#niyantran

We get a small glimpse of it in one of her sprays:

It’s a bit cursive, not exactly what is usually taught in elementary school, she has her own little style. I did some searching on Google Fonts for the closest font I could find for her hand writing. I found that Kristi worked the best.

Baltimore Museum of Art. Baltimore, MD.

     To avoid the monotony of habit, one must take certain risks & deviate from the routine. A woman enters a museum & pays in cold, hard cash. No one can track her through a trail of credit cards. As far as the world's concerned, she is a ghost. Bedelia Du Maurier prefers it that way. Alone, she wanders the vast halls on a Tuesday when only a few tourists are strewn about.

    She enters the Wing of Contemporary Art. Stiletto heels go click, click, click { ! } across the polished, wooden floorboards. She meanders around a messy-haired art student with sketchbook in his hand. She walks with purpose; she walks with a sense of direction even though her path twisted somewhere along the way.

    The retired psychiatrist stops in the center of the hallway. A needle could drop & you still wouldn't hear the sound. It's an Alison Saar sculpture. A human figure's hanging upside down, a thread looped around the ankle. The piece reminds Bedelia of a rabbit caught in a crude trap, suffering in silence.

                                    ♟– ❝Clever to depict life hanging by a thread.❞

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            He’s lapsed into silence again. It’s a growing problem as of late, these intrusive thoughts smothering his words like they’ve been tied into a sack ad thrown in a river somewhere. That river runs red. It cascades from around his shoulders, down into his lap and pools between his legs, a hidden, gory corner in her room, silent. Calm among the blue. Whatever he can do to ease this mental strain.

           Sneakers screech against the freshly waxed, far too clean  floors as he rounds a corner too fast. He runs just ahead of the others trying to decide the best means of getting the fuck out of  dodge before the Vishkar guards tailing them manage to catch up. It shouldn’t be long now, not with the duffel bags of stolen tech  weighing them down.

             And then it happens. Someone grabs the bag that had  previously been thumping against his back and yanks hard enough to tear him clean off his feet. Jesse’s breath leaves his  lungs with an audible whoosh as he hits the ground, realizes  what happened. What they’ve done.

              He’s nothing but a sacrificial lamb meant to save their own sorry skins.

             By the time he’s up again it’s too late; they’ve closed in. Dark eyes wide and wild he aims his revolver only to find the barrel empty. Useless. He’s been effectively cornered.