Tangle

Beth Jones

Beth Jones is a writer & musician from Oldham, specializing in short, visceral prose & psychological horror. Having recently received her Law LLB from King’s College London, where she was active in the Creative Writing societies, she is now focusing on completing her first book, Strange Harvest. Her most recent work has been covered by Actu Music magazine, with her music being featured on many jazz playlists, such as ‘Mood: Love’ and ‘English Love Songs’ on Spotify & Apple Music.

As I’m sending a piece about my health, I thought I’d include:
I got encephalitis in late 2022. Due to medical gaslighting, I received no diagnosis or treatment until 2025, by which time the damage was done, and I was left with brain damage & tremors. A lot of my shorter works (including this one) focus on how I felt when I had what was effectively untreated dementia.

Tangle

There’s a hole in my head. That’s how they describe it. That my thoughts are like sand, my brain a cracked timepiece – an hourglass. That it is running out, albeit slowly.

There’s three months, give or take, of moments staying present, memories becoming blurred, months becoming minutes. It’s all tangled up, like Christmas lights when you pull them down from the loft in late July. But no matter how much I pull at the edges, they won’t unravel.

I can see me, sitting out in the sun, a sandwich between my fingers, something I bought from a street vendor, a moment I remember, between the blanks and the blurs. I have one bite, two, it’s nice. Scrunch the paper wrapping between my fingers, throw it in the bin, rub the sauce on my napkin. Head back to work.

Then a blank.

Then I’m sitting in a chair. I can feel my body twisting, but I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to, because it doesn’t hurt, no, it feels quite nice. There’s a soft knock at the door and I try to get up, but I can’t make my legs work, can’t push them to stand, and I try to shout “it’s open”, but what comes from my lips aren’t words, more jumbles. A gummy sound; feels like baby food. Soft and squished beneath my tongue.

A blank.

And then I’m in bed. There’s something around me, vomit, maybe. Water? I can feel myself shaking, gently. I feel young, like a puppy ripped from its mother a week too soon. Someone passes me water. I can’t remember his name, or maybe I do, but the syllables get twisted into something else on my tongue. He kisses my forehead. Tells me it’s okay. That I might be dying, but it’s ok. I rest my head on him.

And it isn’t too bad for a second.

Because I might not know his name, or his face. He could be a killer, or the Devil, for all I know, but I’m certain he is kind.