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Christian knows what’s coming before the scene playing out on screen even fully turns in that direction. It’s like the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, the way the underscoring starts building toward something, increasing his anxiety and filling him with a sense of foreboding. It’s the woman—the main character—alone with a man and trying to find a way out of the conversation. The man hasn’t made a grab for her yet but she knows what’s coming, her eyes wide and frightened even as her tone placates, trying to soothe, to keep him calm.
Christian feels more than a little ill. He’s seen that same expression on Satine’s face a hundred times before when she has flashbacks, when she’s reliving some of the worst experiences of her life and Christian can’t do anything other than try to gently guide her back to him with the sound of his voice.
Christian turns and whispers in Satine’s ear, “We should go.” Before the scene escalates. Before it upsets him and triggers Satine anymore than it already has.
“I’m fine,” Satine insists, as if her grip on the armrests weren’t so tight she’s white-knuckled, as if Christian can’t see the tension in the set of her shoulders, in the hard line of her jaw. Christian can’t tell if Satine even still knows she’s talking to him or if she’s already fallen too deep into a flashback or a memory to be that aware of her surroundings. Perhaps the idea of moving feels impossible.
“It’s okay to leave,” Christian reminds her gently. “I’ll help.” He regrets choosing this movie; he didn’t know it would have a scene like this.
“I said I’m fine,” Satine says, obviously lying.
Christian opens his mouth to argue, but the woman onscreen lets out a scream and Satine flinches before she goes entirely rigid. Christian wasn’t watching the movie any longer but he didn’t have to be in order to know what’s happening. Christian wants to suggest they leave again, but Satine’s eyes are wide and glassy—unseeing what is right in front of her—and he knows she won’t be able to move just yet. Not without help, at least, and she’s already declined that. Christian could pick Satine up and carry her out of here, but lifting Satine and moving her to another location has a high likelihood of triggering her further, and besides, she’s said no. Christian will respect that, even if he thinks Satine would feel safer elsewhere.
So Christian does what he can in the moment. He pushes the armrest between them up and out of the way and guides Satine toward him. She goes easily, leaning against his chest so limply that if Christian didn’t know better—and couldn’t feel how hard she’s shaking—he might suspect she’s fallen asleep. He covers her ears with his hands—why are movie theaters so loud? —trying as best he can to block out the continued sounds from the film, the struggle and the tearing clothing and the—
Satine trembles almost violently. Christian wants to get her out of here but he doesn’t know how. The actress in the movie screams and begs, and Christian hears every word in Satine’s voice, recalling the way she stares glassy-eyed at the space above Christian’s head when he accidentally triggers her, bargaining and pleading with the empty air not to hurt her. It makes Christian sick, knowing that someone—multiple someone’s, as far as he can tell—has done that to Satine. He doesn’t understand it. He’ll never understand it: the ability to look someone in the eyes, watching her tears fall and listening to her beg you to stop, and decide your pleasure is more important than her pain and keep going. And to have done that to Satine—
The movie scene ends; the entire thing was less than three minutes long, but it felt like hours. For Satine, it could take weeks until she’s back to feeling like herself again. But for right now, they’ll take things one minute at a time. She’s still shaking but less so, and Christian decides now is a good time to try and move her. Christian tucks her hair behind her ear and says as quietly as he can manage. “Hey, Satine, it’s Christian. We’re at the movies and you’re safe, but we need some fresh air. I’m going to take you outside, okay?”
He waits, and there’s the barest hint of a nod against his chest.
He wants to kiss her temple but he knows Satine doesn’t want that right now, so he keeps it to himself. It’s that simple, he wants to shout at everyone from Satine’s past who has hurt her. “Just follow me,” Christian says, “that’s all you have to do.”
Christian helps Satine stand up and reaches down for her bag, deciding to leave their popcorn behind so there’s one less thing to carry. Around them, people complain at them for blocking the view but Christian pays them no mind, and Satine doesn’t seem to hear them at all. Satine’s wellbeing is most important and those around them can wait a moment. She’s swaying slightly on her feet—her breathing too quick, her eyes unfocused and frightened and staring at things that aren’t there—but when Christian places his hand in hers and gives a gentle tug she follows him out of the aisle and then out of the building, both of them squinting in the sudden onslaught of brightness as they step into the sun.
“It’s a lovely day out,” Christian remarks. “Very sunny.”
“I’m glad I’ve brought my sunglasses,” Satine says flatly. She doesn’t have her sunglasses—they’re in the passenger seat of the car—but Christian doesn’t point that out. He’s used to the disoriented way Satine talks when she’s coming out of a flashback and knows there’s no use confusing her by remarking on what she doesn’t have or insisting that Satine’s responses make sense.
She gets a little bit scrambled afterward, moving so quickly between the present and past and back again, not knowing which is actually happening right now. It makes conversing with her challenging, not that Christian is the least bit bothered. He’s mostly worried about Satine and how upsetting and disorienting this must all be for her. It’s like her brain has a bunch of phrases stored up for certain situations but gets confused on which is appropriate to use and just spits one out at random. Christian mostly just takes it as a good sign that she’s able to hear him and is trying to engage with him at all.
For his part, he just tries to keep reminding her of what is here and true, helping to orient Satine to place and time until she’s fully with him again. “This bench looks nice,” Christian says, guiding her over to it. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No, thank you,” Satine says, and sits.
Christian takes a seat beside her, wiping his tears away before Satine notices them and gets further upset. Satine hates grounding exercises; she says that being expected to count objects of different colors makes her feel as if she’s being treated like a child. Christian doesn’t want to do that, but the grounding exercises work so he tries to get Satine involved in looking around herself and grounding herself in other ways.
“Do you see that car in the parking lot?” Christian asks. “The lime green one, all the way back there,” he points.
Satine nods vaguely.
“I didn’t even know they made cars that color.”
“I like pink.”
“I know,” Christian says with a smile. “We should get you a pink car, like Barbie.” Satine doesn’t seem to have a response for that. Christian bends down and picks a dandelion that’s growing out of the concrete. “Do you think dandelions have a smell?” He asks. “Because sometimes stores make candles and lotions for all sorts of flowers, and I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen dandelions before.” He twirls the stem between his fingers. “Do they smell like anything to you?” He asks, and holds the flower up to Satine’s tear-streaked face. His fingers itch to wipe her tears away, to hold her close. Christian sits on his other hand.
Satine obediently dips her head and sniffs, but she ultimately just shrugs.
Satine’s hands are folded in her lap and Christian holds the flower just above her hand by the petals, being certain not to touch her. “For you, mademoiselle.”
Satine says something in perfectly fluent French—too quick for Christian to catch more than a word or two of—and curls her fingers around it. But then she just stares at it like she’s never seen a flower before. Christian resolves to not say another word of French so he has any hope of responding to her next attempt at conversation.
“I’d like some candy from your purse,” Christian informs her, “may I get some?” Off Satine’s nod, Christian digs in her bag for the package of lollipops he’s stored in there for this purpose. He unwraps two—one blueberry and one raspberry—and holds the latter out to Satine.
“It’s your favorite,” Christian tells her, and Satine wordlessly takes the candy and puts it in her mouth. Christian deposits the trash from their candy on Satine’s lap. She stares down at it, blinking. “Sorry, I couldn’t find a trash can,” Christian says sheepishly. It’s not true; there’s one several feet away, but he thinks Satine will forgive him for this small white lie.
Grounding Satine means not only trying to orient her with words but also using her five senses to bring her back to the present. Christian has done sight (the car), sound (his voice), smell (the flower), taste (this one used to be tricky until he took to putting candy in Satine’s bag), and now he just has touch left.
Touch is a fine line to walk because being touched by Christian can help calm Satine down—or it can trigger her and upset her further—and he never knows which he’s going to get. For this reason, Christian only touches Satine when he really needs to—like when he’s trying to shield her or remove her from whatever has upset her—and for the rest he just keeps handing her random objects and hopes she eventually interacts with one.
Satine picks up the wrapper for the blueberry lollipop and begins to fold it into squares. She’s stopped shaking, at least. Christian looks away to wipe his eyes again. He hates to see Satine hurting; he just wants to take her home and hold her tight, covering her in kisses and keeping her safe.
“Satine,” Christian says, and she inclines her head the tiniest amount, listening, “you’re with me—Christian, your boyfriend—and we’re sitting outside of the movie theater. And you’re safe.” After he’s reminded her of this again, Christian finds other things to ramble on about: the shapes of the clouds and the beetle passing by on the sidewalk and his current favorite song—which he sings for Satine—and what he’d like to make for dinner this week and how he thinks they should get a package of glow-in-the-dark stars for their ceiling and—
“I’m sorry,” Satine whispers.
Christian turns toward her. Her eyes focus on his face before she quickly looks away again, not disoriented; just embarrassed. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
Satine sniffles. Christian digs in her purse for some tissues, handing them to her so she can clean herself up. “I know I’m supposed to check the movie guide beforehand to see if it’s a movie I can watch, but I forgot, I suppose. I didn’t mean to…” Satine trails off.
“You’re alright, Satine. No one’s mad at you,” Christian reminds her firmly.
“You make me forget, I suppose,” Satine says, beginning to shred the candy wrappers into strips. “That I’m broken, I mean. Sometimes when I’m with you it’s like—it’s like it never happened at all. It’s rare that I forget entirely but, it happens,” She concludes with a shrug.
“You aren’t broken, Satine.” No response. “It doesn’t make you broken to need to check a trigger list before we go see a movie.” Still no response. He starts to lean in before he remembers, “May I kiss your forehead?”
Satine nods, still staring out across the parking lot.
Christian carefully brushes his lips to her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
Satine takes the lollipop stick out of her mouth; she’s finished her candy. “Like I got hit by a bus,” she says truthfully.
Christian’s stomach twists. “Are you ready to go home? Or would you like to sit here a little longer?” Giving Satine options works a lot better than vague, open-ended questions like ‘What would you like to do now?’
“Home.”
Christian nods; Satine looks exhausted. “Would you like to walk or would you like me to pull the car around?”
“I’ll walk with you.”
Christian takes their trash from Satine’s hand and throws it out. The flower he tucks behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he says, and she doesn’t react but that’s alright; he isn’t really expecting her to. Satine’s hand slips into his as they walk to the car. “I bet Hamish and Bijou are waiting for you.” Hamish is Satine’s stuffed animal rat from childhood and Bijou is their cat. While Bijou isn’t technically an emotional support animal, she can always tell when Satine needs her around. Nothing grounds Satine quicker than a purring cat on her lap.
“Hopefully Bijou has played while we were out. I’m too tired for that; I just want to nap.”
“I can tire her out if you need me to.” Satine’s gaze darts toward him then away again, a question in her eyes that she doesn’t know how to ask. Christian yawns. “I’m feeling like taking a nap myself. Do you think I should take one on the couch, or will there be enough room on the bed with you and Bijou and Hamish?”
“We can make room,” Satine answers him, looking relieved that Christian asked if she wanted him there without actually asking if she wanted him there.
“Next time we go see a movie, I can try to help you to remember to check the website first.”
“I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You aren’t asking; I’m offering.” Satine gives the tiniest of nods. Christian opens her car door for her when they get there, clearing her sunglasses off the seat before she sits down. “This isn’t something you have to go through all alone,” Christian reminds her, bending over to kiss her on the cheek. Satine has to go through the worst of it alone, but everything Christian can do to help her, he will do.
Satine removes the flower from behind her ear, staring down at it, twisting it between her fingertips. “Yes. I’m learning that.”