Living in her car - Beeston Spring woman struggling after Melissa adds to woes

As she sat quietly in the front seat of a parked car on the compound of Salem Primary School in Beeston Spring, Westmoreland, Ann-Marie Warren's pain was impossible to hide.

Her swollen feet rested awkwardly against the dashboard, and she shifted from side to side, searching for comfort in a place where there was none. A green blanket hung loosely across the car windows for shade and privacy -- the only thing separating her and her spouse from the outside world.

Ever since Hurricane Melissa tore their house to shreds two weeks ago, this small, stifling car has been their home.

"Inna the car very uncomfortable and it all a swell mi foot because mi can't stretch it out," Warren said, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

"Mi shoulder and hand pain up bad, it nuh easy. Mi can't sleep either, because the mosquitoes dem annoying. Mi boyfriend sleep with one of the car door open and mi nuh like it, mi fraid but a because the place hot. But what to do except put we trust inna God," she said.

Situated in the hills a few miles away from Sandals Whitehouse, Beeston Spring was once a place of beauty -- known for its healing waters, lush gardens, and warm, welcoming people. Today, it is a landscape of heartbreak. Roads are broken, homes flattened, and the once-vibrant greenery now lies twisted and brown, as though the earth itself had wept.

Hurricane Melissa made landfall just 10 minutes away from the community on October 28, but Warren's suffering began long before the storm. Her home had burnt to the ground in a fire only months earlier. She had just begun to rebuild when the hurricane swept away what little hope remained.

"After mi house burn down, mi did a stay with some people, but their house got destroyed," she told THE STAR.

Now left with nowhere to turn, Warren said her health has started to decline under the weight of stress and sleepless nights.

"Mi know mi pressure high because mi foot dem swell up bad and, see dem start get black deh, but mi nuh have any medication," she said.

For Warren, survival has become a daily act of faith -- a quiet prayer whispered from the front seat of a car, where dreams of comfort have been replaced by the unshakable will to keep going.

Adding to her heartache is the painful reality that she is separated from her children. At just 30 years old, Warren carries the crushing weight of being apart from her seven-year-old twin girls.

"Fi now, mi twin deh a dem father, but where dem deh, believe it or not, it take me about three hours to walk go look for dem, so mi can't do it every day," she said.

"Mi feel stress out really bad because mi nuh deh around mi kids and mi homeless. A nuff nightmare mi have say dem a cry fi mi. Mi nuh happy, enuh, and sometimes mi all dream say dem a bawl say dem hungry," she said as tears welled up in her eyes.

Their few remaining possessions -- a handful of clothes, a small stove, and some bedding -- are packed into the back of the car. Each day, they survive on what little food is handed out by good Samaritans or delivered by helicopters at designated points.

"Mi life before the fire and the storm was nice and comfortable enuh, but Melissa come and make it very hard. Mi nuh lazy because mi is a cosmetologist. Mi did go square one after mi house bun dung, and now mi worsa gone back a square one. Mi deh zero right now, it nuh easy," she said.