A Silent Message

contains themes of sexual violence

The first time I heard the hymn Here I Am Lord, I cried. I was six years old. The smell of summer flowers, polish on the wooden seats and soap from my nan. I was holding my nanny’s hand. Listening to the choir, the guitar starting slowly, swelling as the voices joined in, my eyes filled with tears. The tears just sprang up and caught my heart by surprise. I love that song, and whenever I heard it again for the rest of my life, I would get tears in my eyes.

9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape! What’s the worst thing about gang rape? Having to wait your turn! Why do you keep screaming rape? I told you my name is Dave! Guy goes up to a girl in a bar, says I’m going to have sex with you, she says how do you know? Are you psychic? He said no, I’m stronger than you!

Red lipstick. Bright red lipstick. On your worst days there’s always red lipstick. Even if it’s smudged red lipstick. High heels. Push up bra. No Tights. No Jacket. Send a few messages, quick selfie of what I look like tonight. Lipstick, check?

Fags? Check. Lighter? Check. Cans? Nagging? Red bull? Check. Condoms? Check! I’m on the pill too but I always use condoms better safe than sorry! And all boys lie. C’est la vie!

I don’t remember when I stopped going to mass. But I’m certain it was around the time I decided God was a cunt. God is a cunt. I have nothing to say to him, especially not prayers. He doesn’t deserve to know my “sins”. But Our Lady. I like her. Mary was just a young woman living her life and then suddenly an angel appeared and said you will have a child, and that child will suffer, and you would love that child and watch that child suffer. Fuck God for doing that to her. Nanny used to take me to Knock, Our Lady appeared there to eight little children. She didn’t say a word, just appeared with tears rolling down her face. The message of Knock is a silent one. I like Our Lady; I think she hears our prayers. I think she understands suffering. To watch your child, suffer, imagine… God did that. Remember what God did when you hear me take his name in vain.

Our Lady once said, or someone said it and they copied it down because it was so lovely; if you knew how much I loved you, you’d weep tears of joy. Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you ever heard? Imagine being so loved you’d be moved to tears? I also pray – when I say I pray – I mean I pray in my own way. I have no interest in mass. Someone standing up dictating to me about my sins. Giving sermons and being holier than thou. Lest we forget how not so long ago, the power priests had. The cruelty they inflicted. And nuns, I hate priests, but I despise nuns. We know what they did. I hate them. And not one of them are in prison. Not one of those fucking priests who convinced families to have their daughters and sisters locked up in glorified concentration camps went to jail. That would drive you mad if you thought about it. No wonder, Ireland has a problem with drink, no wonder we haven’t all drank ourselves to death. I talk to nanny about it, how angry I am, she grows quiet and says “What they did, was not in God’s name.” I’m angry at her for still going to mass after all that happened, but she grows quiet again and says her faith is far too important to be lost to abusers. I try and understand. But I do pray. I pray every day in my own way. My favourite saint is St Martin. He’s one of the patron saints of animals. The church opposite the Fitz Wilton Hotel has a statue of St Martin and there’s a dog, a cat, and a bird on the statue. Nanny always took us there to light a candle in front of the statue, so I don’t know if it's nostalgia for my childhood or if it’s something else. But I love the thought of praying to someone who believed loving and spending time with animals was a prayer in its own right.

Geoff’s. It’s packed. I queue for the bar, try to get the barman’s eye; “Two bottles of Bulmer’s please.” I feel a hand on my lower back. I turn around and there’s a boy. Hello! He’s cute. He says “Sorry I was just squeezing past you there.” “No worries,” I say. He smiles. Wow what a smile. One of those fuck-me-pink smiles. “I like your dress,” he says. I pay, I look back, cute boy with the fuck-me-pink smile is gone. Aw. Smoking area. Smoking rollies. Sipping cider. Laughing at something someone once said. Talking over each OTHER. Ordering another drink. Rolling another rollie. The taste of tobacco mixing with the taste of cider. Me and Millie, chatting and living and loving each other. “Hi.” It’s cute boy from the bar! The one with the fuck-me-pink smile. Hi cute boy from the bar. And look-y here he has a friend. A friend for Millie maybe?! “Can we join you?” they ask. Millie pokes me in the ribs, my jaw is on the floor! “Sure,” we say, “Join away.” “I’m Martin,” he tells me. “Like St. Martin,” I say! “One of the Saints of animals.” He laughs. My God, he looks good with a smile on his face. We joke. And chat. And laugh. And smoke rollies. Millie chats and flirts with his friend. The hours slip by and in the bathroom, Millie asks would I be ok if she went home with Martin’s friend. We laugh, she borrows a condom, and they slip off into the night leaving me and Martin alone. Sipping on drinks, the night is still young. And so am I. And so is Martin. We’re young. And alive. And tonight is our night. Later now. Kazbar. Giant security men. Sticky floors. Flashing lights. Heart shaking music. Another pint. And a dance. A mish mash of bodies twirling around each other. Shouting a stupid joke over the music. I pull Martin close to me as we dance. He grinds his hip into me making me laugh. Laughing. Giggling. Falling over with the laughter. The lights spilling over the dance floor. Spilling drink from your pint. Gorgeous by Taylor Swift comes on. I grab Martin and do a little performance for him; “You’re so gorgeous I can’t say anything to your face, cause look your face, I’m so furious at you for making me feel this but what can I say? You’re gorgeous.” Martin grabs my waist. He leans close and says: “You are fucking gorgeous.” I laugh and call him a tosser. He pulls me in close again and kisses me. My heart is pounding so much I’m sure he can hear it. He tastes like cider, and summer, and rich coffee. He tastes amazing. I run my tongue around his mouth, we kiss in a frenzy, hot and heated, and filled with lust, we break apart, and laugh at each other. Breathing in the smell of sweat and perfume and cologne. Voices swirling in the air. Music beating throughout. I’m young. I’m alive. And I’m out.

Martin’s gone, he got sick in Kazbar and got thrown out by the bouncers. I went with him when he got thrown out of the club onto the street, the poor fucker was mortified. He was stumbling and apologising, “I never get this drunk,” he said. “No worries,” I say and thank him for the dance and a great night. We swap Snapchats and promise to see each other again. I helped him into a taxi. I’m sad he’s gone and our night has ended but I’m pleased we shifted and who knows? We might have another night out that ends with breakfast soon! I send a text to Millie to make sure she’s ok after going off with Martin’s pal; she replies straight away, said they had the ride, are now sharing a joint! Good for Millie. Just me now. All alone now. I check my wallet, I have about 5 euro left in change. Mmm. Not enough for a taxi but it’s warm out so I’ll stroll home, I’ll take the longer route home because it’s brighter and busier; safer, all alone now and have to make my way home but first, chips! Chipper packed with hungry drunks. Chatter of the night still alive. I’m called forward after what seems a lifetime. I grab my chips and go. Night now. Pitch black. Stumbling in my heels. The cold breeze catches my bare legs. Walk up through the apple market. It’s mobbed with people getting chips and making their way home. Up past Dealz. Quieter now, a few people making their way home, a homeless man grunts in his sleep under a doorway of a closed down shop, poor man, I think. Up past Gino’s ice cream place. Up through red square. It’s deserted now. Everyone is up the other end of town trying to get a taxi home because the night is over. It’s all quiet here. Up O’Connell Street. I throw a chip at a pigeon. I love pigeons. I love all birds. Soaring in sky, able to go wherever they want. Stumbling home. High heels making it hard to walk. Dizzy from the cider. The chips are good. Down now at the end of O’Connell Street. Not a soul in sight. What a night! My god Martin was a great shift! Such a good kisser, wish I had gotten the ride, but maybe next time. I really hope Martin messages me again, I’d really love to see him again, he is fun and dances and makes me laugh, happy with the thoughts of the night tumbling around my mind, I carry on stumbling home. I’m yawning. Ready for bed, I’ve danced the feet off myself, I’m bet, looking forward to bed and a lie in, might get a breakfast roll in the morning to cure the hangov—But wait what’s that? Someone behind me. Wearing a coat. Hunched over. Not wearing a coat. A hoodie maybe? It’s dark and it’s just a somebody making their way home. I hear his footsteps echoing in the empty street. I stumble on. Damn high heels. And I’m dizzy from the drink. “Hey!” It’s him. I stop, I stumble, I keep going. “Hey. You having a good night?” I look around, it’s just the two of us; alone in the street. “Yes I had a good night,” I say to keep him calm, “but I’m tired now.” I hurry along. He keeps talking. I’m up at the corner of my apartment now. I’m right outside the church. The church with the statue to St Martin with cat and the dog and the bird. St Martin, please help me. St Martin, please make this guy go away. St Martin, please get me home safe. Outside my apartment now. “Bye now this is where I live. So, bye now.” “Let me walk you up!” “No. No. Go away now this is where I live.” I shiver and not because of the cold. I turn but he grabs my arm. He is faster. And stronger. He slams me against the gate. I fight, he slams my arms back. I bite his shoulder; he spits in my ear “bitch.” He pushes me against the gate, the gate is cutting into my back. Get off me. He moans. I cry. He rips off my dress. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ow. It hurts. Stop. Ow. Ow. Ow. Suddenly, I’m on the ground and he is gone. He disappeared into the night. Something between my legs. Something between my legs flowing down. Have I wet myself? No, it’s blood and semen. I pull back on my knickers and then my dress. I’m shaking all over now. I take out my phone. And choking on a silent scream I ring the guards.

Sitting in the Garda Station and a Garde with kind eyes offers me, he offers me something, something kind he’s trying to be kind, he goes then, leaves to, to get me a coffee, he hands it to me apologising they’re out of milk. So funny, in a situation like this to think I’ll mind they have no milk, no milk at 2.30 in the morning of course not, the milk would all be drank and in the morning, someone else will buy the milk. I thank him and I sip the black coffee, the bitter taste I didn’t mind anything, anything, anything, to get rid of the taste of his tongue choking me. His tongue pushed into my mouth, muffling my screams, he tasted like cheap tobacco and whiskey; oh god I’m going to vomit. I’m shaking and still drunk but I feel sober, I feel wide awake. I don’t feel like laughing or dancing now. They ask me a thousand questions and each question hurts my head. I answer as best as I can. The questions stop. My hand is shaking, spilling drops of coffee on my leg. I think – I think of who to pray to now. Or what to pray for. I can’t think of anything to say to anyone at all. The Guards move me to A&E now and it’s quiet for a Saturday night, quiet for a Saturday night, not too many sick people. Am I sick now? Is that why they brought me here? Because I’m sick now? Because I’m dirt. Ruined. Infected. Disgusting.

Damaged. Revolting. Repulsive. Nauseating. Hideous. Filthy. Soiled.

Dirty. Because I’m nothing now. Nothing now that he has ruined me.

Down a bright corridor. Into a brighter room. A woman with a curt sharp voice. Now, what do we have here? Can you hear me, girl? Girl? Did she just call me girl? She pulls out a form and starts shooting questions at me. Is there a history of mental illness in your family? Is there a history of drug abuse or alcoholism in your family? When did you last have sex? Are you on the pill? Was it vaginal or anal rape? Did he ejaculate inside of you or on you? Did you take drugs? How much did you drink? One pint? Two? Seven? Nine? Spirits? My head was spinning I answered as best as I could. The hardest test I took in my life. That’s what it was a test. They were testing me. Strip. My clothes are taken and put in clean plastic bags. I’m wearing one of those hospital gowns. Lie down. Swab the mouth. Clean under the fingernails. Did you scratch him? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything hurts. It all hurts. I want to go home. Spread your legs. Spread your legs. Did he use a condom? Did he use a condom? No, he didn’t. I don’t think. I don’t know. I want to go. More swabs. It hurts. OW. Ow. Ow. Please stop.

Almost done. No, stop now. STOP IT. Please. You can shower now. Handed me a navy hoodie and tracksuit. Where are my clothes? Taken for evidence. I look at the dress that I was so proud off. That dress that I was so excited to wear. I look at that dress now in a clear evidence bag. It’s so short. What was I thinking wearing that dress out? Alone, walking home, with no coat, with that dress that barely covers my…my…me. Oh God, what was I thinking? I was asking for it. Walking home, alone, wearing that and no coat, no coat, oh god why didn’t I wear a fucking coat? They take my clothes and I go into the bathroom and lock the door. I undress slowly, because I’m so sore and tender. I get into the shower and turn it on. I stand under the hot water. Make the water as hot as possible so it burns me, so it burns this filthy skin off me. Scrub until my skin is red raw. Scrub until I’m bleeding. Scrub until I can only feel the sting of bleeding. A knock on the door. You ok in there? Yes, I’m fine. Just a minute. Just a minute to what? Just a minute until I get dressed and go outside? Just a minute till I go outside and become a victim? His? His victim. A woman is sent to meet me at the hospital, a volunteer from the Rape Crisis Centre, she tells this isn’t your fault, the Guards will catch him, you’ll survive this, she is a walking talking cliché. But I know the truth. I know exactly how this was all my fault. I let her ramble on and eventually she leaves me alone. Alone with my thoughts, then I think that it’s worse to be left alone with my thoughts because now, like everything about me, now my thoughts are bad too. I’m sitting in the back seat of the garda car and leaning my head against the window. Everything hurts. I remember a story about Jesus healing a leper, the leper prayed to Jesus to be saved and cured and Jesus listened and saved him and cured him. God, can you cure me? But something tells me there’s no cure for this pain.

Home. But it doesn’t feel like my home anymore. Nothing feels like mine anymore. I don’t sleep. I fall into a …a…. a…I don’t know what. Half dreams, half awake. Him. Him following me. Him catching me and hurting me. Hurting me. Ow. Ow. My chest hurts. It hurts to breath. My head hurts. I take Panadol. One. Two. Three. Four. My back hurts. My arms hurt. My stomach hurts. My muscles hurt. I use the bathroom. It now hurts when I pee. I’m all swollen and bruised between my legs. The Panadol dose nothing. Except leave a chalky taste in my mouth. The night is quiet and loud at the same time. I think its loud only inside my head. There’s a loud knocking on the door “Gardaí.” – Fuck, fuck, I’d forgotten. I run they’re not going to wake my flatmate. If they wake my flatmate, he will know something happened. Know how stupid I was, how I walked home alone, how I got in trouble. My flatmate will be angry. Who wants to live with someone who brings the Guards knocking down the door on a bank holiday Monday? I open the door and there’s a man and a woman Guard standing there. He man says, “I know what happened to you” He says his sorry and I believe him. He is sorry and he says: “I promises we will catch this guy” and I believe him. He asks about my family. And I panic. I think of Nanny. She can’t know. It will break her heart. Friends? Someone to come with me. To give my statement. But I gave my statement last night I almost cry. I can’t go through it again. “You were drunk Alice” he whispers. “We need a clearer version of events. For court.” Court. Ohmygod. Court. Friends to come with me. All my friends are in bed, sleeping off hangovers. I can’t ruin their morning. With news of this. I can do this. By myself. “We must go” they tell me. Now? “Now.”

I remember learning about how Jesus was crucified, I was horrified. He asked for water and they gave him vinegar. He went through that for our sins, he did that for us, for our sins, he died for us. But what I don’t understand if he did, then why do we suffer still? We’re all crucified in our own ways here on earth, and who’s that for? Whose sins do we suffer and die in our own way for?

They took me back to the Garda Station and sat me down. “We need to start at the beginning” she says. Its painfully slow. I say things and she writes them down. She explains to me she has to write down exactly what I say. When we get to the bit about what he did to me I stumble, I fail, there are some things there are no words for. “He put his hands where? Where? What word would you say? Fanny? Vagina? I need you to say it and not me. This is what will be used in court and needs to be your words.” I do it. I say it. I relive it. My skin is crawling. Just remembering. The way he touched me. Forced me. Gripped me. Bruised me. Hurt me. Pushed me. Killed me. He killed a part of me. After two and a half hours she stopped writing. She read the statement back to me. Asked me was anything missing. I said no. That was everything. She put her pen down. She looked away from me. And spoke. Look. I was really hoping someone would be with you. I don’t have anyone. No one can know I say. She looks away from me again. And speaks. Look. You were drunk. Its your word against his. The court case can be dragged on for up to three years. Your name will be protected but Waterford is a small town everyone will know who you are and who he is. They’ll rip your apart in court, they’ll bring up your sexual history, they’ll show your underwear, they’ll make you out to be a slut. I – just wish you had someone with you to make this decision. Your saying…. you’re saying I shouldn’t go forward with this? In my opinion and its just my opinion it’s important you understand I’m not telling you what to do but... but... no I wouldn’t go forward. I don’t think you’ll get a conviction.

Is that what they will say about me? Make me out to be a slut, who was asking for it? I can’t. I’m sorry, who am I sorry too? You. His future victims. Myself? My parents? My Nanny? I’m sorry. I’m sorry to anyone who will listen. I can’t bring this to court, I’m not strong enough for what they’ll say about me.

Drinking. Cans. Bottles. Shots. Drinking to forget. Drinking to remember to forget. Skin crawling. Hating my arms. Hating my breasts. Hating my face, my smile, my legs. Hating between my legs. I am condemned to live in this body I hate. I don’t kiss anymore. Blowjobs no worries. Sex grand. Anything but kissing. I can’t bear to kiss someone. All I feel is his tongue pushing into my mouth. So, I don’t kiss anymore. I drink to wash the taste of his mouth out of mine. I drink alone. I drink with strangers. I dance until my feet hurt. I drink until I can’t see anymore. I drink until I vomit then I drink some more. I down Panadol for hangovers and drink again.

I decided one day to tell someone. I told my college counsellor. I hadn’t planned on telling him, telling anyone, but I was struggling under the weight of it all. My hand shook. I told him. “Why didn’t you scream?” he said to me. I didn’t know what he meant. “There’s a hotel right opposite you, why didn’t you scream?” I stood up and walked out, shaking, that was that. That was the end of me ever telling anyone. Why didn’t I scream? I don’t know. Why didn’t I? I don’t know. And that’s not good enough.

I find myself in a church. I think of God, and I find I have nothing to say to him. Fuck him. He created this. He allowed this to happen to me. He did this to me. He was meant to love me. He was meant to protect me. I think of Our Lady. How she appeared in Knock with tears running down her face. The message of Knock is a silent one. I think of her. She knows pain and grief. I ask her to hear me. I would have asked her for help if I knew what kind of help, I needed. I beg her to hear me. To show me…something, anything. I sit in silence in the church. I stay a few moments more in the church then go to an old bar that opens early and get myself another drink.

Seconds passed, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months passed. Months which held years in them. I stopped sleeping around. I stopped being a slut. I stopped asking for it. I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped brushing my hair. I bought boys clothes in Penny’s. Big baggy jumpers. Big baggy jeans. Big baggy leggings. Runners. I wear Big Knickers now. Capital B, Capital K. Big. Knickers. Not thongs, or bikini, no colours, just plain black, nothing fun, nothing sexy, no surprises. They come right up to my tits and cover my bum completely. And I cover my Big Knickers, with Big baggy leggings, and runners. With a hoodie, that's never quite clean. And no makeup. I feel a little bit safer now, I work so hard at making myself un-wantable, undesirable. And yes, I miss flirting, and yes, I miss the tease of the first kiss, and yes, I do I miss the sex, and yes, I am lonely, but I can cope with all the missing, and all the secret wanting, and all I'm missing, because I feel safer now. Who would want me? So, I'm a little safer. I hide this body of mine, beneath dirty, baggy clothes, and I know, if I ever am raped again, they won't show my knickers in court, and say my big knickers were asking for it. I hide my body away so no one would ever decide they wanted it again. I hide my body away so no one would ever decide they want it and just take it again. I stopped going out. I put a lock on my bedroom door. I hide away so nobody will ever hurt me again.

I fell into reading other stories like mine and the fucking headlines. The headlines. It’s shocking how these women are being spoken about. I became obsessed. When another woman’s story was splashed across the front page, it became pub talk. Did you believe her? Or was she just a slut? Who was asking for it? Who got too drunk? And was now ruining these men’s reputations? I stopped going to the pub then. Because all I could think of, was what about me? Was I asking for it? What was I doing walking home alone? What did I expect to happen? If I really was…. then why didn’t I fight harder? Or scream? There was a hotel right opposite you why didn’t you scream? So, I sit at home alone and drink now. No debates here.

There was a gimmer of hope in 2017. 2017. The year Me-too came to Ireland. I emerged from my room and hangover…. Thinking maybe….

Hopefully…. They’ll do something. Something. They’ll make it illegal for your underwear to be shown in court, They’ll make it illegal for your sexual history to be bought up in court. They’ll make sure you don’t have to see him when you to take to the stand to testify in court, they’ll make the waiting list shorter, so your court day comes sooner. They’ll fight for more funding so there’s more counsellors. They’ll train guards how do deal with victims. You won’t be asked if there’s a history of mental illness in your rape kit. And they did! They did it all! Did they fuck. They did nothing except encourage women to out there’s abusers on Twitter, with no counselling, nothing to protect, and what if a woman lied? And ruin his life? That’s all me-too did in Ireland. Cause more pain.

Sometimes I’d allow my mind to wander to when I was little holding my nanny’s hand when she would bring me to funerals, I wasn’t scared, I found it so peaceful the thought that person was just going home and everyone who ever loved them would be there to greet them. That there would be no sorrow, no grief or pain and they would be happy once again in Heaven. I remember the flowers laid out in funerals and the shiny coffins and listening to the prayers in mass holding my Nanny’s hand. I felt at peace and calm. I am trying to pray now but the familiar words are stuck in my throat like broken glass. I try to light candles but blow them out before they can burn long enough to kill the darkness. Once I even tried going to mass, but I just vomited.

There were no vigils for me. No flowers. No candles. Because I was drunk. And walking home alone. I was asking for it. If he had killed me…. I hope…. I hope you know. I wouldn’t want any roses. I hate roses. I wouldn’t want vigils. Or prayers. I wish…. I wish he had killed me. Because this is worse. I’m still alive. But my body is dead. I hate this body. I’m condemned to live in this body. Forever. I’m too much of a coward to kill myself. So, I hide away. I don’t go out anymore. I wear hoodies and jumpers. Hide my body. Hide this body which is disgusting. Ruined. His. His. His. His. His.

Trust me when I say it’s funny 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape…. because it is the joke is on us.

Martina Teeny Collender is a Queer, Disabled, award-winning playwright, poet, and writer based in Waterford City and County, Ireland. Her work delves into themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, often spotlighting marginalized voices.

Martina has been commissioned by a diverse array of organizations, including Loose Screw Theatre Company, Red Kettle Theatre Company, RigOut Productions, Trinity Players, Comeragh Wilds Festival, Imagine Arts Festival, The Drama Circle, Brothers Of Charity, Rehab Care, Waterford Youth Arts, and Garter Lane Arts Centre. Her plays have been recognized for their compelling narratives and authentic representation.

Her literary contributions extend to esteemed publications such as The Waxed Lemon, The Munster Express, The Lonely Voice (Irish Writers Centre), Pride Of The Déise Supplement, ChewBoy Productions’ Chewin’ The Fat (Issue 3), Shallot Journal of Mental Health, Art and Literature, and The News and Star.

Martina's accolades include three Best New Play awards from critic Liam Murphy at The Munster Express. Her play Visiting The Grave was shortlisted for Best Play at the Billy Roche International Play Competition. She has received funding and support from Waterford City and County Council, Artlinks, the Ted and Mary O'Regan Bursary, Creative Ireland, and the Arts Council of Ireland.

Her published works include Crotty The Highway Man and Petticoat Loose (Suirdzign), as well as Still, We Sing (Beir Bua Press). Martina continues to inspire through her storytelling, advocating for inclusivity and representation in the arts.