Startled and slightly disoriented by the clouded windows obscuring her view of the mayhem, she sits with her back upright against the rear left door, and with her left hand, pulls the right cuff of her long-sleeve over her right palm, clasping and holding it in place - twisting her torso and allowing her lumbar spine to crack in the process, she rubs clear the window. Observing the assault on nature unfolding before her eyes, her attention swiftly alters when her right ear starts to burn up and ache with great discomfort at what surely seems like the sound of a muffled jackhammer, busy excavating the cavities of her eardrum.
Concentrating with as much effort as can be expected at 4:18am, she attempts to pinpoint the source of her distress. Surrounding trees continue to be unsettled by the onslaught of winds passing through them, as leaves and debris caught in its violent tirade collide with the already battered body of her car. Amidst the carnage developing outside the safety of her car - a safety now in jeopardy as external elements persist in enacting their rage on the bushland - she continues to be at odds with an unknown force, trapped in an internal nightmare - a buzzing note of varying lengths and volumes now straining both eardrums and the innermost space of her mind.
Just as she is at what appears to be the peak of her infernal plight, a familiar tune emanates from within her backpack, situated on the flooring beside the back seat where her legs were, like the rest of her body, contorting with discomfort from the sound which now appears to have died down - in its place, a combination of synthesizers, drum kickers, and bass guitars permeate her mind and settle her into momentary euphoria. An incoming phone call. Revelling briefly over the timeliness with which her phone interrupted her worsening ordeal - with haste, she rummages through the open pack and retrieves her handset, notifying of a call from her distant brother. Before she can answer, thanking him for his failure to acknowledge the time difference between them, her phone has its last hurrah - inconveniencing her with a message that it was shutting down, taking with it the sanity she’d hoped to regain from contact with another human being.
Realising she’s now edging herself into a fit, she latches onto any memory she can find. In this situation, an image of her brother, and a memory of him pushing her in a wheelbarrow when she was a toddler - recalling her mother’s disdain at the fact her daughter was sitting in something Christine’s father used for collecting dog shit around the yard. Pulling faces at her mother and laughing incessantly as she’s wheeled around the sparse green land her family once owned, she distinctly remembers the broad smile of her brother as she looked up at him from where she was sitting, before all of a sudden the front wheel bogs in a hole their dog Ned had dug up earlier - and Christine is hurled out, her hand impacting ground before her the rest of her body - the sheer agonising pain of a metacarpal fracture mirrored in her wails and screams.
These screams echo within the confines of her head. Sitting with her legs crossed on the backseat of her car, the images of her memory gradually fade from view until she’s brought back to the sight of her phone, which now sits dormant in the grasp of her hand. The screams don’t seem to cease, instead augmenting - their lengths increasing to a point they revert to that dreaded, continuous note - its pitch now raised by an octave.
Dropping her phone in panic she clenches her hands and fingers on her head - squeezing in a feeble attempt to battle her adversary. Quickly, all efforts turn on her and she senses thousands of tiny legs - insects originating from the crown of her head, as if all at once, tens of thousands of minuscule eggs situated under her mass of hair hatched, and were ready to collectively consume her . They spread out, some weaving through strands and clumps of hair on the surface of her scalp, while others vigorously climb, racing to the tips of her hair to catch a ride on her fingers - all the while, Christine scratches vehemently, releasing sharp, momentary outbursts in her increasing struggle. In the short time its taken the horde of pests to overrun her being, she has all but given up hope - allowing her body to collapse and fall onto the flooring, the impact - though hard on her now fragile form, triggers consciousness.
Her entire being trembling, and tears welling up along the edges of her eyes, she gathers what little strength she has left to pull herself up onto the seat. Rattled by what’s taken place, a flurry of emotions follow, and surge through her system - each impacting her breathing patterns differently. Long inhales, rapid segmented exhales, short, fast breaths extending unto longer, calmer, formulated breaths all for an instant before the process repeats over. In an effort to regulate this, she pulls her knees into her chest and lowers her head accordingly - forcing her eyes shut, imagining a swing set in a park she once frequented as a child. She recalls the distinct clinks of rusted steel links as they overlapped one another, and creaks the worn metal frame gave off in her endless pursuit to reach heights small children merely dreamt of. No matter her distance from the ground, she was always reminded it was doing its utmost to support her. Remaining in her tucked position, her head cautiously emerges - an innocence on her face marked by her child self.