Corridor by Martina Collender

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: Corridor. Smaller text reads: Discussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore.

Look it, have you ever woken, in the dead of night? It’s so dark, that for a second, just a split second, you think you’ve died. And you’re so scared. And you lie there and you feel so horrible, and so…alone, and all that crap you know? Yeah, well, with every step I took, it felt like I was walking to the place where all those horrible feelings were born.
 
Its funny isn’t it, the way the human mind works? Memories, they're just faded shadows is all just faded shadows, that we dwell in every so often. I mean, it was just a corridor, just a walk down a corridor, and yet it’s that that sticks out. I remember the rest, obviously, of course I remember. But it’s all a blur, you know? I almost…trained myself, I suppose, not to think about it…everything. And I don’t, you know, I get on with my life, but it’s walking down that Godforsaken Corridor, it sneaks up on me. And it’s so clear. Every step I took echoed and I can still hear it echoing in my mind. Who the hell am I to complain, there’s so many others going through so much worse than me.
 
Look, I don’t want to talk about it ok, or, or need to.
I don’t want to waste another day.
I don’t want a hug.
I don’t want a tissue.
I don’t want to rent your shoulder to cry on.
I just, I just…
I just thought I’d tell you about the corridor, cause’ I think, it’s a bit mad, that that’s the one thing that sticks out. Yeah, I freaked out ok? You don’t get it. It was so messed up down there. It was like a forgotten place. It’s stupid, but it felt like I couldn’t smile down there, because no one ever did or something. And with every step I took, I felt like, once I got to the end, I couldn’t go back. I’d be stuck there. Which is stupid, cause’ all I ever had to do was ask the nurse and make some bullshit small talk with her, while she took forever to type out that code, and let me out.
 
But sometimes, I’d think, if she can’t get out, then neither can I. Who decided she should stay and I should go. Stupid, so stupid, I know, she’s in the best place…or so I’ve been told. But she can’t decide when to go, you know? And even if she could, she’s locked in her own mind, and I swear, if I knew how to make her better… but I didn’t. I don’t know. And I’d give anything to make her better. And maybe if she got better, she wouldn’t look so sad anymore.

You know we were chatting once, she was in there a couple of months at this point and we were just chatting, and she said “you look wrecked, are you sleeping?” so I told her, cause’ she asked, I told her about waking in the dead of night, and it being so dark and thinking I’ve died for a split second and being so scared…and she told me, she said to me, that when she get’s that feeling, when she wakes, and it’s so dark that she thinks she’s died…she’s relieved.
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Look, I wasn’t the first, and I certainly won’t be the last, but when you see someone walking down that corridor…and I saw this one girl. And she was so small. And so young. And I would bet a diamond to a dollar, that she didn’t know she was crying when she walked down that same corridor. And I wonder now, looking back, did I?
 
Sitting on the bus this all spilled through my mind. I don’t who I’m speaking to when this inner monologue clatters through my brain, I always like to imagine someone, or something, is listening and gartering what I’m thinking and what I’m not saying to keep safe for when I brave enough to examine it all. It’s funny. So I thanked the bus driver I slipped of the bus and ran into his arms as they swept around, a magic clock to block out all thoughts in my mind. I smiled at him. He smiled back. He brushed my hair out of my face as a smile meant for someone played across his mouth. “How was visiting your ma?” A question that could be spoken in monotone, for it had been asked so many times and knew the answer before I even attempted to speak it. “Ok” I whispered back. So I snatched up my bag pack and my denial, I smiled a smile, and breathed a breath, I thought a thought, I walked away hand in hand with him. I offered a wish for mam to be aware of the love I held for her, as I say I like to think someone is listening, or something.

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About the author:
Martina Teeny Collender is a Queer, Disabled, Award Winning, Published, Playwright, Poet and Writer living and working in Waterford City and County with her beloved Ellie.

She's been commissioned to write plays for 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.

She's been published in The Waxed Lemon, The Munster Express, The Lonely Voice run by the Irish Writer's Centre, Pride Of The Deise Supplement, ChewBoy Productions: Chewin The Fat Issue 3, Shallot Journal of Mental Health, Art and Literature and The News and Star.

She's been awarded Best New Play three times by Liam Murphy at The Munster Express and was shortlisted for Best Play at the Billy Roche International Play Competition for her play Visiting The Grave.

She's been funded by Waterford City and County Council, Artlinks, Ted and Mary O'Regan Bursary, Creative Ireland and the Arts Council Of Ireland.

Two of her plays Crotty The Highway Man and Pettiecoat Loose have been published by Suirdzign. Her play Still, We Sing has been published by Beir Bua Press.