Don't Touch That

“Don’t touch that!”

The switchboard lit up. The mixers were all up to the limits. Voices at the limit of the soundboard roared over speakers in the soundproof room.

Jerry reached for the volume control.

“Don’t touch that!”

He looked around. No one was in the room. Performers in the studio continued, their voices at the limit of the soundboard. His ears were about to burst. He reached for the volume slider again.

“You have been warned.”

“Who said that?” he yelled at the empty room. Jerry whirled back and forth in his chair, looked up to the ceiling, down to the floor. Nobody in the room. Back to the control board, he reached for the volume slider.

“Don’t touch that!”

“Tough luck! I have to! The song requires it!” Jerry slid the volume down to zero from eight.

Zing, zong, zang. Poof!

The performers continued singing, oblivious to drama in the control room.

Jerry awoke on the floor, a bump on his head, missing a finger.

“Where am I?” Jerry held up his hand, looking for the lost digit. “And where’s my finger?”

“You were warned.”

“What? Come on. This is nuts.”

“You’re in limbo. Time to think about what you did.” The voice faded to nothing, just as the control board would do, thought Jerry.

“I did nothing wrong. Give me back my finger. Where are you? Get back here. Where am I?”

“Are you ready to go back?” The voice returned.

“Give me my finger first.”

“You’re not ready.” The voice faded again.

Jerry crawled over the floor, feeling in each crack and corner, feeling for his finger.

“You have nine others,” the voice said.

“And your point?”

“I can take the rest.”

Jerry woke in his bed, hand bandaged. He was afraid to look.

W/C 297