Until a week ago, I worked as an usher at a very old, massive movie theater. It was not one of those modern cinemas with reclining leather seats and a full dining menu. It was an aging, multi-level building with sticky carpets, flickering neon lights, and corridors that stretched on far too long. Because it was an independent theater, we played a lot of things the big chains ignored. We played old classics, independent films, and late at night, we played incredibly cheap, low-budget horror movies. The kind of movies filled with practical gore, disgusting practical effects, and terrible acting. We had one specific screen, the smallest one located at the very end of the longest hallway on the second floor, dedicated almost entirely to these types of movies. My job was simple. I stood by the ticket podium, directed people to their screens, and when a movie ended, I went in with a broom and a trash bag to sweep up the spilled popcorn and discarded cups. It was a boring job, but it was qui...
Looking back now, I think it was destiny that me and my wife had that argument. I won’t go too in depth, but I will say it wasn’t the first time I’d stormed out of the house in a rage. Ever since Mathew went missing, it was either solemn silence or violent outbursts between me and her. He was our son. The one thing in this world we were supposed to protect with every ounce of strength in our bodies, only for him to disappear right below our noses. We used to hike as a family, head up to the trails and get away from the city. It was grounding. Tantalizing, almost. Picnicking, taking dips in whatever stream or river we could find, feeling Mother Nature embrace us in her arms. Hell, I still remember the hike we went on the day everything happened. The day our lives crumbled around us. March 16th, 2006. The air was starting to warm up again here in the south. Trees had started blossoming again. The sun felt actually inviting rather than ironic. Mathew was 6 at the time. His mother and I h...