie or uncle. Artemis told her sisters they were supposed to avert their attention: fatuous words of "I don’t like it" fell upon deaf ears. The two were in defiance to leave their position of curiosity: uncaring that a baby sibling had never thought twice as to what happened after the grand moment of a kiss. They had been conditioned to believe they were undeserving of all forms of mindless entertainment--unworthy of a kind neighbor in colorful cardigans and a bird offering lessons in friendship and caring. Such were the pathetic and indescribable upbringing of two elder sisters, and a too-young-to-fully understand Artemis.

The three girls left the couch scars invisible-secrets visible...forced to bond through a trauma in an newly scripted life: exposed to grooming, at the hand of a grandfathers brother...unaware that they were to spend their adult lives--being fetishized for existing in white leather regalia. All things of a normal childhood...a life with their beloved Papa: marred by hints and dreams left exposed in a book and brought to life with the urgency of a tick that lay in the hands of woman...too ashamed of the things that had already come to pass: to allow her reflection to be deemed worthy of a ring and title held upon a left hand. Just as Artemis had been taught, she took a deep breath: explaining stories to a Kind-Hearted Hunter with select words...tales of her trauma, and upbringing as a human experiment: a clean slate to set the plates of apologies upon. You see, Artemis had felt her limbs whisper false winds: the hair rubbing hard, like thin blades set into gloved knuckles. She had led them to witness her justice, her moment of truth and all its glory. Not for the clout or fame, but because Artemis knew that she existed, and that her story was important to children that didn’t know any better. Her need to help others from being chained in a darkened cave became a heroic tale; meant to better center what little character and Warrior Ethics helped encourage Artemis.

They walked her readers to the final chapter with hesitation to what awaited her on the other side of the door--all that was left, was to exit from the darkness of shame. She had locked herself away from the world, unable to cope with the weird ways citizens overstepped boundaries, and demanded a piece of whatever was left of Artemis.

The world fell away--bored of her game and lack of explanation, impatient to quality and historically important shit taking time: unwilling to see that there may have been a method to her growing madness. They had said between themselves “each time she lies, she goes back to the beginning.”--unaware they were waiting the arrival of a man name Perseus and assuming the female lead was forever to be in the wrong. Time had been cruel in exposing how little the world cared for its women, and the cracks of hateful rhetoric began to shiver their way up a bowl holding an apple. She had said "prove me wrong", holding up the truths of the many, many ways men chose to hate women...and how pale women grew more concerned and unhinged by the details of men being naturally drawn to woman of culture and prized skin. At the end of the day: permanence of ink’d thoughts no longer were monopolized by educated women such as Artemis.

They had waved their hairy oaf knuckles as she passed--their savage gaze mocking her splendor. Relentless were the cowards--that knew not, of her might. The anger they had gifted her to inspire such a horrific game, as they gawked and yammered to one another “that’s so funny”--pointing in the direction of Orion and his slew of half-dressed beezys walking down the street. It was due to such desperation of strangers bending to be seen, by the countless women--talking past Artemis to make themselves known to whatever dude was behind her stewing: that had broken a simulation to its core. The threat of remaining in character of one’s authentic self would corrode away at the masks of women: self-declaring themselves to be of equal virtue of an unenthusiastic Artemis.

She had no issue flashing randoms: her tatas were spectacular (hair toss), untainted by diseases so far...worthy of praising each day. The world had tested her patience, wondering if she would walk away from a bottled poison and a lethargic pen. Artemis kept the pen to nibble on in her anxiety. The readers had asked what had been the flower they smoked, and Artemis grew confused as to whether it existed...a topical lotion brought sleep to swallow her whole. Artemis had forgotten that she had draped the vegetable broccoli, as a magic flower to trick her sister Dianne into better living habits: hopeful in a shared belief of her passion for motherhood, but forgetting that each citizen was only gifted one gallbladder. Such was the wickedness of Artemis. Never leaving anyone behind, always tricking her through and past things in a bored daze. She was forever--the smartest man she knew, and it often baffled the young leader: to how quickly the surrounding people were to write her off as lazy or untrustworthy because of the jejune title of orphan. Such were the silly smiles--the taunting words that flowed naturally and hid behind the mask of the Indigenous Warrior named Artemis.

Artemis had set out to show the world of Athena’s compassion for two younger siblings...knowing Artemis was too-afraid to leave a room, unable to leave anyone behind--drumming on a silly pan, as they kept a cumbersome sister company. Dianne had finally began to listen to Artemis and her kind words, unaware they had never wavered in the beliefs of their individual worth. Artemis had needed them to be compliant and without sin to showcase their preciousness to a world; filled with excuses for unconscionable evils. The evils of contorting time for reasons of selfishness could be proven by seven men: all entering a cave to try and tear down the temple of Artemis in their own ways--offended that she refused to choose one, and a man with a forced laughter taking direct insult to his idea that she would always settle on the wrong one. Artemis placed a true insult in its place: making light of a closet being to shallow for two people...needing Athena to witness how awful men treated her when left unprotected and on lands far and away. In the meantime...Artemis told her snuggling sister to sleep, needing her not to destroy the world for larger increments at a time with a prized son: knowing Dianne had hoarded tiles of paragraphs chopped to pieces far and out of reach from Artemis.

Had Orion realized the story hadn’t ended with a marriage and family, or had he decided to take hold of the handle that was his life? Artemis knew he’d never listen to her, and so she brought his only friend to read him a story. Artemis raised the weapon to her head with a strikingly swift swing of her arm--it was the only way out of his confusing embrace. He would rather suffocate her than to admit he loved her, and she hadn’t needed a weapon all along. He seemed unknowing that Artemis had crafted daydreams of a man named Perseus after childish games where a golden-haired doll is rescued and swept from her feet: the bars of expectations set to prioritize her safety and well-being by the fabled impromptu stories encouraged by two sisters...somehow able to look past their trauma and wish the best for Artemis.

The concept of greatness attracting greatness was too complex--for feeble egos: she had wanted to prove the depth of his apathy and lack-of-accountability by placing the weapon to her head in a calm rage. Unlike the lucky seven men from the East: guarded by a lone vicious soul from within--there was no room in the Indigenous American culture for such fixed varieties of bullying...labelled as Traditions. How many times would she waste her life away smiling...telling Orion to “have fun at the pub with his friends” without meaning it, knowing he was a narcissist that preferred few friends, and used others as an excuse to advert accountability. There was no arguments to be had, when in a relationship with oneself--no place for improvement, when words were used to prove the worth of someones time. Artemis raised the weapon to head, how many ways would she have to look away from men in shame to avoid the jealousy of Orion--when nothing was wrong...she’d be placed in the wrong: if it meant his freedom for the night, or a reason to spread his misery with a female friend. Why had he thought of her as common-looking in comparison to his tall female friend, but felt compelled to settle for someone...just because it was pointed that she was well out of his league. Artemis was a glass doll in his life, a beautiful object to ignore most days. She was never to be his wife, friend, just that fucking awful mistake--he chose to repeatedly make, time and time again. Such were the oversimplifications of the life of Artemis.

Had the Viking finally pulled his gaze away from his own reflection, or was he still pointing his toes directly at her as they sat shoulder to shoulder upon a green bench? Was he still out in the world--yelling at strangers, and leaving intimate moments to knight Artemis with ornaments of golden eggs? Whatever came of his quick-temper? Artemis had no clue, but she admired the thought of him being put-off by the outward display of his intentions. She sighed in embarrassment of how many unexpected guests had wandered into her chambers and greeted her: standing beneath the title of moon, crucified to a wall. Would they apologize for hurting her spine with their expectations, or would the world just mind its own fucking business? She hadn’t known the answer, so she returned to create the parameters of the game: knowing the readers would be nervous that she was now talking to them. The game had been powered by true fear, the only kind found--with Papa Jim, and a similarly cast role of a dotting father named: John. His kidnapped daughter strung up by his merciful hand and her corpse rotting in the same cave that harbored Artemis.

Artemis had figured it out, after breaking a spell of woe and murmuring to herself “I care, JonBonẻt...Merry Christmas little one”. Why had they hid her poor, but extravagantly wealthy body in plain sight, and why didn’t they care to catch the creature of a mortal...that had violently raped her on an otherwise silent night? At what extent was the truth--worse than the portraits and the sickness that befell those that came to help lower a child’s body from a cold wall? At the end of the day, Artemis’s Papa Jim: had nothing but kind words to say of her appearance and elegance, and nothing of her intellectual potential or personality. The final discard had left two children to fend for themselves. Such were the understanding of her situation, the “rants, ravings and lies” of Artemis.

Artemis had volunteered to help predict a murder, and forgotten that she was not the sister of Burke. He had assaulted her in a dream and attempted to hang her from behind--snickering to himself and basking in the notion that he could drag a mop of golden hair upon cement with ease. She had chuckled at him--for being a spineless weak-ass-bitch with no upper body strength, her words being jumbled into a sound that mocked his frail masculinity. Why had he needed the metal device to knock her lights out, if she had kept promises of untold sexual abuses the week(s) prior? Artemis felt him stabbing her side, wondering if he had always played so happily with his metal chariot track pieces--with either animals or a small sister. Artemis closed her eyes--knowing that the pain would be over if she just let go, and wondering in an internal prayer to any and all Godly entities “why me?”. Had he decided in assaulting her vagina by violent penetration upon waking up? She had no clue--but knew a simulation could spare decades of sickness of barring others from observing a corpse: unable to rest while fucking weirdos and her brother sexualized it or adverted their attention from the obvious truths. He had placed his hand upon her shoulder (as per his admittance) and guided her through a path of warm flickering lights into the darkness--of a secret wine cellar. Artemis awoke under a leaning suitcase--wondering why she was looking down upon such a small body. Was this the timeline where the mistakes of a sibling with murder in his eyes had been ripped out in fear of what they witnessed, or one where a father with secrets of pedophilia to hide--his marriage in a rut, his wife ill and jealous of his small fostered offspring. The outcome was forever the same--two paths leading to an ocean of sorrow without a proper name. Had her family hung her twice? Once to cover the other or change the depth of the ligature? Such were the observations of a “sleeping Artemis”.

There she awoke--chained to a wall, the trifecta of innocence, Artemis, Jonbenet, and Gianna. The time had come for the world to turn itself around, and to better articulate the spectrum of evils of one’s parents being separated from its true victims. Artemis had nothing but respect for both victims, unable to let go of the memory of one--unwilling to trash the name of the other. The sins of a self-proclaimed Mamba were irrelevant on the grandest of schemes. By way of matching magic, Artemis had been a part of play--set in a timeline of mortality: a marker of the times--the past, present and future in one man. She viewed an empty cave: watching a brave man holding the weight of time upon his left shoulder...lowering the body of a child: forever thirteen, a victim to negligence by trade. Much like Artemis, this hero was ready to let go of the need for Titans: the former leaders proving to be unworthy of their talent...to take victory by way of fuel brought on by oppositions--to paint the word monster to be seen as inspirational whilst having fun on wooden courts. Both had been overlooked by teams unworthy of such lifelong commitment to athletics, and able to move past the curses in being the new girl. Artemis charmed him with a single sentence: weeping and stating that he was going to do great. Being of greatness, and trying to be great each day held a lot of weight: to people with plucked livers--forever thirsty, and easily dismantled by self-doubt. The greed-washing of a sport had nothing to do with them as mortals. The world spun on the axis of their shared greatness: no matter the team. Artemis had never found a home to build legacy: no court to make proud and call her own. The two troublesome athletes were the stuff of legends--when gifted with proper coaches and rallying audiences, but always seen as easily discarded to men unwilling to let people be flawed or in need of extra guidance: those such as a retired Viking.

Artemis heard the couple hiss to one another in the corner of kitchen tiled by black and white thoughts--explaining that they were no longer speaking to the child that returned to a high-set counter: eating his coveted pineapple in milk. The endless lies perpetuating a machine of entitled gallantry--would eventually take over the world, because the citizens had allowed it to. This couple had been the ones to set the Mechanical Boar free with their leashed lies, and they had moved as a unit: to blame free-thinkers such as Artemis for whatever came to pass. They had been extraordinary as team: slashing the throats of anyone that dare try to solve the murder of a child, and she, herself had died in the process on plenty of timelines. The failures of proper conjecture were cast at the hand of a weird and grossly negligent family: emboldened by pale skin and prepared to die...if it meant preserving family legacy on the most shallowest of levels. The callousness of the so-called family torn down by grief was something very concerning for the younger generations, including the peers of Burke--those steadfast in learning the truth, no matter where the paths arrived. Such gross negligence was forever unfamiliar to orphans like Artemis.

The machine was nearing its lifespan--forever churning the lies of the elite, so Artemis moved the line of profit to be further out of reach. Using a loser named Elon to prove that misery can be accelerated by wealth. The Ramsey family had swayed the public opinion, for a time--giving accreditation of innocence to be unquestionable by the word of one corrupt woman, superseding the well-thought out verdict of an impartial Grand Jury and bypassing the legal authorities to do so. Mary had fucking parties to arrive at, and John had shitty and important meetings to tend to--white people were simply out here doing white people things: walking past the body of a child that became more unfamiliar to them each day. The story was too sad to acknowledge in its entirety, and unworthy of their precious time. The death of child viciously attacked were of little importance evidently...all the truths of man’s actions were beyond-deplorable to the upcoming generations--those willing to hear the many sides of the stories of real professionals: those traumatized by the view of corpse laying in front of a festive tree...by the intellects that saw the unforgettable harm in such stories that caused sleeplessness in someone as stubborn and open-mined such as Artemis.

Artemis had seen the way Patsy grew agitated; staring down upon her own hand-writing, wondering why they had written so many drafts--the innocent enough intentions drafted at her hand made no sense. The short-sided perspective of "show-time" would leave her soul to be without rest--forever unable to reunite with her beautiful daughter at the cost of "protecting" a creature, now lounging upon a leather sofa: his sick smile fixed into place. Reasonable solutions were nowhere to be found. She claimed the handwriting was incomparable to that of the zillion page ransom-note, and so Artemis set forth--to prove trauma had shaken her hand to be an almost exact match to the note gathered from another dimension: twelve to be exact...the only outlier dimension had come from a premature disease and cure causing infertility. So there was that. Artemis had been told that she could save countless lives, but left out on the details of the violence involved to so: because a gaurdian named Papa Jim could care less about the wellbeing of children, and that included his own. He was wicked and greedy in that way: held to the same parental sins of acquisitiveness to four others--the hollow words expressing the need for the best of children had its limitations when reputation was involved. He had been guilty of explaining to Artemis that Athena was scary, and following up such hurtful rhetoric with negligence in procuring help: until Athena scared even herself. For what would the fucking faceless, and irrelevant neighbors think?! Artemis had set out to prove that the three orphaned girls deserved a home and love--the quest had led to a cave of despair. She had used the contest as a way to display talents, and a love of all things mysterious and important. To beg for mercy from an uncaring world--if it meant her and Dianne would be given a fair chance of healing from a torturous and wretched upbringing. Such was the burdens of an empath; the things without replication by way of probability and anomalies that often fell on the backs of Indigenous Warrior as brave and unforgiving as Artemis.

Artemis ignored Patsy and John screeching at one another, pecking away at an already-crumbling marriage--forgetting that they didn’t know their child was spared in one dimension. Artemis replacing the lost soul in Hades for safe keeping until the warriors of civil servants came to protect a child and document the damages beyond their control. The words "we’re here Jonbenet..." had never fell upon the ears of a scared baby with no one to protect her in most lives. The immortalization of the Ramsey name had been drafted by the loving parents themselves--tethered to an unknown scientist named Artemis.

She called forth a loner named Andrew: wondering why he had been so utterly loud with his arrival on the new planet, and knowing to expect the most “Christ-like pretension” that followed. Artemis called forth the Viking and his probably never-to-be wife bearing tiles of shells over her face: letting them guard a prison filled with people that loved to harm others. She said "good luck with that, Harp." pointing in the direction of a soured woman. The actions of others with obsessive disorders was without proper excuses, and gave for a more defined picture--as to the fears of people that kept waves of agoraphobia in the shores of the tired mind of Artemis.

The mother of Caylee had been the main attraction in this non-void: the agreeable villain...unworthy of the title parent, grossly accepted as a woman by biological standards. She asked Andrew if they had yet to meet, and when he said no, Artemis vanished the pair with the flick of her wrist. Artemis called forth the Sirens that were parents to a baby girl named Madeline, and this time asked Andrew if they knew of their friend Gerry. The man was eager to be in the know, and so Artemis interrupted his rants to explain where she had been in their previous conversation. She quoted how a solicitous wife had been endlessly worried that Madeleine’s “perfect little genitals had been torn apart.” Andrew looked aghast by the profanity, and his cardboard wings began to droop in sadness, finally slowing down his breath and pittering wings, as to politely ask "what". Artemis said “we’re talking about their missing child, and I guess her mother wrote about it". A book Artemis had no intentions of reading, and so she sealed the couple away in the letter a--capsized to the sentence of a page. Artemis began to snarl and retrace her steps in madness: wondering why she let the strange fits of boredom overflow into waves of depression and shame. The man was sad that his party was rained on by sketchy parents, even though his mother was quite toxic herself. Artemis felt his heart ache, he began to try and rip out his eyes, not wanting the massive flowing rivers of data that streamed into his every thought--almost as though the world wasn’t filled with lavish parties and luxuries worth living for. He thrashed about and laid upon the floor and died, a sad man that only lasted a single day within her simulation. The squirming man on the floor was invisible to her, forever chasing a formerly youthful self and unable to repent for his murderous sins in a simulation labeled: Artemis.

Artemis had been a part of "Project Artemis" as long as she could remember--the crowned jewel trapped away in floating tower. They had used her orphan body--to prove the strange couple in a daze: was dead-set on re-creating and acting out their crimes in kidnapping, retraining and eventually killing their own daughter. She had been a prop--to prove that John was a monster, and Artemis the victim. The sacrificed baby left to die on a hill buried in Hades: that’s all there was to the complicated and simplistic Project Artemis.

How long had she been tortured, probed for information--spewing off useless facts in a white hallway? Artemis often felt as though her glee in the news was unmatched with all those found in public domains--the notion of consuming information for the security of the public; left her with no solution other than to science. She left traps and clues in her river of webs and lies--the rage of waters unending had separated her from two sisters: gifting her with the vision and wherewithal to expect the worst in people, and take pride in people disappointing her in going in the opposite direction. Others watched news of little people, doing weird shit to try and remain in the public eye--whereas she observed the news, taking a breath of relief when stories had the better of two outcomes. When the also-ran legacy of an eldritch and abnormal artist self-titled as "Yee" fell ill with mania, having lost his wife...despite her being very much alive. She sighed: reminding the public that the safe exit of a naked wife and her children were of top priority...the up-playing in the worst-case scenario were reluctantly received by general audiences: forgetting that unpredictable behavior often held predictable outcomes--when flames of standards were lowered. The concept of jokes were reworked, set into motion through morbid poems--since Artemis was unable to look away at the heap of dumpster fire that was the life of a pathetic man. She wondered what life would be like--if only she had the resources to aim at a life where her athletic skills rewarded and bloodless battles could be brought to massive stages with words meant to disarm, harm a lil and to be given a booming voice in which to express her disappointment in others. Maybe it was for the best that she was confined to pages and ink, cuz the world probably wasn’t ready to hear the maniacal lyrics of Artemis.

She took refuge in staring down the barrel of murders on the daily with boredom. Artemis had begun to laugh in her swaying madness, finally free to be silly without worry of discipline. No, no...Artemis had already known life would be filled with courthouses and justice alike outside of a simulation: so she created a prison within a prison to judge and explain the sins and visible scars given by a man named James. The traits of being a people-pleaser by day, and menace at night were all things that belonged to victims; harmed by adults in early childhood...there was no in-between when painting the nuances of such easily distinguishable traits of surviving victims such as Artemis.

She had begun to smile in a wicked tone--her heart yearning to explode in poems exposing the truth. Her strange stare created and wicked smile could be seen by those that could see, and the blind. Artemis had a strange tick she called laughter: it brought confusion to those deaf, as a jarring emptiness of expression. "I had not been created to only satisfy man, and his disgusting need to claim women as property...or to appease the Gods of Olympus, but act as a ping sensor in expressing that a pedophile were nearer than many liked to admit". Such easily explained witness accounts were given to a Jury: Grand in scale...tucked safely away in their own homes. The dream of holding a vigil for the loss of innocence deserved the supremest of courts--minus Bret. That piece of shit was just there: to remind the world of how entitled his generation was--his place as a judge bought and paid for by shitty parents on her court, and was beyond-distasteful to someone as brutally attacked as Artemis.

Artemis had already known: her day and court had passed, but wondered why Papa Jim had ignored the summons. O right...he was dead. Artemis had called the incontestable legacy of Papa James to her attendance--to give a spiteful spirit a green book: empty minus some useless notes and advanced mathematics. She was a man of her word--finally ready to retire her fearful laughter. Artemis saw his hesitation, the indecisive attendance of his widowed wife...as she was Brooks, despite the right to return to a surname and the endless complaints of hating such a peaceful name. At the end of the day and the dawn of the winter morning: there was only the truth. A spark of hope that had built up and rounded out the moral compass of a worn down Artemis.

Her crimes smooth--her raps filled with violent delight. Artemis had needed his signature to sign over censorship of her persons to the Kind-Hearted Hunters in a simulation: without financial coercion being used to reward a pedophile. The childish version of herself would dream--of a life; being whisked away to safety, as to live in calm seclusion in a customized home made by her and Mel. Artemis was allergic to people, and knew her life was meant to be left at that--the world had praised her beauty, cutting open endless scars by reminding a childish soul of the harms such unwarranted titles had brought a six-year old: staring at a closed door, and knowing that no one in the whole wide world...could care less that a grown man was hurting her. She recalled daydreams of happy-endings: free of sick intentions where a man would lovingly called her wife, or the mother of his children...such were the unclaimed expectations of an absent protector of her body. Instead, were the stark facts as they lay: near a sick man and his need to fondle and lay naked near the lost child that was forever Artemis.

Artemis had said everything and nothing in a story--masked by leaves meant to deter people indisposed by the ugly truth. Such were the mythos of a demi-Goddess: forcing herself to suffer, as she awaited her friends to remove their masks--Dianne being the bestest of friends beneath it all. Had they always walked into empty rooms with such ill-intended purpose, or why had they expected each day: to be the day she remembered the rules of the game? Such strange happenings of forced characters left her confused, missing her black log and emerald throne. She spent the day--wondering why familiar faces glanced to Orion at her side, as though asking for interpretation. “What fucking language am I speaking?, why can’t anyone hear me?” Such were the suppressed thoughts of a simulation, and the observation of bad acting on some parts. She spent her day: kneeling from the scouting eyes of the Viking and daydreaming of Orion. Bored as a rock, and too tired to write down her tasks--wasting away her nights...sleeping and dreaming of her many, many potential Husbands. Such were the stupid burdens that were filed and mislabeled under an ancestor simulation named Artemis.

O I know. Artemis had needed to capture the shocking effect of her destroying the fourth wall--to be impenetrable to the story’s essence. They had wondered of her hands...why had she held them close: perturbed by the notion of ticks becoming muscle memory of a child denying an old man of kisses unless in public settings where pecks of the cheek were enough. The sins of excuses given to medal-draped heros--meant titles were always going to be seen as more important than the safety of the forgotten children such as Artemis.

Artemis often clenched a left fist in moments of fear: wishing only for the firm grasp of Orion to return a strong embrace. She loved this man with a strange passion--but wasn’t sure if he had ever been worthy of such admiration. He was the shameless love of her life--the poison that surrounded her apple. Artemis had used strange hand gestures to point out her dimension, unaware that one didn’t have thumbs. It had been the stitch that caught her in a circuit long ago; leaving her stranded and unable to snap her fingers. Son of a bitch. She had already wrote this stupid fucking story almost word for word huh? Artemis said to herself “I fucking hate everything...all the things” raising the weapon to her head in defiance to the negligent men that had proven their love in so many frail ways. Such were the Cascading, never-ending, terror-filled thoughts of an abandoned and unwed Artemis.

She had no reason to lie about the existence of the men in her story, only await their arrival at her door. Artemis awoke each day: eager to meet the woman in the mirror that had caused such a fuss to onlookers in her barren splendor. She would always start the game naked: lying past clenched teeth and bearing an unapologetic smile. Artemis had crafted a smile to hide her masculinity, an echo from a trauma she had never asked for in any way, shape of form. There was nothing to gain by explaining the hurts given by a man with an attracted to children...boys and girls alike: his only gratification being that--of taking advantage of access to those most vulnerable. At the end of it all: his chosen God would be the judge of such sins...those that were thrust upon the innocent souls such as Artemis.

She would spend her life--tucking back her beautiful wings to help men process people better, shattering their notions of sexuality in lazy conversation most times. Artemis was a nymph: her body raped by man, beaten by women: until one day she would turn into a tree from the base of her small rooted foot-prints, to the discs in her sharp jawline. She was nothing more--than a beautiful portrait of all the female attributes they coveted, stolen in the temples of infancy; left weeping naked on the floor as a child. Artemis had waited many moons to break her silence--to prove the wickedness of all the women that surrounded her, as they looked uncomfortable by her golden body, but paid to paint over their pale shame: demanding gold wreaths be captured in stills of their greedily smiling faces. Artemis looked olive-hued on most days, and she found the Tradition of orange paint and white dresses to be remarkable to watch. Artemis gazed at her left hand longingly, would the Viking be holding her right hand? Or was Orion ready to grow up? When her red tears ejected from a tightly-cinched helmet...would Orion be passionately kissing her in public, or was the Viking ready to grow up, or even better...would a stranger dawn a magic hat and step into an arena of chaos: calling himself Perseus without anyone asking for such a fabled role to be filled? Such was the curse of an indecisive spine, and a hopeless romantic being left to her own vices. Such were the random thoughts of a sleep-deprived Artemis.

Artemis hadn’t known how long she had been in the simulation, but it hadn’t bothered her to forget whatever she had fled from. It meant that Artemis fell back upon her wicked ways in drinking and finally pushed away the only three people to ever loved her without boundaries or limitations. Three sisters: were forever torn apart by circumstances and poverty keeping their minds trapped away in darkness. Luckily she was ready to lead the charge--to bring upon a dawn of new mortals, shameless in asking for help and taking the words of professionals until they took themselves just as seriously. At the end of the day: she was unafraid to admit the bottomless fears in observing the reflection of a stranger...needing only to be okay, and to set example for Dianne; if in the rewards... there were only a few days in which they could be the best versions of themselves. Such were the realistic, but seemingly unachievable goals of an a caring orphan named Artemis.

She could be seen saying childish things like "I just love my sister so much"--uncaring as to which ever was in good graces that day. The two had respected her enough--to explain limitations and social cues, and even gifted her with a finer tuned voice by sitting present in invisible arenas: sold out in a venue with the holding capacity of two. Artemis had nothing but love for them in this book, and needed each to contain a bit of her sanity, humility that grounded her to humanity. The lamenting of two women--struggling to get back up; had often kept her from reaching for the stars or stages meant for fame-laced performers...because such unworldly unfairness bothered Artemis.

Artemis knew the Viking would have objected to the strange jokes of one sister, and avoided accusations of attraction to another. Orion would be chipper to see her in anguish at his hand: unaware as to the true stature of Athena in a timeline were she was only preserved in memories--tucked away in stories. She hadn’t told him of her many dances with death, or how each sister had picked her up in trying times. He never listened, so she didn’t bother telling him: in the logical fears that such truths would be given as ammunition in a trial meant to judge her ability to parent, or to a woman predispostioned to morbid jealousy and histrionics. His cruel nature was forever on the furthest reaches of her mind: recovered at the hand of Project Artemis.

He hated her voice--her every fiber of being on some days...she’d rather not be right on such occasions. Artemis knew that she may not survive another night paying for the company of his body with her life. It had left her to doubt reality as she knew it, and question his presence in her life: the anomaly she had to grovel over. Artemis was tired of being pathetic and unwed, and so she returned to a time before their sky-boat(s) had drifted off path. She had gotten lost in the matrix--her body strung and hung frozen in the sky. It meant more to be in the presence of two judgemental sisters, than to work and thread through fleeting reasons of a disheveled Viking and the half-thought out excuses of a Viking.

Artemis had wandered through the dark matter of the universe, hopping from shield-to-shield by day, and dream-to-dream by night. She had slept with the same man multiple times, under different faces and names, humoring the list he had to endure to be crowned as a patient husband. His body never matched his face, until she had met Orion and his urgency to bang her brains out--for whatever reason on a random day. Artemis feared his massive human offspring in the passionate moment, and occasionally laughed that he was consistent in his method. Had a future husband wanted to prove Artemis had slept with the Viking before they wed? She assumed he had set a trap to freeze her in a provocative stance to publicly shame. She had never held hands with the Viking in this timeline, and she rested easily knowing Orion had no proof that the Viking and her had ever kissed. Yet, she also had proof that his hand rarely left the leg of his lady friend, and so Artemis placed her hand down gently upon the left leg of a conflicted Viking.

Why had Artemis played the game of paints and fizzy sugar drinks? Because she didn’t have a fucking choice...that’s why. Her life had been mounted on a conman trying to change his own life--trying to move past his sins in hurting children, too late in the game. Artemis was left to drain the blood of the pig, watching in horror as the citizens ignored her pleas and free premonitions of self-destruction. Her life was meant to fall in cannon with the card upon her forehead, whether it read liar, alcoholic, or loser. Artemis called these sins her basins of agon. Each--filled with her worst qualities, her alcoholism, her self-denial and accountability, or her need for occupation of clawed hands and ink’d quills or broccoli. The feeble nature of her life was defined by a state of being cast as the working poor--left to be mistreated, or overworked...her work ethic being unique between three sisters: who both were quick to give up. The need to allow such obvious crimes to go unpunished was something that held back only Artemis.

Artemis had smashed the basins of memories into pieces: left to slowly drain their contents so that she could have reasons to rebuild character. This was before finding out they had been rigged by the Mechanical Boar and his ruling Cyclops. Artemis kept a droplet of each basin: ink’d away in a jar upon a picture only she could view--a blood-drenched tear to gift to each sister if the time ever came. She had kept it for safekeeping in case she needed a way out of a timeline where marital bliss--superseded reality. Artemis had left it in order to remember her identity, her love of justice. She gave a digital copy to Rindy for safekeeping, the book of illustrations for Dianne, and a prop book to Papa Jim: to reward him for his ill-intended actions against children. Artemis had no intentions of printing the book, and so she finally held the weapon to the magic pages of the novel she had crafted. He hadn’t signed over her papers to freedom, and so Artemis threatened to delete the only true copy...to gleefully dismantle all the ink she had shared. This fucking cursed book had been all her "loving" Papa had ever wanted from Artemis.

Artemis left it at the mercy of her family--asking for permission to place titles on a crew of misfits and unveiling the loving Kind-Hearted Hunters to world. She hadn’t ever any reason to lie to them--so she never felt compelled to do so, at the risk of loosing earned respect. They had taught her the value of love and respect flowing both ways, and in doing so--Artemis had won a game that was almost considered unbeatable. The Kind-Hearted Hunters had taught her to do what was right, and knew that they’d always stand behind her actions if she slept on moments of agitation. She had done what was best for three sisters by setting boundaries, and words fell from her hands like poisoned blood fleeing the body. Artemis had felt their laughter when they replaced her tweezers with sharper objects, how funny it was...to watch a childish woman work through her own trauma and cause further harm. The ranking of donations had made it to where citizens thought their sickened purchases would be celebrated--because they had wanted to see the death of a contestant. She was disposable for their entertainment...right? She had let Athena trick her mind into staying awake to continue forth in writing a book for no one: her pots and pans clashing about in the empty space, when the world was consumed by selfishness and a need for labels. Such nonsense was what kept her awake at night, the riveting thoughts or suppressed memories she needed to write down for further research to deliver a worthy poem. Such hodge-podge in topics was to be expected from a wide-grinning Artemis.

Artemis asked the man that bore the crest of her face to help raise Athena, a woman without sin besides those against Artemis and Dianne when left unsupervised and starved in the entrapped space. She handed him a golden crown, and showed Athena in a flowing blue gown sitting near the ocean: the man would be offended the owl-eyed muse had been forced to dawned such mediocre fabric, and unaware that the task of parenthood could save his life from a man playing victim to a closet that nobody had trapped him in. Andrew had set out on quest of immortality, and she had wanted to stop him...to save the world of fashion, and set declaration as to how mental health had spiraled out of control and to be an endemic worth stopping. Artemis began weeping--thinking of such a beautiful sight and said “I know. She’s literally the most beautiful woman I know”. She had often wept on Athena’s behalf, wondering why she had never been given the fair chance at being an Olympian. The man was in immediate danger...even with Andrew out of the picture: ties to sketchy real estate deals and a tacky sister would transpire in being his downfall in most versions of his life. Artemis also informed the man--that Athena was also the “scariest woman I know.”, in case he needed the female reassurance of a courageous Indigenous Warrior to protect him from his own family...in case he ever doubted the need for Lithium in their lives: the reward of fatherhood...being a life free from soul-sucking losers. His own sister had often yelled through a thick accent: yammering with impatience of a need to remove his name and shield from his kingdom...a whole five minutes after burial. Artemis knew the fit would be perfect, but she had also just wanted to meet the God of fashion in the flesh: even if it were only in portraits of a half-sibling, still alive after the age of thirty-nine. Such were the artistic bucket-lists of a bored, yet amused by her own imagination: the lost wishes of a grieving Artemis.

Artemis asked the woman that bore beautiful song and proud strut to take Dianne under her wing, wondering why she didn’t sing more often--and seeing a large sign suggesting the offering of kindness and asking that world tried to see the good in everybody. Artemis told the cherished Ms. Dolly: “Ma’am you taught me how to be a lady, and how to hustle--I wish I could provide a safe place for my sister to invest in her musical talents, and to prepare her to meet the love of her life...in a less sad way". A Lyon would always seek out his wife on every timeline, so it was a matter of precedence. "She had a great singing voice, but Papa Jim used to slap her while standing by the door, and nobody has ever taught her the gratification of hard work without pain immediately following: we weren’t allowed to have fun in any capacity, because we lived with slobs. She has been neglected, force fed and starved at times. She was deprived of water for insulting bad cooking with silence and lady like nibbles, and now--and now, I don’t know if I can help her inner child from leaving this awful cave. Nobody let her be a child, so she skipped time and became a shrew.” Wishes fell empty: often deemed worthy to fall only from the mouths of loved children--they seemed hollow in demand, because life had been so unfair in all reality. She took the readers back to a time before they had even met Artemis.

Hera had invited Artemis to fight Dianne, egging on a teenager by asking if she wanted to hit her sibling with sparkling eyes. Using her fists to settle a minor infractions and watching with dancing eyes, as the fight commended under judgemental and frustrated fist. The readers said “I know...we already read this…”: Forcing Artemis to avoid her work in addressing the unacceptable shames of her violent nature. She said “no, not that time”: allowing herself to cry in embarrassment at the pain she had inflicted upon a kind and mostly harmless Dianne. She had taken pity on a baby sibling--doing nothing as she raged on...swinging away because she just wanted to go home...in a world where no place existed. They had been raised with less rights than most dogs--raised for the fight, pressured to obey commands and endless bets placed on viciousness. Forced to fight another human for the basic rights of food, water, and sleep. Artemis had beat the shit out of Dianne, and barely stopped herself when the reflection caught in the eyes of her opponent: seemed to depict some sort of unfamiliar monster. She hard hurt another human...to get by each day-the excuses of survival had ran dry in a single moment: the two sisters avoided getting to know each--in case they were forced to fight again...whenever Hera grew bored or gambled away the earning donated by the tax-payers. Such were the buried and unforgivable sins of a horrible child that hid behind a mask she called Artemis.

She looked around and wondered if this all had been to remind her of importance of self-advocacy and boundaries, and what it meant in the facts of Orion and the Viking following her into the abyss. Would the two men be so passionate about her--if they thought life was only about competition between one or the other? Artemis had no clue. Just a newfound love of her freedom, the silence and soft sounds she controlled. Instead; she had the liberty to sleep alone in her worries and dreams--excited to meet the soberly pleasant woman that wrote a book: to remember her name being that of many, Ph.D, Brooks, Of Arc...and of course, Artemis.

She had wrapped herself in the love of a family, and tucked away the grieves of a mourning child--finally let go of the anguish that tied her to the world hidden away as a disgusting secret. Artemis closed her book at last, finally able to detach herself from the droplets of blood that held her fate: if only to make those around her comfortable enough to care. A cursed language sprawled upon tired pages was left capsizing over itself throughout space and time. She would never be able to rid herself of the jar of such unclaimed trauma, because it was her only way out--to muster the courage to work through each day and to cherish what little was left of the word childhood. Something that was priceless to Artemis.

The jar was left in plain sight, open for the world to shatter as they pleased. Instead...they mocked her strange mania, and stood taken aback by her cruelty. The shallow evils of caring more about strangers than one’s own family--had been all she had ever known. The residual sadness of her orphanhood left to tempt her luck--seen in moments of longing for a bridge or handling of weapons. Artemis would wonder--how many holidays would she be forced to spend alone, until the only one she longed for...was one more with her two sisters. The world seemed so ugly without their stares, or softened tones...despite their flaws: they had fought with their lives to make sure one of them made it out alive, and somehow landed on the fact that it was probably supposed to be Artemis.

Unable to feel the warmth and love of a family: cold due to the lack of breast feeding and an a forever absent mother. Nobody loved Tia Tila, and each time her heart felt that burden in truth: she tucked away a few masculine tears away in the portrait of a cursed jar. Artemis knew the day would come--when she had been too distracted emptying out her basins labeled Depression, Degenerative Disc Disease, Agoraphobia: forgetting that she had forgotten the one labeled Yani in the back of her mind. The basin would overflow, and she would lose touch with reality again: pleading that they induce her into a simulation to ease her chronic pain in suffering. The world needed a better understanding of true suffering, because that was all that was known to Artemis.

She was never the same woman after the simulation, but deep down--that’s all her friends and family had wanted. They had wanted to rewrite over her flaws, and ignore the obvious presence of the basin labelled Yani. A basin that was crafted by the Questionable Queen herself, and a crown that forced her to admit that her genome was flawed at best, her game: wicked at its worst, and her might--incomparable to that of the common man. They didn’t have to drag her kicking and screaming to dawn a crown--because wanting the best for someone that deserved all that life had to offer was gifted in words and expressions of caring by those around her...until adverted gazes and moments of isolation would eventually eat away at a hardened and crass Artemis.

At the end of the day...death by suicide would be the only thing that could turn off the machine. Her date with death already selected by way of a favorite bridge, and the need for wickedness to be seen on all skin colours on the spectrum of mortals. If man was defined by his actions: had her soul already been lost to the corruption of her angry fists? Artemis invited adults to play her role, watching as they committed suicide in the blink of an eye--the bridge alternating by way of probability: each unable to cast themselves from the one she had actually decided upon during teenage years. People accused her of being indecisive, but it was a matter of perspective in importance to someone--lost in moments of great sorrow and missing a reason to call herself brave in between the spaces of ink’d stories: masked behind the name Artemis.

Had she became desensitized to the horrors of death, or why had she let the citizens die...to prove their unworthiness of the game? All she knew...was that whenever she removed her crown that denied her true reality for hours of sleep or kissed a seemingly random dude at her door: some other citizen would eagerly fill her spot, as to keep the moon and sun in the sky. All she knew was she had tried her best, and still came out the inevitable loser at the end of an “unwinnable game”. They had been right--in stating she had nothing to prove, but just like that: nobody objected to endless trauma and abuse--because they existed on timeline where adults painted words like child abuse to be acceptable in society--by throwing it in a box labelled: sexual entertainment, or stood unphased by wealth amassed by the taxpayers and gifted to the greedy...because they felt cooler by association--when there were abused orphans in the home next door or locked away from the world like Paris...because wealthy parents would rather not deal with the the judgement of shitty neighbors. At the end of the game: nobody seemed to understand that the game had to be played...to keep their planets in motion--chasing a star on a probably doomed timeline. At the end of the game, it was just her--her untamed thoughts and regrets, and the many woes of an orphan with the gamertag: Artemis.

Next Chapter: *[ XLVI ] Artemis and the Lotus*