It would seem that Artemis may have been screaming into a black hole for a day or two, far too long--alas, the mirroring efforts of a habitual sufferer remained imperceptible: yet...tangible to the reader. Life had passed her by, and the end result was always the same--Artemis was the loser of most circumstances, unable to live up to the criterion of others due to the fact of diversity shielding her skin. The gesture of guttural yelling was no doubt--an odd use of endless dreams, and a possible inefficient use of personal time. Artemis stood ambivalent to shame, unrelenting in expressing her superfluous emotions and the unfair rewards of surviving such unending uncertainty.

Sleep was a gift--too precious to purchase off a rack or glass shelf. The give-and-take of dreams brought its own version of insanity: there was no window of opportunity to shop for a future deserving enough to compensate for the horrors Artemis had survived as a child. One day...the pain of orphan-hood subsided the tiniest bit, and Artemis had let her guard down...forgetting that her life was open to afield attacks--all forms of cruelty by way of the curses in being born unlucky and unloved could be seen in the pages bearing an undeniably pathetic existence. “I guess that’s one way to save on therapy”: she clung to a weary clavicle...brushing away and patting at the brim of her lungs and thinking to herself--that self-pity was unwarranted, but understandable whenever moments of calm or smooth sailing were no-different, than forgetting the reality of a hypothetical shoe-- refusing to drop-in order to build up the disappointment for future torture by way of added inconvenience. There was no escape from a future compiled of data and experiences filled with such conspicuous uncertainty.

Artemis would awake with undissociable grudges: tears falling along her maddened cheeks, and the lack of warmth in her bed was fair proof--that her nightmares were a reality. Orion’s resentful love for everyone else, had been just another failure--her inability to risk chances of sexually transmitted diseases and need of reporting of such statuses, had pushed away the one person she’d ever cared for. Artemis’s refusal to circumambulate reasoning and logic for a single, title-less man--was nothing new to her. She stood on business. Her feet just happened to be too tiny to bear extravagant footprints. It would be a sentencing of eternity: pulling one arm across her front and downward with thankless pep and anguish, as she forced the tethers of two reins in constant motion. Each chord held one of her men at its end: purposely holding each guy far away from one another, as they both hardheartedly chased a woman suffering from a crumbling and spurring spine, and unrealistically overlooking a future of medical uncertainty.

Artemis had a dream--that the two anchored on red rope; were in a race for her hand in marriage and she’d been exhausted by the mere idea of such allegorized ridiculousness. Nothing good came from her splitting attention, albeit with an occupation or in a sparse love life. Artemis knew her arms were sore for this single reason: the gesture of making endless X slash marks through the air...leaving forceps fatigued each day, as she swayed and sang life away. Both men were illusive, and selfish in their absence...and Artemis was left feeling pathetic...missing one or the other at times. She were a hopeless romantic, and found both men to be a tragic use of her time--the pages creased by the many ways of slamming it haphazardly...wrinkles trickling upon random pages, beast-earring the corners of pages and providing the doubt-in-interest to the many men that seemed to thrive without her presence. Blinding deference had left Artemis is a stupor of self-pity. Things like her love of dance, would not only provide room for other men to admire a woman--confident in the title of athlete, but build a platform in which two men...would be forced to reckon with the consequences of their need to inflict harm with their commitment to leave her; doubting self-worth by way of past efforts to impose uncertainty.

Artemis had spent undergrad at University: professionally cheering on athletic teams, tossing large-curled hair and shameless smiles…armed with oversized bows that sparkled and announced victory. She had scoffed at her own profession, dawning wee skirts--until the burden of not being taken seriously enough became a trait--needing to be traded in for a new hobby. The shift in masculine pride; would direct Artemis to return in destroying wooden courts. The world didn’t know that obstacles of how issues in being the best, was nothing in comparison to the traumas thrown upon her during a childhood pegged by Hera’s love of abusing children--forced to play catch-up academically, psychologically and financially: by way of patriotism and self-efficacy. The boot-strapping needed--to be rightfully successful could only be achieved by Artemis running for her life: standing up for herself for the first-and-only time in a single plantive moment of sobering uncertainty.

Artemis always found it amusing--to watch men judge her past, just as the Viking once had...with his endless blushing and occasional speechlessness: when finding out her past of dazzling pom-poms and spirited yelling. Men had so often...treated her like kryptonite, accusing her of poisoning their own productivity--to relinquish accountability in their obsession with women full of cheer and positivity. This was an abashed trait known to be created by the Western culture: an odd fetish that had started through a male-dominated sport...invented by the dead-eyed savages before the commercialization of skirts and purses. Such personal information...had led to Orion being perturbed, as he gave her jealous glares: at the ideas of his own unseen memories belonging to other men. Artemis had already cheered for other men and led them to victory by way of coaching on a sideline, and holding aesthetics of a doll-porcelain, mixed-in-race, draped in white robes...competing with other women that were unaware the brevity of defying gravity or that the trusting of others to catch her in a embracing basket...was just a filler of time--meant to help Artemis become comfortable with her femininity, and obvious need to let go of such youthful uncertainty.

There wasn’t a direct route to shake-off the abuses obtruded by a strange woman that openly hated other women. Artemis found the idea of being a first generation student to be a gift: knowing she could shed the title of orphan with a single paper, simply by replacing it with a more palpable title--its weight proving her intellectual and athletic exceptionalism and carving a new path that offered more opportunities. In theory. Artemis was going into each day...blinded by the unknown--overriding the facts of being born to accept the lack-of-playbook that came with a fostered childhood, where she had been enslaved, abused and spent each moment of each day...concerned about what was to come next. The trenches of abuse were nothing in comparison to the culmination of audiences that wanted to believe in her might, and commend her efforts in rising to the occasion--despite being gifted with a handful of statistics that attempted to dampen spirits and humble a student; attempting to break away from generations of trauma and academic uncertainty.

Orion seemed so offended--by the idea of her cheering on other men, and somehow disappointed...that he had never held her attention on wooden courts. The abridged fact(s) of her past: left him unmotivated by the lost opportunity of her yells and chants being wasted on the countless men that had came before their introduction. Artemis had showered men with compliments publicly: booming a tenor compliment "Let’s gooooo..."--when Orion was given inoperative gazes or bluntly asked what he needed with a complimenting sigh of dissatisfaction. His own track record being used against him, and rewarded with no-contact or splintering silence. His many issues with commitment had nothing to do with her any longer. The inability to present himself as even a decent friend had finally left him to tend to the injuries left by scars of memories--whereas, Artemis had foolishly let herself be loved by a man that could barely love himself. The tall Indigenous Warrior returned to swimming and riding horseback, as he moodily decided she had made choices pivotal to her own future without him: by far reaching for the stars and beyond in their youth. Disparaged--by the growing list of her previous accomplishments, and discomposed by her inability to apologize for such awesomeness was pretty common...for immature men. His own academic and athletic ambitions deemed less-of-a-priority, to the success of woman already healing from a horrific childhood filled with uncertainty.

Artemis remembered spending her time---attempting to recall what life had been like: before these two men tied delicate knots to separate wedding fingers. Artemis was completely unaware that the Viking was a placeholder, for a man in white robes: busy bouncing and serenading the world with love songs...boasting of his admiration for girls, lullabies and the relentless Tidal Wave of emotions. The phantasams of the ideal partner to her seriousness. She had been a soul adrift--until the Viking and Orion had decidedly chose to tear her heart in two, as they non-verbally demanded that she chose between their egos. To asunder her soul and refuse to take a knee out of all unfairness. One man was coerced to admit admiration in the face of time, and the other ditching her side: to instill the fear of abandonment and all that came with such selfish and deflecting uncertainty.

The woman was left confused, by how such heartbreak had panned out in her favor, as the three had each found themselves trapped in a web of her indecisiveness and lack-of-caring when facing mistreatment. The facts being: Artemis would have most likely overlooked Orion and his jock-like demeanor out of embarrassment towards how she felt whenever blushing with tacit admission to the natural feeling that stirred while looking his way. She would forever be scared to be in close proximity--endlessly flattered by his unexplained need to pursue or berate her life with spells of love, bombing what little confidence she held out of boredom. He would hit on her relentlessly, as he offered to carry her books with a charmed smile--using public affection as ploys to feed his own uncertainty.

Artemis had seen him as a blue-light, posing no threat, but also offering little comfort when observing from afar. Orion had been a sexual band-aid or constellation prize for her heartbreak; from being rejected by the aging Viking. The woman had foolishly utilized her presumptions of his promiscuity, and overlooked his personality outside of what was provided in the bedroom. She would base their unlabelled partnership upon this faulted line, basing little concern as to what the quiet man thought on the topic. The penembra of his true feelings would never allow her to ask personal questions. Orion remained saying very little to her...to leave Artemis in the dark without candle...with the intensive purpose of keeping her title(s) from holding centre in his life. She had toppled over: overwhelmed by his give, and pull--fumbling to find value in the things provided by his fragile masculinity and traits in avoidant uncertainty.

She admired Orion and his ability to know when it was inappropriate to say nothing at all: it was always best to say less, than to lie and risk Artemis having a tenured reason to swipe left. He had barely been helpful in worst moments of her life: offering up a few words of comfort and stating: “I’m glad that everything’s ok.”, and then undoing all expressions of caring by asking "what do you want me to do?" when Zues’s lighting had struck twice. The discomfort of her life, was her struggle alone to burden--whether it was with Orion stating the obvious...or the Kind-Hearted Hunters finally admitting discomfort in the proposed arrangements of offering aid to a child that wasn’t theirs. Artemis shrugged to herself, knowing a life sentence: hunched over was something that was beyond unsightly--and accepting that a bridge could solve all of her woes in uncertainty.

Artemis felt shame in letting him try to love her--guilt for being a burden to an elderly couple...crawling on all fours, eventually gaining mobility on the left half of her face: embarking on an Odyssey, where she was the monster to his story. Artemis was considered crass, rude, and unforgiving: by Orion and his viperous female "best friend". There wasn’t much need to point out that every-other sentence that fell from her overworked mouth; had an underlying tone of pernicious hate and division...his presence, provided a tall woman with only the choice to evacuate emotions like slippery diarrhea, and Artemis...was left staring with conflicted understanding as to why the woman thrived on dismantling others romantic relationships. There wasn’t much to contend with a woman lacking in her own personality, and so Artemis decided to grin and bear the insufferable "friendship" that was crafted of loitering and plucking away at whatever woman Orion decided to care for that day. Artemis took a final bow-pointing to the stars, and stating she had to go. The insecurity of being alone had nothing to do with her, secure in emotional attachments and knowing that leech-like women...rarely matured beyond drama-driven uncertainty.

Artemis had had enough--saying nothing, and closing the door in the face of a man that worried about the opinions of others, more than those held in high regard as Just payment for his attentiveness. It bothered her to know that he felt no shame, or guilt by the documentation stating a need for readiness for an early death, and so she gave up altogether...knowing that she’d rather be the shortened story; about passionate love and annoying youthful disagreements...than to set herself up for obvious failure with the increased possibility of being trapped in his web of selfishness: stranded with a child, a title of nagging or insufferable wife, and devalued on every turn--because some loser couldn’t grasp the understanding of the importance of boundaries between "friends", and refused to see the unhealthy writings on the walls of his life. Artemis would laugh out of spite--knowing that his bullshit were to be the problems for the next sucker that dared to love a man that needed one hundred percent dedication, but made allowances for his own attention to be split fifty-fifty...to make way for an old fuck buddy and her dangerous traits in invasive friendship. His love of "having fun", placed a bag of bones to be the dedicated back-up--a priority worth preserving evidently. The patterns of insecurity, and his pathetic inability to be alone would always leave his relationships with a shadow of uncertainty.

Artemis was cursedly labelled indestructible, for the smile that consumed half of her face...the other side of the coin being outward facing and more authentic when the public refused to look at her in worst forms of health. Instead they asked themselves--how such a devastating thing had happened to her, to deem her so unsightly in their eyes. It was so unfair--that they had to look at a woman hunched over in pain. What did Artemis expect for them to do...with such obvious discomfort around disabilities? Their belated caring: being cast in sympathetic tones, as they drew out their breath saying...“awww, what happened?!” and looking downward at the top of her head. There was nothing but exhaustion for half-hearted concerns...it meant nothing to her: to know people cared in bursts or sessions. They had nothing to say when she pointed out a legacy of surviving as an orphan, referring to the statistics that she hadn’t been exempt from and what their ancestors had done to her spine. It was easiest to cut-the-shit, and let people shake off their helplessness in order to lessen the impacts of such solution-less uncertainty.

Artemis had no choice, but to break the social norms on the topics of child abuse and the verbally canonized chasitization of driving chariots under the influence of poisonous substance: facts of a collapsing spine, served as proof that she had fought endless battles since birth--all the way to early adulthood. Normal speaking tones were replaced by fluted voices; those often reserved for children, as they were secretly disgusted by the telltale signs of a relinquished body crumbling under the immense pressures of their manifest destiny. Artemis hid such rage and loathing for these citizens to uncover themselves--beneath pages that offered the false pretenses of a romance novel. Sympathy was processed at face value: many of her friends leaving in boredom...unable to remain friends with a woman suffering from physical deformity and a diagnosis of a shortened lifespan. It was useless for them to take value in a friendship with a cap on its enjoyment. Very few people cared about the horrors--the bits and bytes of hope ripped away constantly, as Artemis endured pain that left her near-comatose: her heart refusing to pump blood, out of the disappointment that rang true whenever others willingly left in the lurch; unable to cope at the first moments of inconvenient uncertainty.

Artemis had made it a habit to stand with her arms crossed, protecting heart and soul from those around. Her complimentary stoicism: admired in her culture. "I don’t trust nobody, because this Nation was built off the backs of the least trust-worthy of people". Artemis were born to be a force of nature, a secret weapon to be reckoned with--at the expense of those that had the privilege and pale skin...the morons that had recently voted for misoneism to rule the land. She had resorted to smiling by default; holding up the customs of pleasantry, as a way to release endorphins and serotonin-- warding off chronic pain with sparkling eyes. Artemis lived her life: holding up a cement mask to hide her dampening pain...she had done so splendidly up until this point in her life--despite the fact citizens had made jokes about purging all those with culture and diversity from existence. Gross "jokes"...made by gross people. She’d catch herself raising an arm in defense, knowing she was entirely on her own in the world--surrounded by criminals and deviants alike. Artemis broke arms from the norm and eroded her mask away with the crackling caused by jarring laughter and splendid grinning: serving the performance of a lifetime each day...in order to distract from the obvious indications that came with a fate filled with helplessness and mortal uncertainty.

Artemis knew that it were impervious: that each man would probably return by her side--probably telling themselves that she was without sexual needs, holding legs closed in their absence, and emotional deficit in being valued by anyone else...so repulsive, that no other man could love such a beast of person. Maybe they were under the assumption that she knew little about men, out of folly of disparaging her heavily documented intellect--choice-fully forgetting: Artemis held certificate in the studies of behavioral psychology. History would find a way to repeat itself, in the form of a stray passerby named David-attempting to diminish her self-worth and accomplishments at every turn: to void his own insecurities and inability to not be a little-bitch...in face of doing the right thing. Artemis was more-than-comfortable; leaving behind men that leveraged her strong morals to be seen as bothersome, burdensome, and worrisome--needing the pain to end with her, and knowing that the world wasn’t operating properly on their bullshit need to protect those that willingly and knowingly mistreat others. It was more simple to be single and proud, than embarrassed by men like David--gleefully bending over and asking to be dick’d deeper, out of lack of self-respect and a childish fear of professional and romantic uncertainty.

Often agitated by the existence of absent men, and dedicated to the concept of cosmic companionship-Artemis buried herself deep within the pages of a novel with not a single tipping point...to drag her to the finish line. Her legacy in failure had to be exactly that for an entire Nation. The notion of life dishing out entrees of unfairness left her without appetite-occasionally walking away to mend wounds and reiterate her concerns, and preparing for whatever battles required litigation and or arbitration. Artemis had learned a long time ago...the posthumous be-all of patriotism often fell on the shoulders of the working poor-the citizens that were often too overworked to build legal cases, and or understand the protections of blowing whistles or sounding humanitarian alarms in the darkness. When shadowing boards and front men-claiming to care only of the relations of workers-attempted to break her spirit, forwarding blame under the excuses "we’re like family", or questioned her inability to find value in mistreatment for sixteen pounds an hour (before taxation)...Artemis growled in face of danger. They were not her family, outside of trademarks of untrustworthy and laziness. She took note of such bullshit rhetoric, unsure as to why assumptions were made about her intelligence. There was nowhere safe to exist-in a labor field comprised of intimidation, retaliation, and the overbearing notion that Artemis would stand down to such critical forms of abuses of power and greedily transgressed uncertainty.

Her "love" was none-existent, as one man wandered around delivering the post-yelling at anyone that passed, and the other man still refused to even talk or look at her...at all costs. She shifted focus onto self-care and dedicating her efforts to better time management strategies; her book being the only place of true comfort. Artemis became obsessed with overthinking which chess moves to lay out next: focusing on regaining her leg mobility in the upcoming days and annoyed whenever she were bedridden on the occasion. Such physical entrapment led to vivid dreams: as the woman avoided yelling in the massive black hole that she had conjured in despair...now waving violently unsteady in the face of possible eviction. Her screams and tears rested, too exhausted to reawaken the memory she held of being sexually-assaulted as an infant, and unable to articulate the perpetual pain she felt whenever smiling when there was nothing worthy of smiling for. Artemis resigned her howling in non-verbal words… and retired false grins that suggested she were mildly ok; the foreclosures of self-worth being hidden away behind the unavoidable fate of surviving with such unmending uncertainty.

The woman was a victim to her own truths: forever suffering--intentionally locked herself away from the ugly world in a sarcophagus surrounded by animated static--meant to torture her with promises of turning profit someday. She had been asked to turn an apple inside out, as a participant to some sort of sick game. Artemis had assumed physical might were needed for the task: a feat openly deemed impossible that she had selectively ignored in her guile and ignorant bliss--she vowed to achieve the task, and the deeply desired costs of such failure brought solace, knowing the completion of such labor would cost her her life either way. She had been assigned such an ungodly feat on purpose: forgetting she were never alone, saddened by loss of religion...and the robbed belief in love, despite the fact that men guarded her every step. The empty doorways stood as evidence that immature men, lacking in emotional capacity, and evidently bored to death...saw her to be a solution to whatever issues they were avoiding. Artemis had only wanted to be the right hand man to her beloved papa, forgetting that he had fondled her as a child--sitting on his lap and enjoying whatever sweets lured her into submission. The reoccurring traumas that had been left as a burden to her two aunties and mother--were now inherited as Artemis’s problems: cured by written words, medical attention and a hatred for men that took advantage of children, as they were left unprotected and molested into spells of uncertainty.

Artemis had once stupidly wished: for the skill of proper English--throwing her soul into a pit of despair; holding down the family lore as guarded secrets until she risked implosion. Such unresolved-at-the-time issues; had caused an impenetrable barrier when she had first met the Viking: for she had little of value to say...whenever he were near. Her talents in athleticism had gifted Artemis with the chance of being seen and admired, by a strange man; dawning a loud voice and supposedly clipped wings. He had a talent in awkwardly pushing Artemis away, and holding her close at the same time: with lectures and endless questions as to her absence to his all-consuming orbit. His internal struggle with their friendship being noted by his own cohort, and eventually the woman he chose over her. Their relationship was difficult to explain, as he often boomed responses and compliments that suggested that she were accountable and implicated in crimes for not knowing his feelings otherwise. At the end of the day, all Artemis knew about him...was his need to pull attention from women in all directions--occasionally baiting them with injuries and kind words meant only to impose confusion and uncertainty.

It made for an odd pairing whenever they argued in public, as the man stood taller whenever she arrived and openly sulked in Artemis’s worn down absence. The Viking cared for her--in a way he’d rather not admit, and he were forced to mentally arise from his bored demure to accompany her enthusiasm. Artemis laughed at these memories: forever flattered that he had always found reasons to touch her and openly comment on the softness of her skin. The pair: equally questioning the realness of their situation, as he would manage to gaze at her neck and back: distracted by her head hanging low in pensive concentration. Artemis had no words on his existence, and voided any opportunities to express publicly--her own emotions to the subject: the adolescent churning in her stomach being what could only be assumed as a first love or deep admiration. An old-fashioned take: on an old man. She would forever look for him in her dreams--occasionally wishing to excavate evidence that he missed her. Artemis had accepted the reality in which she would never be able to hold title of wife at his side, as he was forever trapped in a maze of his own emotions, imprisoned and nailed to the crucible of social forces that kept them apart most days. Artemis was born to a life of Tradition--tagged with numbers expressing a royal bloodline; demanding that she fulfill a duty of proudly ruling ambitions and preserved genetics. The Yurok Tribe had often used her lack-of child rearing as reasons to avoid offering help or financial solutions. Her failures were entirely her own, and they had taken great strides to overlook the shame-filled applications pleading for help in any way. A child was all they cared about, and she refused to live in such states of irresponsible parenting, or to forego a chance at real love...when she herself, often felt like a child at times. It all seemed so gross...to be lambasted by the expectations of strangers and denied aide, instead of being praised for only asking to take what was needed to survive--when women like Athena had openly milked the system for decades. Artemis had her head on the chopping block, as she had aged gracefully to maturity: blossoming into a leader unlike all those around her...adorned in the role of a King residing over a stolen kingdom: cursed to be mislabeled as a Queen.

Artemis held hands with countless men for what seemed like an eternity, as her mind wandered in, out and far-past bewitching thoughts. She stood in a cave holding an apple--weeping and knowing that no help was on its way. The pictorial of failure could be drawn by the images of an empty doorway or that of a lustful fruit. The objects smooth rounded surface entrancing Artemis to tickle and tap her fingers in an attempt to capture its warmth. She arrived at the cave to explicitly scream into the void, and found a cursed apple waiting for her on a stone perch. There she stood, hunched over merry colors--pensive hands stroking away at the pages that better lay out the battle-plans in her pathetic life; needing to say less about the things meant to be fixed by professionals-- needing only depositions and dates. The turmoil of demanding the world apologize for nonprofessionals, and provide fair compensation for the many misdeeds of others--that thought her to be too stupid, too lazy to gather the facts needed to lay siege from afar, as fair-retribution for the theft of slumber, instability in livelihood, and the wrongful belief that Artemis would get on both knees and suck the dick of corporate uncertainty.

Artemis had occasionally forgotten her stupid task of screaming--whilst holding the dark artifact, pulling focus on her own life--accidentally causing a shift in the world, and dragging the weight of a sufferer alone: eventually inverting one’s self into a black hole. There was no winning--in a world that openly hated its women. The feat of winning a race of the Gods--had promised victory in an obscure game that had encased her within the fourth-dimension. The skilled painter, forever suspended in a tesseract of obstacles--with no real solution, no exit door, and only the option to build walls of reasoning to fortify her morals from all those that wished her failure, or demanded that she take pride in being a sacrificial goat--if it meant their own occupation was protected from employment uncertainty.

Artemis was left without lucidity, as she admired the view of her two men in her dreams. She’d hold their hands as they took turns escorting her to the bedroom: the cursed hallway with red doors had been theirs to paint. She reached out for her two favorite men, and the gesture had crossed over dimensions somehow. The three were captive to Artemis and whatever commitment problems, that kept them away. The impression that only the return of Orion at her side...had been the lynching pin to Artemis’s chaotic heart, as she drowned in uncertainty.

Orion would bring peace to her storming and clashing of turbulent waves: easing her raging hurricanes with soft kisses; backed with hesitation. Their honesty with one another had been their strongest quality--their power as a unit--provided Artemis with a train of corrective thoughts, as she sought him out tirelessly each night. The nights with erotic dreams involving Orion were abrasive and shockingly tame simultaneously. She’d question his intentions and he’d attempt to shame her by asking if she could identify him by name. Artemis had grown to hate his dependency on her mental blocks, and so she resorted to belittling him by saying “it doesn’t matter” or "not-my-husband". Watching as he grew angry and defensive--patiently waiting out her own dreams until his departure: if only to giggle to herself and question why such a marvelous bag of hoes was so moody. She had despised him for his blatant nakedness. The indifference she felt towards him had been real. Artemis needed him suffer--in the same respect she had endured in their earlier romantic situations, and became fascinated with the idea of forcing Orion to admit his place at her side--when all he had done up until this point in life was offer lustful nights, filled with endless expectations for her but drenched in uncertainty.

Artemis needed him to doubt his unique placement in her life--to lessen his sense of entitlement, and she did so by holding her body in importance. Her sociopathic tendencies had gotten the best of her. Orion had found her strapped to a wall--labelled as the moon, and lost in a cryogenic trance. The woman had forgotten everything aboot her life, and that included Orion. Artemis was left to trace her steps, as Orion looked for her with his cute bum to the wind. His odd way of paying tribute to her struggles and proving his frantic need to understand her unyielding sickness of depression. Orion had wasted their time; half-assed listening to Artemis, and ignoring her improper articulations and accents. Her honesty had meant many of her responses held multiple meanings, as Orion ignored her repeated quotes of kind informative incoherence. She’d sweetly remind him “I’m mad darling” whenever he asked what was wrong, and he had made the error of forgetting Artemis originally held a crumpet-filled inner-narrative by default. Her cry for help had been asserted to an angry personality, and overlooked for lifetimes over. It would only be the gesture of armed form, and the tilt of head--that would bring forth the understanding of her rage toward Orion, as he raised a concerned eyebrow and gazed up at an barrel that clarified the harm that left Artemis chained to trauma. Her absence in his life was meant to specify the depth of sadness that transpired from his own actions--upturned knuckles aiming upon the center of his forehead, as threat for gifting her with emotional damages, swaying confidence, and a moment to purpose the true feelings that came with loving someone that chose to bathe in his own reflection. Ivory keys complimented the scene, meant to better articulate the gesture of her impatience to his commitment to pulling her beneath the waves of his shameless uncertainty.

They would always find one another in their roughest times, and know that being friends was never going to be enough--there was no ultimatum for a man deemed by himself...to be out of her league. She had taken a moment to prove so, laughing and retracting a weapon in a single gesture. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitancy in aiming a weapon to a temple and pulling the trigger. It was meant to remind the world...that she didn’t deserve any of this. That’s why they had invented the word orphan...to placate the title of being unloved, and or, unlovable...right? His inability to take pride in being a pocket-deal to the throngs of men laying ribbons and golden eggs around her neck would mean a single terrifying moment; clairvoyant in expressing the turmoil he caused her life with his unfavorable uncertainty.

Artemis had loved him in ways that made her sad beyond all comprehensible words, and nothing was ever going to be enough for him--that is exactly who they had always been. Orion would take advantage of her need to prove him to be the one good egg out of the tarnishing golden ones draped around her tired neck. He were Orion, and she were his only mess. She was Artemis, and he was responsible for endless messes. They would laugh at the stories of an invisible pale Viking that had unknowingly led Artemis back to her culture and straight into Orion’s arms. Life would have been so different had he only said what he meant, and meant what he said--the wasted opportunities of pale privilege had gifted Orion with a chance at love. Artemis had grown tired of longing after white boys and their incessant duplicity and lack-luster talents in dragging along women of culture for reasons of fetishization--too cowardly to embrace a woman of interest due to the amount of uncultured uncertainty.

Artemis had believed blindly, that she could be enough for someone to love someday. Time; always had a way of bringing her into the present--leaving her to sway in the violent winds. There was no agreeable lover to aide in avoiding Artemis in toppling over in such madness. There lay a secret enjoyment in the time utilized writing a shitty poetry...aboot all the shitty dreams she had growing up--manifesting her own destiny with words and truths unending. Artemis had wrote a book in rhythms that only she heard--laying concurrent reasoning to the things that transpired all around. She tried remembering--how she had wished for silence in a past life, and demanded her confidants to call her by name and not duty. To be a leader, meant a life of loneliness, but now she only longed for the latter...missing the role as a Captain. Artemis wished for her sky-boat to appear from behind massive cumulus clouds--gazing upon a Crescent Bay as though it would saddle itself up and break away from the anchors of the seas weight. Beautiful dreams of wandering through time, walking beside Athena as they placed columns of history upright--all to build a stage meant to publicize Artemis’s might in overcoming a spell of longing for death, and give way to a reward that was only claimed when surviving the worst life possible--to endure the labors of a child abandoned and left to cope with a life; filled with spiteful idiots, xenophobia, and all those that got-off on weaponizing religious uncertainty.

A book that nobody had asked for--served as a simple reason to make sense of her disastrous life: in some sort of fashion that couldn’t be called obscure anomalies, or tossed aside without merit. Artemis cried in the divine stress-- that she may never be enough to change the world: her body unable to handle the rape and physical harm--those, deemed as "Traditions" by the citizens that now cheered on a convicted rapist as he ruled the land. The woman had only lied to hold audiences captivated, and enemies at bay, and one day...they were uncalled for, written over...to better tell a story of an infant surviving a brutal sexual assault. The addition of her evilness in understanding the truth that paved the path of her life--came at the cost of a good production, and at risk of offending an audience armed with rotten fruit, and or, roses. Artemis wanted only for a purpose greater than all that she’d seen so far--there was nothing left for her when reflecting upon a house of horrors, or the memories of a propelling device greeting her consciousness with unimaginable pain. There seemed a sense of poetic justice--painting a crew of friends that believed in her leadership skills to the edges of the universe and back. Such unfortunate circumstances would force Artemis to worry of her own integrity, and ability to lead such an unruly and sometimes unhelpful crew--leaving her to feel hopeless disappointment in trials of man, and why they took pride in such insubordinate actions and traitorous uncertainty.

Artemis had remembered a trial--in which she and two elder sisters had been asked to draw fair portraits of their husband. They were being tested for their pre-cog abilities under hypnosis and mind-altering substances: their isolation creating a blind experiment. The children had minimum illustrating skills, and that alone could prove that there would be no way of knowing what form their art renderings would take. Some mortals: had fallen sick and began loving inanimate objects today, and so the limitations were never ending when it came to marriage. The three sisters were cursed to redraw their husbands face until he appeared at their door. Artemis had misunderstood the assignment--believing that she needed to paint all three of their husbands, sloppily painting five men upon one canvas. She first lay out the obvious, of Dianne’s husband--a proud and tactful Lion, secondly... two men that Athena had never met: one break dancing upon his head--spinning with the passion of seven men, and the other a sorrowful man, cherished for his nickname "Tanos"-and the childish games of judgement he endured. Lastly, Artemis painted Orion standing at her side--and a dark shadow, tied to a red string; impatiently waiting for Artemis to leave behind a childish love as he headed Out the Door. His presence in her life would be non-existent, as she was unknown to the world--a loser on all accords, tethered to poverty and unable to travel to him as she resentfully balanced financial uncertainty.

Artemis had only passion for sport and glory. Her compassion and smiles were reserved for those without a protector--there were slain children needing protecting and attention from a heartless world. She couldn’t have imagined as a kid: that someday she would be stuck daydreaming aboot two random men and not having access to either, by issue of space or time. Artemis allowed herself to lean to the right whenever she missed her lush lover--his odd timing in the way of complimenting her at strange or inconvenient times. She would lean to her left whenever she missed the stable calmness provided by an aging Viking and whatever stranger he stood as a placeholder for with his boredom. The strings of harsh melodious tunes, darkened by her moods--would leave readers to cope with her need to step away from pages without reward, unable to reach out and commend an author for crafting such an intricate tapestry--it’s print date, remaining in limbo, hostage to Artemis’s love of love; captive to her artistic uncertainty.

She avoiding giving answer, as to which man meant more to her--having her heart ripped into two in a single year and willfully shredding it into slivers of static. Artemis was torn at every-second of every-day, for being a coward in facing her physical reality. Artemis had turned the apple over and over, polishing words--taking turns holding the hands of her past mistakes and missteps. She was at a loss of words--in explaining how the small speck of familiarity soothingly rang from within her apple--calling out for her as though knowing her by name. The idea of such didn’t make mean a sense in terms of defending her sanity. It was a warm blackened humming sound: that lingered behind weary eyes--holding her captivated by the potential in imagination, as she waited for a gentle knock on the door. Artemis had finally decided which hand to take as her husband, and knew that the rest was up to fate--her curses in foolishly standing beside a wild heart that proudly took aim in burgeoning her life with uncertainty.

Artemis lived in the fear of taking ink to the page--to wield a sword of permanence along the overlapping of golden webs. The worry of drawing the wrong man--had forced her to draw them both in a single portrait at last, and managed to dismantle the guidelines that constrained her. Artemis had once read...that she were famous for being unwed, and the situation before her--offered an easily digestible solution, as to why legend had once wrote her down with such a specific trait. She was forever the wife walking away from mistreatment and leaving men in the shambles of their own actions, left to cook, clean, and fend for themselves as punishment for harboring a need to inflict uncertainty.

The text of yesteryear--had also mentioned that Artemis would rely on Athena for aide in ascending Olympus. The obvious misgivings allowed Artemis to read the remainder of the text to be a trap of sorts. Athena had never cared aboot anything but herself for the entirety of her life, and so Artemis read the text over--with the assumptions that Athena was hiding the truth from her in some respect. Hera and Athena were both cut from the same cloth some days, and their ill-intentions seen a mile away. The idea of Athena “helping” a younger sibling, or anyone...for that matter--were both ludicrous and impossible, and it left her without rest; to know that fate was intertwined with selfish goals and unrealistic expectations. Athena had the trait of confusing compliments with criticisms--telling herself that no one was worthy of either judgement. Her ruthless inability to be helpful--served as proof that the fate of a crew lost to time was boggled down by uncertainty.

Artemis stood in the middle of the empty cave, and called out asking if there were anybody there: secretly longing to hear Athena’s voice announcing attendance. She broke down, waiting for Athena to snarl "What?!", accepting that her life was forever to be lonely in a way that impacted her outside the cave of reasoning. The absence of an annoyed siblings response had meant that the coast were cleared enough for Artemis to sing and dance, as she were finally alone--unable to shake off the grief otherwise. Artemis gave dances and songs and stories to the Indigenous Peoples: time and time again, she watched as dimensions slipped away from the grasps of history. Each time her Indigenous Peoples were extinguished from their dimension and the commonality spanning over multiple dimensions within a forgotten multiverse--they had split timelines, unable to defend the right to exist in peace, unwilling to surrender vices that hindered their strength and kept them hostage to timelines crafted upon the word Genocide--uncaring in accepting that their lives had been doomed at birth, and carved with horrific etchings of cultural uncertainty.

Artemis had wept and finally wrote down her story, as a fable of caution--unchangeable and ugly. Her rarity in genome had meant that she lived with the high risk of being copied into an algorithms that could pin-point fidelity. She reminded herself--how she had once beat the game known as Sburbs in a past life, and how the victory had given birth to the game Sburbs itself. Artemis had won by forfeiting her prized apple to Orion in boredom--offering him a single chance to come home. Artemis would still rub her temple in irritation, wondering why men were so unpredictable in their moods. There were to be consequences for the slow reaction to recognize Orion, but only after he had appeared in a static apple--a head in box, holding down a timeline modified to the technological advances available to her. Artemis wondered if he could recall the oral-history of Utsuro-Bune--of a woman clamoring to survive the sea, to preserve the love held for a man lost to time...and leaving sailors and locals alike, sickened with intrigue as they witnessed a woman--red skinned, famed for her hair and the white rabbit furs dangling from the base of Traditional braids: asking that those witnessing her arrival and departure--pass on journalistic stories, complete with eye-witness accounts and illustrations, to better prepare Artemis’s next life with less skepticism and historic uncertainty.

Orion had shown his face in the next life: fully-dressed and aboard a ship called the Nadesico, whereas the Viking had met Artemis as a Chief working to engineer a Starship filled with invaluable Operators. She would admire in amusement--how passionately they fought for her affection, but caught herself walking off whenever their arguments no longer included her. She’d be fine with being a spectator forever: if it meant the two men didn’t fall the way of Alexander the Great, as she knew Orion either liked disliked someone...or got naked at the expense of either emotion. The ambiguity of his feelings intertwined with his polite need to provide his sexual services to anyone in need--had nothing to do with her. She would have the same nightmare of their dalliances and found herself only enraged at the Viking: since Orion were unapologetic in being himself and the Viking knew better. She would say “nah” to herself in disbelief over and over again--avoiding moving stills of homosexuals, until the inevitable took hold. They were the primordial versions of the Greek Gods, forever cursed to remain stuck in a loop of ninety-something minutes. Their existence confined to a shiny black reel--tucked away on the shelves of an overcrowded and underfunded library. Artemis’s life story were like a shitty sitcom that she didn’t even want to take part of, but was too scared to turn away from in viewing the fires that consumed what little was left of her. Artemis now sat as a disgruntled passenger, pissed-off and wondering if she were meant only to play the part of a cheerful leader--to be the side-kick to either sibling, each exceptional in their own way...where she was forever the stupid baby, crying away about the things nobody cared to acknowledge...let alone attempt to change. Perhaps, Artemis was never to be taken seriously as a candidate for Captain, let alone trusted to hold the title of a Queen.

Artemis had grown to love the holidays, as it held a warm place in her memories--of the days with a man she had once admired, until learning of his sexual transgressions in a home that was unable to subsist without him. She was forever imprisoned to a house--stuck in the trauma...recalling how eager his wife was whenever she prepared for the arrival of her own children, and how miserable Hera was: whenever three sisters of two separate generations stood innocently on the sidelines of her day. The traits of a pedophile were overlooked out of convenience to Hera’s ego, and Artemis was punished for her role as victim--complicit in offering a sick wife with further jealousy and uncertainty.

Artemis had once observed a nightmare as a child--where she had seen Hera do the unthinkable, and smothered her own three daughters in their sleep with a pillow. This notion of pure untrustworthiness and seriousness had been seeded in a child, by Hera’s own off-handed jokes, and her need to complain about the burdens of motherhood. The dream had haunted her, as she said nothing: watching from beyond in silence and capturing the dream for safekeeping. Hera gave Artemis the same blank stare her entire childhood--it were as though she could see past a mask of hatred that had been too thickly caked on. Artemis knew too much, about the wrong type of people. She had little in common with such an odd woman, and Hera seemed to despise the reluctance caused by Artemis’s dreams...whereas a child was forever frozen in fear--unable to decipher between dreams and reality, clumsily making her way through an abuse-filled childhood with a claim to fame for expressing such psychological uncertainty.

Artemis had wondered what had happened on those timelines, as she were trapped in the only one where Theresa, Tina and Tamera still existed and had escaped the claws of Hera’s murderous postpartum wrath. Artemis laughed, as the three daughters continued to turn into their mother somehow--despite their vast efforts, and claims in avoiding the inevitable. They had procured their predestined fate, and Hera was left to wallow in her widowed shed alone. Artemis had left the Crescent of her heart along a bay: reserving half for a future husband, and the other half for two sisters that deserved more than the world had offered them thus far. Artemis took so much shame in knowing that their lives had been spun and woven around protecting her, occasionally surviving abuses on her behalf...knowing that she suffered from deep and endless woe, and probably hoping it’d be worth something someday--if only Artemis could articulate her battles with facing each day with demoralized uncertainty.

Artemis found it within her best interests--to hide her feelings of love out of reach from Hera. Luckily, Hera wasn’t known for being the smartest--she was more of a "degrade people until I feel better about myself" kind of abuser. Artemis had crafted a web of truth in an endless void--disguised as a barren cave, woven with the things that were beyond unsettling. Artemis had eluded Hera’s judgement by leaning into her wickedness--holding a deceptive smile for only a night, running for her life, and healing with the temporary fixes following her visits to a golden hub. Artemis was born to be part of the growing statistic--classified as normal, alongside the other women that openly explored sexuality, and stood without judgement to what others did in their own corridors. Artemis had made a bottomless evil, a black hole in her own heart, and watched as the world feared its potential. The hidden world was called the non-zero, Atlantis, or El Dorado--to all of those that predated the arrival and departure of Pluto. She had been reborn into a life of torment, to take value in the title of chief and rightfully crowned by the Indigenous Peoples as the peoples Queen.

Artemis had been tucked away on a destitute planet; famed for its unharvested resources in naquadah--hidden away with the other forgotten Greek Gods upon a mythical mountain. The mountain was temporary--in the sense that it were a silhouette of Helen, and its massive overshadowing of the lands in the East; a futuristic version of Troy. The love of story; had given Artemis a chance to provide the world with an overbearing take on love--her words thrown into a wooden horse...dragged through the streets as a trophy to the downfall of others; saying less until the perfect moment to attack would arise. The sleeping army was led by men, awaken by an abrupt single turn of events...where Artemis had moved the location of two robes painted with the colorful numbers, seventy-seven and three. No blood was shed, but sacrifices had been made. There hadn’t been a secular rule to dictate what passions brought men to the field of battle, but only that they find true conflict and dedication in a topic that was built off discourse and the profits generated by greed-based uncertainty.

Artemis had crafted a pictorial curtain to hide behind, the distraction of an army awaking overnight had given rise for a single opportunity to sneak off in the silent night and laying siege to a specific timeline that was sloppily tied together by the concept of sportsmanship. The endgame strategy was built to attain and defend a single document...so valued, so indestructible to the forces of evil and overlooked by the idiot citizens: to archive and preserve its glory under the proper name of "The Constitution"--protecting it with her life, when endless soldiers--claiming to be her enemy...refused to do so themselves. The opposition was unaware that Artemis saw their distorted patriotism to be the opportunity for strong allyship in the near future. Such bold statements meant nothing...to men and women sickened by xenophobia; somewhat unaware that their daily actions would further set their Nation up for failure, as a dotard Chief in Command led them astray with his imbalanced love for chaos and financial uncertainty.

Artemis could always be seen or found in depictions of bloody battles, slashing throats and discarding tumbling bodies with a Spartan kicks as they dare remain in the way of her campaign...objectively pissed off that the obligation to do the "right thing" was being painted as unrealistic for the times. The responsibility in saving the lives of many, at the expense of her own was worth arguing about another day...if her body allowed it. She was not the bad guy in this story...or Orion’s story, or even the Viking’s story for that matter. Artemis was simply a woman: forced to do everything her fucking self, helplessly cornered into the defensive position of taking down an enemy from within the confines of their own language. Her successful raid upon foreign homelands would be a life achievement--more bountiful than any treacherous love story...holding opportune to be the greatest of Artemis’s victories. As a person...she refused to sit by and do nothing as domestic terrorists...led by a perverted and traitorous leader, intentionally dismantled reality, or further dragged her heart into the trenches of uncertainty.

Next Chapter: *[ XXVII ] Artemis and the Curse of Hesperide*