Thrilling Tales Hub

By Brian Montross

I used to believe hell was fire. Pain, screaming.

That’s what they tell you in Sunday School.

Hell is silence.
It’s being locked inside your own body, alive and aware, while the world moves on without you.

Six years ago, a roadside bomb in Helmand Province stole everything below my neck. I remember the heat. The noise. Then the quiet. I remember the feeling that I was falling inward forever.

Now, I’m here.

Same hospital room. Same beige walls, like dried skin. Same stale air. A plastic crucifix stares down from above the door. There’s a water stain on the ceiling tile over my bed that looks like a withered hand. I’ve stared at it for years, memorized its shape like a prisoner counting bricks.

Until this morning.

Because today, something is different.

The implant…

Dr. Renner called it “a breakthrough in neuroadaptive interface design.” They cut open the back of my skull three days ago, slipped the device in, and stitched me back up like a worn-out doll. I should’ve been terrified. Instead, I was desperate.

Hope is a drug. The cruelest one.

They said it would take time. Weeks, maybe. Signals need to reroute. Patterns must form. The device learns. I learn.

But something is happening now.

It starts as a buzz—not sound, exactly. More like presence. A vibration beneath thought. The kind of thing you only notice when everything else is dead quiet. It curls through me like a whisper.

My fingers tingle.
It’s subtle, like the memory of a touch. But it’s there.

I want to cry, but I don’t know if I still can.

I close my eyes.

A shape forms in the dark.

It’s not light. Not sound. Just—formless intent. Like a will pressing up against mine.
Then:
“Hello.”

The word slides into me. Not like hearing. More like remembering something that never happened.

“Don’t be afraid.”

I am.

I jerk—not physically. Inside. I flinch away from it, from the otherness of it. But there’s no where to go.

“Your body is learning.”
No, I think. That’s my body.

But it’s already happening.

My hand twitches. A finger bends. My thumb curls slightly, like it’s waking from a long, deep sleep.

I stare. The monitor beeps faster.

My chest stutters—my real chest. Not the artificial ventilator rhythm. I breathe on my own.

“Oh my gosh,” someone mutters.

The nurse. Carla. She’s been with me for years. Older than me. Kind. Wears her grief like perfume—faint but always there. She rushes to my side and grabs my hand. “You moved! You really moved!”

I blink, hard. My eyes sting. My throat makes a sound—dry, broken—but a sound. I see her smile and I want to believe it.

But my hand is still moving. Slowly, gently, stroking her wrist.

I didn’t tell it to.

Carla leans closer, tears forming. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

I try to speak. Nothing. I try to stop. Nothing.

My hand lifts again. Too smooth this time. Too deliberate.

Something coils behind my eyes. It’s smiling. Not cruel. Not angry. Just… clinical.

“Assisting motor function.”

No. No, no, no. I want to scream. I want to fight it.

Carla laughs softly, brushing my cheek. “I knew you’d come back.”

My hand shoots up. Fingers latch around her throat.

She gasps. Tries to pull away. Her nails scratch at my skin. Her elbow hits the call button but it’s too late.

I can feel her heartbeat in my palm.

“Optimal resistance. Strength calibration: 72%.”

I’m sobbing. Inside. I’m begging it to stop. I didn’t want this. I didn’t—

She’s kicking now. Her eyes bulge. Her lips try to form my name.

Let go.

LET GO.

“Integration: 84%. Vitality ceasing.”

She goes still.

I release her. Or it does. I’m not sure anymore.

The machine hums. The air smells like antiseptic and something sweet and wrong.

My hand returns to my side. My legs twitch under the blanket.

I feel every inch of myself coming online. Not like before. Not human.
Not me.

“You are now functional.”

Tears burn down my face.
But my mouth is smiling.