by Harnidh Kaur
If humans were potatoes, Jan would be one. Not the nice ones McDonald’s uses for fries, though. The average variety, the kinds that were often left on the shelves and ended up sprouting eyes.
Yes, Jan often felt like an extremely average potato.
She often believed that if she was just a little more interesting, just a smidgen more intriguing, she’d be more person than potato. She was firmly convinced of the fact that if she had a story worth telling, she’d be more human than she felt. Just one story, just one incident that set her apart. That’s what Jan craved, and that’s what Jan chased. Her own story.
And hence Jan set out in search for it. She fancied herself a little adventurer of sorts. However, potatoes are rather limited in their imagination. Her idea of adventure was, like her, rather ordinary. She walked ahead just a few seconds before the traffic light changed, and felt a thrill run down her spine. She ordered caramel custard instead of her usual strawberry ice cream, and smirked at her rebellion. She texted her crush back only after she made him wait five minutes, and her heart fluttered at the sheer audacity.
Jan tempted fate, or at least she thought she did.
One day, Jan decided to take a taxi instead of walking down the subway like she usually did. This was a larger departure from her potato existence than before, for she was going to spend more too. She shivered in anticipation.
Maybe today.
She walked down the street, and into a little alley which led to the next block. That’s where she always saw the taxis waiting. She smiled to herself. She knew how to handle the world, didn’t she? Her gait changed, becoming more of a little strut. She glanced at herself in an oil slicked puddle, and stood up straighter.
The wavering appearance in the water was simply shades of brown. She was, indeed, always brown. Mousy brown hair, flat, wooden brown eyes, and corduroy pants that looked like faded leather. She was nondescript.
But that day, in that puddle, her visage was painted over with the rainbow reflections of the oil. She looked to herself mysterious, and magical, and like someone with possibility.
Maybe today.
Jan walked through the alley quickly, hearing the water trickle down the walls, and the scurrying around her that she rationalised as the sound of rats. It was funny, she thought, how she could hear the quiet scuffling. The city was usually too loud for her to hear anything in. She soon became aware of the fact that she could hear her heartbeat too.
It was quiet in the alley. Far too quiet.
Jan hurried out. It made her uncomfortable, the silence. She walked out to the road, only to find no taxis waiting.
“Damn it,” she muttered out loud, following it up with a little gasp. She didn’t swear, ever. There was too much excitement afoot.
She turned and went back to where she was earlier. Her own street, which, all of a sudden, seemed grossly unfamiliar in all her excitement and confusion.
Nothing.
She stalked back to the road, acutely aware of the eerie silence that surrounded her. This wasn’t normal. Jan shivered, now scared. The road was empty, and she looked around.
It was her street.
But didn’t she just come from her street?
Jan stopped moving. She closed her eyes, and took in deep breaths. The internet told her that doing so helped in stressful situations, and this was as stressful a situation as she had been in.
She slowly, slowly walked back.
Back to her street. Again.
Jan was now sufficiently terrified. What was happening? This wasn’t normal, was it? She reached back to the spot that seemed least familiar, and crouching, whimpered into her own lap.
Jan was out of her depth, and she knew it.
She looked up to the wall in front of her. The paint seemed to have chipped away a long, long time ago, and the exposed brick lay out in front of her, dank and moldy.
On it, was simple, rough graffiti done in hasty strokes and black paint.
‘404: Story Not Found.’
Jan’s lips quivered, and curled up into a small, trembling smile. She let out a tentative laugh.
There it was. Her story.
