It had been one long-ass battle after another for Artemis: segmentation of her life splattered in ink. She was forever tormented the title of his Majesty, pointing to Orion: pulling portraits conducted at the hand of Apashe...unwilling to let go a heartbreak without due recognition and deserving soundtrack ties. The tantamount damage done to her spine was its own story--all things irreversible; her passions for running along a slogged down river were held hostage to the new running shoes sitting impatiently. St. Nick had come in clutches, complete with kitch bobbles. The world was a smoke show outside of her pages--topped off with toppling wired ribbon. The world began to crumble, to slip away from a harsh and less personable generation. A fit of hysterically laughing pressed from her lungs...the irony of existing as a persons half alive: resuscitated unwillingly and left to pay the medical bills somehow.

The cowardice felt deep within her handicap, she was a victim to gravity and weak discs--victim to the circumstances of financial instability: chained to domestic bills and taxes. The need to separate the two burdens was built upon the mistreatment of unsalaried workers--forced to march job to job: unable to stand upon a charger with deserving reflection to the earned education and decades of experience..forced to take knee on a whim. Degenerative Disc Disease on her lumbar and collar regions--promised a life of pain and seizures; a switch up of attitudes. Zeus’s lightening was gifted to the worst of man, and Artemis had decided to take hold of bolt--to pull power from the fairness in her shallow curses. She had fallen into the pit of immoral actions, being served the pain she had inflicted upon another at some point in her life. Who could ever love a monster? Artemis had overslept her youth away to avoid abuse--wandering into the frame fashionably late at all time. Her talents in prediction had allowed Artemis to juggle multiple rooms: fleeting, those carved in stone, and that reality too ridiculous to describe in full--its twists and turns requiring countless stolen moons somehow.

Artemis would often grunt and rant about a handful of things that caused her minute troubles: gravity, ants, stairs, and those that held little common sense. These instances were the idiotic memories; needed to be preserved in a simulation, as key indicators. The world was a better place due to her short temper: there were academic awards to prove her love of words and change. Artemis had a dream of falling into a character and wearing strange goggles upon her face, walking up a flight of stairs and moaning to someone behind her as an unhesitating hand trailed along a brick wall. Orion was cursed to be everywhere and nowhere somehow.

Stupid Pocahontas ruffles got in the way--even in her dreams: she’d be thrown through the debilitating pain--restrained in time-piece; stuck a mascot of the victims enslaved and murdered for the sake of patriotism and freedom. Artemis was a man with no homeland, her mind was anchored to nothing--loyalty going to the highest bidder either way. She drifted between two worlds with overwhelming enthusiasm. One world condemned her for not knowing Spanish, but having the audacity to look the part: complete with redeeming faces of disappointment somehow.

Orion would always stay close: never facing Artemis head on to claim a kiss; he chose the life of silent egress before she could find the words to explain the things too awful to describe in one sitting. The man had single-handedly calmed her soul, temporarily distracted her from a side-mission to destroy the universe, and disarming her by arriving in any doorway. Artemis had been nothing more than another notch on his bed, and he was forever unimpacted, aloof, and bitter somehow.

Artemis had no qualms with her ruffled collar: “real bitches be fancy as fuck on the regular” she’d tell herself and shimmy her shoulders. Only she, Momma Bear, and Roro knew what it meant to be, to live that "oh, so fancy lifestyle". Depleted and frustrated from drawing the spike textured gloves across her face, Artemis began to weep: unable to reach for Orion’s warm hand and choosing to mutilate the parts of herself that he cared about the most somehow.

There was nothing to stop the need to prove self-love that worsened with his absence. Artemis needed to prove his ability to handle her libido could be replaced; pulling a race to nowhere and running out of steam easily. He was the blinding insecurity, the reality needed to pull focus. Her imagination was armed to past run-ins: Orion strapped to the backside of her empty clenched palms. His embrace was a warm invite to violence somehow.

Artemis would find herself absorbed by panic--waking up in a dream within a dream--naked in every shower: remembering Hera’s shrill voice hissing to the fact that Artemis was "disgusting". She received a lecture about falling unto the path of prostitution like her mother--upon finding out that she had innocently kissed a friends brother; a spiteful man forever holding roses-- Chucky. Hera began to speculate that teenage Artemis was a pedophile, and eventually dropped the baseless argument when sarcasm was used to deflect such weird and inappropriate conversations. The need to point out the broken paint brush used to paint such normal things as perversions had peeled away at a grim woman--bewildered in a moment, confused at to why Artemis knew the law somehow.

The notion and accusation had set a wheel in motion for Artemis, as she knew the woman would spend her wrinkled life trying to discredit and demolish her integrity at any turn. The legal guardian had waited until Artemis were unarmed in a shower--before acting upon a sporadic plan of her God, to bring Gurtude-esque torture upon an unprotected child. Hera’s pale skin shook with delight--an extended scaly arm slowly reaching in and altering the temperature of the cleansing waters. She was directed by the motherly instincts built upon knowing Artemis since the age of two and a half. The shameless teenager was every bit worthy of her severe discipline somehow.

Hera mumbling to herself and explaing the necessity to sanitize Artemis of her whoredom. Hera had made Artemis wish for nothing and everything at once. The smell of her own burning flesh had skewed her vision came to mind in moments where warm flesh had built a passionate scent. The fucked up issues of a sketchy lady had occasionally disrupted her approach to sex. Had she not deserved adolescent love? Hera’s sadistic personality was the classic archetype used to describe the bored house-bound citizens that had hunted witches. The murder was playful with plight in Salem. Artemis had once thought she spotted Hera scowling at her in a moving painting of static, and stiffened to stone out of fear. She had finally realized that the woman was indescribably evil, omnipresent in vile character: the same cunning villain in every story somehow.

Artemis recalled dreams of being hypnotized and crowned with strange ruffled collar, and gifted with an apple that sat within an otherwise empty lunchbox. Her attire was a wholesome and humbling tribute to an Indigenous Warrior named Matoaka. A poor child with a vexed name--its outspoken curses would eventually destroy the world, Pocahontas: forever an icon for sex-slavery, a poster child for those invested in prizing instances pedophilia. This cursed timeline had been the only one to glorify the tale of rape, kidnapping, and the ultimate stripping of ones soul. The love of thrills and suspense had uncovered the tale--worth hella pounds, enough to fill Hades itself. Artemis was forever the lone individual--walking past misconstrued the truths of crime and intent. Artemis worked hard; using Hera’s evil ideas and force feeding it to an audience while others looked on, gagging at the image of such sad gluttony. Memories of two siblings suffering from Stockholm syndrome--one force fed while the other starved...two surviving children; forgotten to the outside world somehow.

Artemis had known the child slaves paranoia of those passed, each step was fragile, judged to the point of hesitation felt beneath the toes. The admonishment in mockery had made her flee from the public eye, standing behind doors and weeping. She was letting everyone down. Artemis would struggle with social interaction, knowing that her moods would differ upon observing strangers capturing her portrait in gold. Nothing could preclude the intrusive nature of those pathetic in desires to be relevant. Artemis had once met a troll, explaining to a room of strangers, that his "hobby" was less harmful than those consenting in naked stories unending. The man gloated that he only took pictures of people unknowingly to gain sexual pleasure--which he had thought to be intimate to both parties somehow.

Artemis engaged in conversation; unsure how a put-together stranger deserved a life prone to stalkers....recalling a time where she had approached a man by passing stride, and glanced upon a portrait of herself stolen forever in his shield. The insanity that men inflicted upon women was beyond reprehensible. If only there was an overpaid occupation of the sorts, to compromise for the invasion of privacy in the act of gazing upon and touching another’s beauty. A temper of confusions would resurface, and her blank stares and glares were warranted reminders that Artemis was cut from the cloth of the a woman left to walk the street number eighty-second. Artemis had tried her best, working overnight shifts...lessening the sadness by turning the phrase "lady of the night" into one of safe keeping, prominence and elegance--occasionally the worlds would collide somehow.

Artemis found herself standing in the atrium of a castle: one fit for a Royal. Placing a plain coffin center of its decadent structure. She began to weep without control, falling ill in disbelief to the circumstances of such true misfortune. Reality was ripped into two, defined by an antagonist defeated, remixed--to lessen the burden of death. The Rise of Nightfall rang through an empty room: painted with the gold robbed from the citizens of another land. The world kept spinning-insulting those in mourning; those captivated by grief, unable to let go of duties in responsibility somehow.

The loneliness washed over spells of forgetfulness. Artemis began pacing back and forth, attempting to be helpful but giving birth to more things to correct. The act of staying bust kept her hands grounded--unable to pluck at the nagging sorrow pulling away at the last thread of sanity. What had she done to deserve such horrors, or pain unbearable? Artemis had shrugged knowing the show must go on, and allowed herself to put up a fifth wall in the blind belief that her sight and peripherals had no reason to lie to her, and deciding to play along...if it meant that the game would be over somehow.

The wall was throw up on a whim, to hold true to the idea of weeping angel--standing over grave and body. It was out of place in a lavish castle. Artemis liked the caveat of banning random strangers from profiting from a simulation filled with mortal riches, and helpful prophecies--more than that, she loved a good story. Artemis allowed herself to be less sad, to hold in the tears like a winner--the way Athena had always asked. Her ability to fall into the arms of upsetness, to collapse or faint mid-sentence; made the scene even more pathetic somehow.

Artemis placed a white label above the open casket; holding the truest of words ever told. The Ultimate Victim to an Empire: lay in the graces of death. "They brought you all these beautiful flowers! In every color...more than any Queen." Artemis had awaken a stirring beast; knowing that the woman didn’t even deserve to gaze down upon the beauty lost to the world. An old hag in a crown arrived in a room to peer inside the box of fate; unable to see any person laying inside. The woman looked away at her many body guards: giving Artemis the chance to grieve at "improper times", in the presence of supposed greatness--uncaring of the stature in company somehow.

"I’m going to miss you overshadowing everyone in the family." Her words seemed strained, as though the words were intimate and filled with understanding warmth. "The world seems a little less beautiful without you here." Streams of tears no longer held direct paths down her face, she was a mess--all out of sorts, deeply distraught in the presence of an empty casket somehow.

Artemis had wrote an entire novel filled with Titans and Gods among mere mortals without upending past, and stumbled into a few followers. On the days where she had needed a third-place she could be seen wandering into empty white rooms, tripping over her own feet and fumbling around like polar beast--her blonde mane adding to the drama somehow.

One day she awoke, standing near an empty box; holding an axe firmly in her hand. She had found the tool laying oversized--hiding in plain sight, burrowed away in the Pacific Northwest; tucked safe away with a blue ox and a man named Paul. The menacing part of such a scene lay with the beholder, as she was simply a person...holding a tool by herself in isolation. Artemis had wanted to utilize the axe to hack away at the stump-age of dramatization of the fallen tree that was her life; and instead found lumber for coffins and life rafts for her to set sail from the sheer tragic nature of the things that tempted the suicidal ideation that flooded over the brims of rationality somehow.

Artemis was ruthless in the ability to strike blows of eschatology into all things that stood in her way. She didn’t mind the art of leveling off a stump, and had taken up the hobby of hacking away at the bits without dilatory objections. She suspected that readers had taken intrigue to such dizzying skills--running through empty rooms filled with familiar faces, and prepared themselves for battle time and time again. The battlefield was like it had never existed--her smile fell warmly upon surrounding strangers: the difference between night and day washed over her fractured laughter, her face seemed concerned momentarily, but laughter fell out with ease somehow.

She returned to mourning over a casket; "you were such a young mother, and that must have caused havoc to your already changing body". Words filled with such sincere admiration were unfamiliar to the strange elder in attendance. "You were so athletically talented!, and admired by so, so many men and now the world is broken into to two." The queen was unable to see the casket, and the citizen below....unwilling to care about anyone other than those in her own family somehow.

Artemis loved no man, as she barely liked herself. She could easily throw up her hands and say "I see No Blood On Me", and know life was being painted with easier and less-complicated strokes by being a lingering nobody in the life of a stubborn man. Life always seemed simpler whenever it involved less hoes somehow.

The world had a consistent way of proving that nobody seemed to be willing to listen, even in moments of punctuality...people seldom heard her in time. Artemis had at least learned one thing after being resuscitated...that, life was discretionary to ones efforts. The tortuous swivel of fate had brought her back into existence, surviving as a living wish cast by Orion, a man she had yet to meet...a lone wolf looking past each step...scavenging through women, needing to find his partner in crime and remain reluctant to actually work on himself somehow.

Her place in the world had been cemented because of him, the memory of her love--locked into his heart over lifetimes. The things he claimed to despise--were found encoded within tears of anguish. He had passed her along as just another stone that he had turned, a dismissive pathetic underside: her lack of enthusiasm to jump at attention and suck his dick was considered soggy and lame, unworthy of his furthered attention somehow.

Artemis had nodded in understanding--watching the man back-peddle, just in time to ease himself into the passing of his mother. Artemis had used a simulation of a handful of stairs and an invisible doorknob to prove that he lived out of pure spite of their marriage agreement. He needed her to be everything to him, and nothing to the world: his love entrenched her existence--it was isolating, a kin to standing too close to the sun...the understandable worry of being burned, or blinded at the rise of each day would leave her aspirations in a state of purgatory. It was conveyed that she’d have to always work twice as hard to compete with the onslaught of women throwing themselves desperately at Orion, and an expectation that was her burden to carry alone somehow.

His curved smile stunted her common sense, and he wielded it proudly. His presence at her side was endorsement enough for her confidence to prevail. The trivial nuances of a horrifyingly striking couple had tested the fates of probability--they had collided in a timeline where they coexisted long enough to find sobriety in their own terms. A key to success in being one of two people falling back into a new healthier version of love somehow.

Artemis had attempted to hang herself in long before his entry into frame: her neck would tilt in the embrace of the beautiful memory of a softened braided leather tightening. The taut strips of leather held a soft squeal that greeted her thin neck, it offered a temporary and selfish solutions to her pain for a single moment. Artemis had awoken--unbothered, but afraid that she was existing in the wrong world. Nothing seemed real to her. How could she have survived all that abuse and trauma, only to have Orion openly decide that she was never going to be enough for him somehow?

Inadequacy flowed through her veins. Most orphans were famously unloved for the stitches that held them together. The things that allowed them to remain present and alive. She was tattered along the edges--held together by the seams of sanity...wanting only the normalcy of family and success out of life. Orion’s infamous luck was equated to be a fine gift--a bountiful aura given by the Gods of Olympus. Even that wasn’t enough for a man with a heightened ego and bottomless desires somehow.

Artemis had felt herself jerk awake: an aging Viking had summoned Artemis into his life...just in time to help him process his sisters ailments. How many men had begged the universe for answers and then rejected her offered solutions? Artemis wished that she could be left alone by each, and wandered off to find herself instead. She had drifted into a past dimension, and fell victim to her own denials as to the severity of her past discrepancies. Artemis felt her heart break with each breath, and resentfully managed to fumble out of bed somehow.

Artemis felt herself avoiding sleep at extreme cost, in the hushed and urgent pursuit of her asinine goal of pursuing literature. The pages now became a safe haven, a place for her take refuge over an open coffin. Before her, lay a woman in her thirties, marked and discarded as collateral damage somehow.

Artemis had pushed away both the Viking and Orion with her words alone, and they had rebuked the offensive words--casting her into isolation, far from their attention, and tethering themselves to her silently without consent. Their intentions were clear to the world. They tortured her by wishing silence upon her, accumulating bliss over time as she checked in to say hello, but standing perturbed in annoyance--knowing that she was out there in the world, forgetting Artemis had agency and understood the basics of accountability. She held them worlds apart, watching her wording fit to the occasion of the arguments they had in store for her. Artemis was ok with being unwed, if it meant successfully avoiding problems with being indecisive and avoiding unpleasantness somehow.

Artemis lay slack over their frames: irresolute to their bottomless expectations, needing to understand what they wanted from her....believing she deserved an answer from at least one of the men somehow.

Artemis remained exiting because of one man, and dying inside because of the other. They took turns looking down upon her--lecturing her every choice in life. The scrutiny of their judgements and never-fucking-ending emotions, held little admissibility. They decided to harden the edges of her personality, unable to paint forgiveness by dithering the colors of her truth. Artemis would bow the crown of her head and raise arms in defense to the trauma washing over sensitive skin. Tired hands had never healed properly from the scorching waters that had once cleansed her sins as an adolescent. Artemis was always left to the fact that nobody really wanted her around, having to gauge the emotions of every person around her and tune iterations carefully, but was always expected her to be compliant, grateful, and happy to exist somehow.

One day, one not so exceptional day...the world came to a stop. Artemis began gazing down upon a strange and forever distant woman: unable to see the world moving around her. A strange pale woman walked up and used goblin hands to grab away at a label laying askew. Artemis had held in her cool enough up until that point, attempting to comfort the contents in the box--puckered hands trembled, as Artemis pat away the memory of a sibling and needing everything to be perfect despite the occasion somehow.

None of it made sense. No amount of wealth could fix the decisions of time. Artemis had only wished to lay her sister to rest with flowers fit for person that was remembered as troubled lady trying. The idea that the title auntie was never to be followed by the name Fifi hadn’t been something to heed emotion toward. Instead, Artemis was left with a stranger lingering--pulling at a stretched out label as a trollish elder remained committed to the task: magically shielded to view the contents of the coffin somehow.

Artemis was perpetually single, ready to move past all that had happened: her heart yearned for more than the ambivalence thrown in her path thus far. Her kindness taken for granted, her caring nature wrote off as too straight forward. Less mystery to unbox. A rose surrounded by acrylic women. Artemis fell into madness, standing over for a lashing that never came--until it did. Life had been so unkind to her, leaving less gymnasiums of competitors wielding orange spheres--smaller crowds of suitors delaying morning transportation. Her luck was running out, and she dreaded the notion of such tumultuous destructive paths of a Viking and brooding Indigenous Warrior meeting her as an excuse for impasse. Time would rearrange itself, if their worlds met. Petty nightmares--held future arguments in following the two men as they argued over her or by her with gusto. They bickered on and on, offended that the other would treat her with such demeaning or passive behaviors. Artemis no longer believed in romance--specifically because of these two tall men: still managing to care deeply for each man, but making way for idea of them being permanent persons in her life even as friends. It was noted that she had customized methods in flirting with each man--in very different ways, giving due diligence to their differences to calm their hearts and worries somehow.

Such lunacy warranted a cot in the mad house: so Artemis went on with her life in a no-longer naked way...without overthinking as to the absence of the two men. The presence of the Kind-Hearted Hunters meant that she was surrounded by endless love and support: finally safe from the grasp of the woman named Hera, who had become a whole plague by herself---sick with preying intrigue. Artemis took mean delight in knowing that her heart may skip lighter, on the unspecified day where time seized such evils from the Polis. The lack-of contributions to society--meant that Artemis was deemed fair in her loathing of a child-abusing beast hidden in softened wool and a ball of red hair. Artemis would be unsatisfied by the slow hands of a clock of death, the horrific woman seemed to live forever somehow.

They lived in a time of recusal, where Nick playfully drew with colored wax sticks and scoffed at the paramount weight of human life: he had wanted to prove that his own life was always to be formally declared, as worth more than the ten he had stole. He blamed his insanity on the birth defect that left him slithering from the womb as in inchoate, without shame or guilt to the curses of bum genetics. He crafted A time of predictive disappointment, and social impairment. Artemis held her breath, and wished for a row meant for the inmates...worthy of only death and moments of public torture. It baffled her to observe a Judge lasso in her own courtroom. There were questionable breaks in professionalism, until the world tired of the maelstrom created from the pathetic man on trial. He had aspirations that stood focal to the selfish intention to steal away life at any cost....costs that fell upon the shoulders of the tax-payers somehow.

A timeline where the commonwealth were either crazed or lull, standing on the brink of calamity: hinging their daily life on the taxation of a family playing make believe King-and-Queen. Artemis would point at the lady and say cousin-and-cousin in jest--gesturing to the nobody nearby. There wasn’t too much of an impression to make---if someone was to be defined by their choices. The Queen of lands far and away had always been prevalent in a childhood built around adults and their lame obsession with fame. The young had stood by the curtains: attempting to see the allure of an elderly lady setting dishes upon a table. But alas, they had all been raised to admire the daily lives of strangers--Hera particularly loved the conversations of grandiose weddings and scandalous drama that detached one from the sobriety of reality. Artemis felt the tone of homicide theories to be familiar with dreams of a future where the Queen was dead of old age, and a Princess would always remain on the minds of the commonwealth. Such would be the mirroring fate of Artemis and Hera...hopefully. Two families had been tethered to repeat past lives, both of "Royal Decent", both antithetical to other somehow.

Hera, and the Questionable Queen were two rotten apples that fell from neighboring trees, their tertiary branches intertwined and sappy with glistening tacitness. Both held uncanny qualities and unnerving silence that they wielded in a myriad of ways: both families...corrupt with dubious sexual proclivities and riddled with violence. Both women: Hera, and a Questionable Queen...would be tied to the trauma they had afflicted upon blonde women as their personal pejorative usage of life. Both women were revelatory, still and confused, stewing in the presence of the smiles that entranced the masses somehow.

Artemis had began a story of a Queen, famed for incest and allegedly slaughtering a Princess. She had awaken in the middle of sand fields, guarding with servitude at the paws of a Sphinx. Trapped in a moment of time, paused mid-scene...A woman fleeing a past of horrific upbringings. Artemis was plaintive in a spell: alone and afraid with static filled eyes, and bloody tears. Finally Artemis had toppled an Empire, by staying silent and allowing the offspring of the Queen to do the rest. The woman was too preoccupied with dropping and picking up a mess made at her own hand--to best move on from such melancholy and judge a little less of titles and labels somehow.

Not enough wealth in galaxy could make her sons to be seen as respectable: proven by a paintbrush with the single word "KOREA" written, just to terrorize another--no one was exempt from catching strays. The notion of the crown being left in their hands was laughable, deplorable, ambivalent to the legacy that had been hand-crafted to a Queen mother. She had no way to explain the lack experience that the fell into the hands of a lazy son. Obviously the woman was a spirit--one of a inbred monarchy--trapped in mortal body. The world revolved around a cold family in this poem. pointed darted their eyes in the direction of a sloppy looking man: his linens were buttoned up in an asymmetrical way unintentionally---his crass penultimate wife were far from ready to uphold the entirety of a crown and it wasn’t worth trying to impress a crowd dedicated to snobbery somehow.

Artemis had jumped into a simulation to prove that she were ready to beat unbeatable game. Unbeatable, unwinnable--same thing. Her concise personality had aged the way the information was retained, like a child trapped with the mind of an adult. Her first week existing in the world without an older sibling was going pretty rough. A passion project in mention wasn’t worth Athena sticking around to read somehow.

She looked forward to editing--sitting near the waters of suddenly forgotten memories with Athena, polishing the methods in editing; tilting a head for better upsweep of a cosmetic brush. Athena had been the first to see Artemis as a star: easily letting a sibling win at games without resentment. She had been gifted to be the prettiest of princesses--forever arguing a physical exchange in handing over a crown. The sound of unmet hands would always feel worse for the victor somehow.

If her pages were a conduit to declare devotion to another life--a time before and after tragic loss. She had hoped such efforts would serve as the stave for a canoe carved hastily, and then managed to change course with exigent circumstances to be the turning wheel. The wooden post--was prepped and ready to add sails upon a vessel weighed down by trauma. Artemis had blindly agreed to play a game that promised to be more profitable than any wealth beyond her wildest dreams...or to remain impoverished forever. Both options had about the same amount of pros and cons somehow.

One day she awoke: tears streaming down the harsh edges of her outer eye. Everyday now felt like a nightmare. Artemis was being punished for choosing to experience the finatude of man--wasting away the entirety of her adulthood, having taken hobby in a critical assessment. Most days: the paranoia of a book pulling her back to its pages seemed like a unique torture...meant to test the strengths of man somehow.

There had been few loops and rewrites that were carved with a passionate urgency. Artemis had to answer a question as to what is the most destructive word known to mankind, and she had finally found the answer in the midst of intellectual strife. Artemis had challenged an aging prince to a battle of wits, standing before a Sphinx, and needing to impress the women that were forced to believe in their leadership skills. One day: Artemis heard a friend handsome man laying fist to her front door, and she awoke...ready and willing to answer the riddle of life. A question that often answered itself somehow.

She began to mumble the word fifteen on a loop. Knowing it could turn on a machine of fame that couldn’t be stopped. To Artemis...fifteen could change the universe. It could be that of limitless potential, scribbled into a void of destruction, drafted into an Odyssey worthy of the Gods. To a spoiled Prince...the number fifteen would always be the bare minimum. A closed concept, unworthy of exploring. Artemis had casually fallen in love...in less than fifteen nights with Orion somehow.

Artemis had only found the old queen and her cursed name--after she had seen an accomplice worm and minion: a beast with no face: Benedict XVI. He had slithered out of his slimy hole after his predecessor out shined him. The progressive beast destroying his conservative legacy, with a simple handful of speeches that explored a modernized take on the future. He knew...mass currency always followed trends, and the fear of change was born. Artemis didn’t trust no man in holy robes: they were forever on probative terms with the book they claimed to love. Each of the two men were secretly mad with the other, disenfranchised and unwilling to admit that the top of the world meant that their rule would eventually hold an end. Their sins had finally been written in Artemis’s Magic permanent ink: admitting themselves thieves and child molesters: iron clad from immediate recusal. She couldn’t forgive those that refused to apologize. Genocide had ruled every moment, of her pathetic orphaned life--so when did such heaviness go unchecked? She had awaken from a cold slumber: unsure of how or why she remained locked her away in an archaic timeline. Such flagrant, slimy, sons-of-bitches: thinking they were slick, taking refuge on a barren planet--in a sarcophagus of static and metal waste. She had barely remembered the goon duo--until the random day they had been caught trading posts: hypnotizing the people of the world with their ancient Golden-Rod. Artemis couldn’t wait to break that shit in half like a twig: or to shove it up their butts. She hadn’t quite decided somehow.

Artemis was ready to download her information into an algorithm already--she had wanted to scream Athena’s name at the top of her lungs. She had entered a Red Room, finding its erotic nature to be enticing, softly tinkering with the glittering threads held up by red tabs and forever running from the unpredictable lightning of Zeus. A spool of thread had been cursed; burnt away at its end. Blunted. Artemis couldn’t even imagine what her readers gained from her love of routine, longing for companionship, and devotion to self-improvement. It was bewildering that people found such circles and sadness to be worthwhile...somehow.

Artemis had captured and named the Queen by turning an empty box into a Trojan horse. Instead of always running from the Queen known as Cersei through space and time: Artemis hid in the crowds of fellow Indigenous Warriors--in a dimension where they were technically safe and free to cast judgement over a reigning Monarchy of terror. Artemis put her wounded family in Tipis that were always half-full and a warm chant that kept them alive: it was later known as the letter A. She hid her Orion standing in plain sight with his arms held up, as he bore the weight of the world on his back kneeling from an injured shin: Y. Lastly, she hid her Viking in his beloved lost culture: V. She were already known as I and O, her silly madness had transcended time via cave art somehow.

Her ability to be a muse to many and a Titan to few--meant that Artemis was simultaneously left being mislabeled as a nymph of sorts. She had no mania for sex, and had no issue with seducing men to appease her boredom in the absence of Orion. The ambivalent spite of a woman--too lazy to ask her future husband to return home. Her need to please herself to the memory of him had simply been a polite nod to the marriage she wished to have somehow.

Artemis had wrote a novel in the scurry, to bide the time of physical illness and preserve proper memories of Athena--to place an unrestful soul to peace. A book poised to be painted black; had now taken over her every waking thought. Memories of laying in a bed: openly weeping with a sibling and asking if things were ever gonna get better for them. Athena had no answer--no shred of evidence that the world cared how much she had sacrificed to keep keep two younger siblings safe from the world. The torturous life of an orphan was equally awful between two candidates, but the consensus had moved their experience to only count for one person somehow.

Unfairness bothered Artemis: to be the person less valued, seen as more expendable emotionally or given less chances to self-correct. Impunity was how Athena kept from dwelling on the fact that life was unfair--whereas, Artemis had often doubled-down, weeping: committed to always try harder somehow.

Jokes as to her role in being born the "anti-Christ" had been present since forever. The endless ricochet of casing and arrows were different to the wall of intimidated people that refused to teach Athena the life skills provided by discipline. Sitting there in plain sight for all of the times, a Princess with unknown intentions. Mocking all those who dared wear the headdress...simply by smiling with ease. Artemis had crafted a poem in memory of a woman left behind: needing to provide her sister with a Warrior burial. There was a nagging hint of discouragement--her pages were dry in producing bounty, the idea of wasting her life away for stories given to nobody seemed too awful to be true. Thirty-thousand years later, and the history of her past lives were still ever present somehow.

Artemis would lean over the casket, kissing the edges of baby Athena’s wispy baby-hairs. All of this had been so Artemis could better help two sisters: each refusing to get help for themselves, accusing the youngest of being selfish and getting annoyed when they all three agree when its paying off. She had wanted to show her sister a world unironically called Athens and awoke in weird spooky castle instead. Everything felt wrong about the scenario, unreal to the senses. They had fallen onto the wrong timeline, attempting to use a city of the past, to upstage a marble polis and restore honor to a family name somehow.

Everything was royally fucked up. Such appalling sentiments would be its own scene; where Artemis yelled in front of a random grandma. The only person Artemis cared about lay still as a resting doll, her skin glassy and face tired from the battles that brought her down eventually. Artemis would put on slow and sober music, readying the most beautiful woman in the world for her last party and using seasonal tunes to lessen the impact of trauma somehow.

Orion must have found her red door, listening for consolable cheerfulness, mixed with deep sorrow. The wishes Artemis hid away in her heart built up an entire inner monologue that could only be retrieved by returning to the void of static helplessness. She was everything and nothing to him, and could care less on some days. Their love was full of errors and minor issues. This simulation was meant to prove that it was easily broken: it had been a cover to keep Athena’s memory alive. They had returned to a time, where Orion had planned to find his wife stuck in a lie--to prove the intent of a Viking that claimed to be wounded to have enough energy and caring to be nurturing in the worst-case-scenario. Artemis had given his aging feet new wings, and brought him somewhat back to decent health--holding rims and dunking his ambitions. Most people wouldn’t be able to believe that Artemis could inspire a man without sexually motivating him somehow.

Artemis was stuck being complicit in loving no man, and forever despising the scars that ribbon-ed across her neck. Failing to kill herself in her early twenties was the definitely weirdest of her failures. She had taken the L, accepting that there may still be reason worth living for: forbidding herself from telling Athena in case of imposing unsolvable worries. Athena had been a good big sister. Most days. Artemis was too hideous for words, unworthy of even the hidden admiration of men. Dianne remained mean in spirit. Each sister could mirror; project or mimic the others reaction in real time--yelling at each other "I know", until strangers needed proper lecture. "We know!" The three sisters were forever known for hissing unthankful reminders away. When the world said "nobody cares!": Artemis said "I care." Athena asked "why?" and Dianne would say nothing. Each sibling had an unwelcoming response to the heavy news somehow.

The blind rage born from being raped as an infant--had been longer than the moments taken to secure a leather belt around her neck. Her mere existence was eponymous with sorrow. Artemis lived in the synoptic daydream of living in the moon, creating code, hidden in forgotten alphabets that she made forever ago: chained to a wall...just drifting aimlessly through space somehow.

Artemis had flipped an apple inside out by blowing yo minds with her abilities to fuck shit up. Murmuring the number fifteen until it made sense to those sitting hunched behind a desk and observing her every facial tick. She had won a game of labours and repentance by admitting to flaws, and using them at the same time. There was no shame for those that lived without the longing to attain salvation. Artemis was explicit in wishing to be alone, overwhelmed by sensory issues, and fighting back the swelling of tears: greeted with more forgiveness and kindness than she had ever deserved or even imagined possible. The Kind-Hunters had taken her under their wings, and gifted an enraged youth with a shred of normalcy somehow.

Artemis took aim at the third eye of the sharp-toothed Queen, and plucked her string for the last time. Casting a scepter of time-sucking thanklessness into a trash bin, and taking control over a phase of trichotillomania--needing to rebuild an empire without an emperor. Artemis was bored of existing in a world that hated her existence, tired of the endless slaughter and deplorable legacy of a Monarchy that had transcended universes. There was no way of explaining the sensation of knowing that ones perception of time was wrong, and that the paranoia was rightly felt. She stared into a box: telling the woman inside "Nothing feels right without you here somehow."

An old git remained at Artemis’s side: peering in to catch a glimpse of the woman that caused a fracture in time. One day--Artemis placed a crown in the coffin; needing to surrender a meaningless battle of personalities clashing. Her only competition in life was gone, and everyone was acting like it wasn’t a bigger deal somehow.

A strange elderly lady popped up, holding hands high as she rubbed them together with ghoulish delight. Not even a child’s toy crown was safe from the taxing beast. Artemis swatted her hand away: suddenly shaken out of a spell of woe. "What’s wrong with you!?" There were times in life where Artemis would default into less personable tones, knowing that Athena’s less redeeming traits lay in impatient parts of her anger somehow.

She began to see as the world became fascinated by the charm of a nugatory citizen, a woman running late for her own wedding. Busy walking beside a Stag and an Eagle: each living their separate lives in a tech-filled world. The game of dating caliber was bemusing, bizarre, and left little to the imagination for all of those left to witness Artemis, as she blindly worked to always protect her heart somehow.

Artemis would always be the first into battle...hoping to die, knowing there wasn’t a peacemaker that could undo the harm inflicted between two siblings. The option to walk away--to take accountability with self-reflection and always trying to do the right thing by sticking around, there were four children involved and Artemis had been the last to survive out of sheer oddities. The inability to walk away from pages containing Athena would end up to be her greatest of battles somehow.

Luck was for suckers, and Artemis didn’t like betting. Athena liked stages meant for winners and losers to be announced: Artemis liked setting the stage--a model in any environment. She had only done begun to open a box of endless words, to script a thank you letter to a woman too complex to describe in a few pages. Fragments of regret would be picked up along the way--too precious to edit or modify somehow.

Even if they hadn’t been siblings, Athena too had experienced hard time with care provided and the follow-up concept of nurturing. Orphans without an army to attend to Artemis...facing the day with the strength of ten men. She had needed to scream their ugly truths in to the void of space and time, longing to be around someone that cared too much. Demanding that world recognized how sincerely they had failed Athena--cursed to look over small toes and mumble past imperfect hands, grumbling that she hated everyone specifically...because they had let down Afina.

Artemis had taken on their stories and struggles--all in order to inspire the world with a story about three sisters. Facing the best of circumstances, and the worst of circumstances--one left to exit a room of judgement. The light-hearted stories gave her the courage to stand upon the lawn of the Questionable Queen, shedding tears and expressing defeat and acceptance of colonization. Due to the gold trails of Westward expansion: and the exiles of criminal citizens--Artemis had been stuck to be victims of pale men, sick men, over and over again. The notion of an empty castle without the coaching yells of Athena made the manor even less appealing somehow.

Artemis learned empathy within a moment: to laugh with pride about how often she tried to love her sister. The expression of hugging a holiday tree by the hips was about as easy a comparison to copy and paste. Nothing could lessen the tears, the conflicting relief in knowing her sisters body had finally earned untouched autonomy. The simplistic luxuries, too precious to understand if your name was the queen since birth. The world wouldn’t be able to hurt Athena anymore, and that was a pretty good holiday present. Artemis hoped the after life greeted Athena with a musical--one where she gets Christmas Carol’d and is forced to observe all the havoc and heartache she caused in an impressively short amount of time somehow.

No amount of rewording her concerns could change the outcome. There was no comforting crowd all of a sudden to sit silently...weeping tears for her. The cries of helplessness that had never been attended to by a birth mother...were now before her, laying in all the beauty of the world. The world had been kind enough to Athena: standing and applauding her longing to be loved--praising her ability to run faster than the wind. And then there was Artemis: hand in her little bellybutton, content with just being near Athena somehow.

The world had finally wept on their behalf--began to gobbling up pages full of endless riches. Artemis used her pages to asking for help: needing to not regret no contact with a person too busy trying to be cool, unwilling to start an engine of resolve until self improvements were put into motion. The need to build an arena fit for the Gods. The attendance of a crown had created a suture to hold close a gaping wound--stitching her back to together by following her around and making sure she was ok from time to time. The curses of being a babied person lay splashed across her heart--Athena had often mentioned it to be a burden to observe. The female curses of the emotional taxation had been uplifted momentarily; the ground had fell away from beneath her feet overnight. She had found a home with a crew of misfits and overly-ambitious folk, attempting to save people from becoming orphans and building homestead on unsteady land. Artemis had built a raft: setting afoot and calling them Argonauts--excitedly stating anticipation in Athena taking up a row of pubs with such a loving crew on their first introduction. Artemis took up arms, purposely yelling her disappointment with the fact that the world had left them all behind as children somehow.

Artemis had no solution or series built-up of a grandeur or delusion: no epic battle showdown. It was just her, allowing herself to be sad over the casket of friend from childhood. Her poor friend Athena had a really bad childhood: people had raped, gang-raped, and then forgotten the aspects of science that kept her cemented in the past. Athena did not personally believe in drawn out characters: open plot-holes, created only to beat a dead horse for profit. She took a lot of stake in unsteady handy work: low-budget scripts, and took measurable efforts to watch obscure stories pan out for whatever reason. Artemis had memorialized her overly competitive friend in a book: needing to have reasons to scavenge less-wandered upon territories somehow.

They were the Greek Gods: hidden in plain sight, forgotten to time. Instead of destroying brick and mortar, she decided to dedicate the book to one of the only mother figures she’d ever known: a beautiful, tragically fallen Indigenous Warrior mislabeled as an orphan. Athena had been so love, and adored in life: there was no doubt about it--she was to be soul spirited away too soon, forever youthful, her misgivings in circumstance always downplayed by the average audience member somehow.

No words can say to the growing remorse Artemis felt in understanding the moments lost by adolescent anger. How many times had she accused Athena of being a meany, and meant it? Why hadn’t she admitted how much she loved Athena...just one more time? Would it change the outcome? Why did people such as a random elderly queen, attend the grave of a stranger without providing proof of grief or respect for the fallen? Artemis hoped that the mildly polite words, would be enough to pass as a token of forgiveness...to provide further aide for a gaggle of children left behind. She had to put blind faith in the idea that Athena’s soul was ever weighed fairly outside of the gate of Hades. The art of saying less, had consistently proven to be the most graceful way to approach such tumultuous topics somehow.

She were a confused child, crying out for someone to hold her--knowing deep down, the only person able to bring a modicum of comfort was now gone forever. Artemis was Athenas first baby. There was no use clinging for a hand to guide her through life: her big sister wasn’t there anymore. Artemis was forever the toddler bleeding from her vagina, wondering why people had been allowed to inflict such unmentionable pain upon her life somehow.

Everyone hated her, Orion hated her. The world kept spinning. This was all she had ever known. The pain was palpable: until it wasn’t. Artemis had wanted to break the cycle of hate and abandonment, she had already broken a curse of hopeless romanticism by tethering two men together. Two strangers had volunteered their might in slaying hearts, and Artemis had walked away from both men just in time to regain her senses somehow.

Artemis was cursed with loving the idea of a certain man and his memorable touch, and forcing herself to search for a better adjusted love. The curse of disassociation would mean borderline torture, if Artemis was ever left saying yes to a ring. She would change the world simply by being herself-- surrounding herself with sweeping crowds of insecure patrons to stage an aura of affluence and garner hype meant to attract beasts. A cheap trick Artemis had learned by watching the Daughter of King Minos somehow.

Artemis had splattered blood and paint upon the walls of her heart, shouting at nothing and questioning, as to why life had been so unjust and relentless. Not all women were made to be mothers. Artemis had no other way to salute the fallen survivor and child sex-slave, other than drinking invisible tears from a magic vase that belonged to woman named Missy. She had volunteered to serve her time doubling-down the time spent in purgatory...if only it meant she finally understood privilege and love...if only to stand next to Athena once more. The gift of misery had been a trait she hadn’t installed in the bare-bones of her genome upon arrival--it was more of an improvise to survive the bullshit type of deal. Artemis wept only in knowing that most people would feel shattered at the transitory events common neighbors had enabled with their undying love of rape. Her name of "unidentified infant" had been plastered before their eyes, forgotten out of convenience to the improper bottom-line: abandoning all hope within a fleeting moment somehow.

Artemis had used this Manuscript to weep rivers of tears and refill the vase that had once belonged to Missy: mending it with her joy, devoid of romantic memories. Heartbreak came in so many forms: Artemis wouldn’t be surprised if the death of Athena would be the final crack along her struggling heart that inevitably broke an already broken back. Her life was fine without adding hoes into the mix. She had a nice boat to cling her thoughts by, and a story to tell her sister. Athena had always asked Artemis to sit still, to behave, to just read her book while the world violently burned to the ground somehow.

There was nothing to fight for, no relationship standing outside her door: she was too tired to argue with Orion, and it was easier to return to a life without such cruelty. Absence often served as proof that she was too ugly for him to ever love, so unspecial that she didn’t deserve his presence either. He couldn’t ever care that her moments of strange anxiousness had been due to the stalking of violent ex. She had walked away from Orion...knowing that Peaches was already looking for an excuse to live his life in black-box-eager to attend a court appointed fate and the idea of being an inmate forever if it meant he got to commit a murder and find resolution in a youthful ex somehow.

Artemis was a dead man walking, forever jumpy at loud sounds and large shadows. She was unarmed, but vigilant. Just there. The ex had spent years stalking her and asking if she were "still mad" at him to cause worry and patronize his prey. Athena had once mentioned she only used recreational mind-altering substances, to soften the blow of fist of whatever man claimed to love her. The words had made Artemis so sad. She had pleaded with Athena to raise her standards, to care more about the way others treated her. At the end of the day, Artemis had to leave her to the vices of a liquid poison, awful men, and the ability to neglect her children: if it meant a person of authority heard Artemis begging the universe to treat her like person and less like the box filled with crimes and checked boxes. All of their struggles as children had come down to one man somehow.

There were a few things learned from having survived the punches laid into her pregnant stomach. Don’t trust anybody had been the main take-away from that particular experience. Artemis asked BIBI to further illustrate the point of her place in a backward Farm of Animals. There was no word for the rage Artemis felt deep within...the primal need to survive: her coding was fine-tuned for the occasion, wearing sparking gowns and flicking blood from frail fingertips. Athena deserved the best. Artemis was going to force the world to admit her plight...to take loaded wording to the foreheads of each reader with subtle threat in an already impatient tone. The only thing scarier than Athena, was Artemis without Athena to hold down the line of reasoning. Artemis began to growl "I hate everything". There was no elder sister to pester the undefined aggression that only came out from beneath a slipped mask. There was no Athena to drive by and say "calm down", giggling despite the authenticity voiced in Artemis’s convictions of hatred. Her dreams were filled with a Slandered plea don’t get "Blood on Me"...trails of gore and ballerina core had made for Artemis appear as more frightening than necessary somehow.

One Christmas Eve, Artemis awoke and found a coffin laying before her. A constant reminder of all her failures in caring--a startling reminder of true tragedy, and the shapes of unfairness. She made a childish wish, tending to an elegant gold bow: oversized for the sake of festivities--crying to herself and trying to figure out outfit Athena would’ve liked the best for the tomorrows. She had never been away from her sister this long, and Athena was finally free from suffering--left to walk on to the next life. She had loved Athena so much in life without fair reciprocation verbally, and eventually her outward love for the world just faded away. The sacred parts of her existence were left in stories of harm, countless tales inflicted by Athena physically or emotionally at some point-there was so much to her as a mere mortal to be conflicted by. She couldn’t even judge, as there were no present waiting to unwrapped in the morning--a tale-tell sign that Artemis had let everyone down this year. Artemis worried that she hadn’t told Athena how much she loved her, or offered enough due compliments to her beauty. There was an underlying silliness that she’d been too busy being jealous of Athena’s athleticism...wishing her older sibling cared for the sake of caring for herself. Artemis could only stand by and use a Christmas wish for the impossible: to be sisters with Athena in this life, and every single life after--a somewhat tedious task, filled with endless love and friendship somehow.

Next Chapter: *[ XXXI ] Artemis and the Ladon*