eighty-three : alien hand syndrome
She had been walking for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness but found herself still walking every time she woke. The first time she blacked out was in the motel parking lot. She regained consciousness 20 minutes later on the side of the main road. Again, on a side street. A dirt track. This time, she was surrounded by dense gums. Big, smooth rocks were scattered amongst the rain-soaked scrub, and she wove her way around them as if she had walked the trail a million times before. Above her, in the spaces between leaves the sky was black and dotted with stars and heavy, scattered clouds. The moon was somewhere between full and waxing, and it cast bright shafts of light between the clouds and trees, reflecting in the eyes of tiny creatures which scurried away when they saw her approaching. She tried again and again to turn around, to walk back in the direction she had come from, but had no control of her limbs. They moved steadily forward, on and on of their own accord. She found herself thinking about Alien Hand Syndrome. Of waking up in the middle of the night to find your left hand trying to strangle you while your right tried to pull it away. This felt worse.
