{"id":5221,"date":"2020-12-09T10:09:10","date_gmt":"2020-12-09T10:09:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.horrifiedmagazine.co.uk\/?p=5221"},"modified":"2022-12-29T14:02:55","modified_gmt":"2022-12-29T14:02:55","slug":"the-reunion","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.horrifiedmagazine.co.uk\/uncategorized\/the-reunion\/","title":{"rendered":"The Reunion"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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The Reunion<\/h2>\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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by Max Leonard Hitchings<\/h2>\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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I receive an invitation. <\/b><\/p>\n

The invitation is made of thin card and has a border of holly leaves around the edge. In the centre of the card, in gold letters, it says REUNION. It goes on the fridge. <\/span><\/p>\n

In the months that follow, I look at it twice daily: every morning, when I have my breakfast, and every evening when I get home from work. On Sundays, I clean around it.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am conflicted about whether or not to attend the reunion. On the one hand, I am happy and a little surprised to have been invited, whilst on the other, I haven\u2019t seen these people for a long time. And my ex-wife will be there. Maybe even her husband and kid. It could be… awkward. <\/span><\/p>\n

Time passes.<\/span><\/p>\n

I step off the train into the old familiar station. I decide against taking a cab, thinking it will be nice to see the old town. It is a pleasant enough evening, despite the cold. <\/span><\/p>\n

I walk along a pavement that I have walked on many times before and recognise little features around me – cracked walls filled with mortar; a charity collection box outside the butcher\u2019s; even one or two carollers singing in the town square. It\u2019s odd how some things stay the same. <\/span><\/p>\n

My shoes grind on the gravel path as I approach the house. A warm glow emanates from the windows. I adjust my collar and check my hair in a car wing mirror. The front door is ajar and I can hear raucous merrymaking within – I push the door open and enter the house. <\/span><\/p>\n

I see many familiar faces, ones I used to know so well. It\u2019s hard to believe it\u2019s been ten years since I last saw them. There is plenty of booze flowing and any initial awkwardness is offset by laughter and good cheer.<\/span><\/p>\n

I feel the familiar embrace of my ex-mother-in-law. It is good to see her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then Kate, my ex-wife, enters the room. It is a little tense at first, but she invited me after all, so it\u2019s not as if she wasn\u2019t expecting me. I click my fingers as I remember that I\u2019d brought a bottle of wine. It saves us from the moment. She says thank you and takes it through to the kitchen.<\/span><\/p>\n

I mingle among the guests. Most of them are old friends of the family – a family I used to be in, although as I\u2019m no longer in it, it\u2019s hard to say whether or not they are friends of mine.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s one person in particular there that I am delighted to see – Kate\u2019s dad, Dennis. He sits in his chair by the fire, smoking his roll-ups like he always did. <\/span><\/p>\n

After the initial weirdness, I circle back around to Kate, and this time we get along just fine, laughing like old friends, but her face darkens when I ask about her husband and child. It isn\u2019t clear if that\u2019s just because she feels it\u2019s none of my business. Could well be.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crackers are pulled, paper hats are worn, mince pies are scoffed. All the joy of Christmas is present. Chestnuts are roasted on the fire, with Dennis telling everyone not to get bits of shell stuck under their thumbnails. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt hurts like a motherfucker,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/p>\n

At some point Dennis calls me over, and gestures towards Kate. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou seem to be getting on well,\u201d he says. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAs much as can be expected,\u201d I reply. \u201cShe seems happy.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe isn\u2019t,\u201d Dennis says matter-of-factly. \u201cCome on,\u201d he says. \u201cWhen are you going to come back? When are you going to come and take back your woman?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

I laugh a little nervously. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt isn\u2019t that simple, Dennis,\u201d I say. \u201cShe\u2019s moved on – she has a husband and a kid. Probably have a second in the next year or two.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d says Dennis. \u201cI was at the wedding.\u201d He makes a kind of zonked-out pantomime exhausted face. \u201cIt isn\u2019t right,\u201d he says. \u201cShe isn\u2019t happy. Just look at the way she lights up when she looks at you. I\u2019ve never seen her look at him that way.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

I gaze over at her. She\u2019s rummaging in a cupboard with her mother, looking for a decanter of sherry. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think she\u2019s just pissed,\u201d I say, and Dennis chuckles. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe miss you,\u201d he says. \u201cCome back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t, Dennis. I can\u2019t just rock up here after ten years.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

I look at his face. He suddenly seems very old indeed. The lines on his face intersect like a Gordian knot. I must be old too. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad you\u2019re here,\u201d I say. \u201cI wasn\u2019t expecting you to be. When I got the invitation, I wasn\u2019t sure whether I ought to really come. But now I\u2019m here, I\u2019m glad I came. It\u2019s so good to see you, Dennis. There are so many familiar old faces here, and I miss them all. But none so much as yours.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

He smiles, while rolling himself another cigarette. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLikewise,\u201d he says. \u201cListen, I\u2019ve pretty much moved out to the shed. Why don\u2019t you stay for a couple of days? You can have my room. See the old country, etcetera, etcetera.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI couldn\u2019t, Dennis, really I couldn\u2019t. You\u2019d freeze to death in the shed.\u201d He lights his rollie with a wry smile. \u201cBesides,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat would she say? She always thought we had a conspiracy going on. No, thanks – but if I do stay, I\u2019ll stay at a B&B.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re all booked up,\u201d he says, and exhales a long, thin, stream of smoke. \u201cStay. Please.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He puts his hand on my shoulder. I look him in the eyes. Big, wet eyes he always had. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI really can\u2019t, Dennis, I have to get back – \u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPlease.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not that simple, Dennis.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you go, I\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re always welcome to visit me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019ll <\/span>go.<\/span><\/i>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He fixes me with his eyes. I wonder if he\u2019s joking, but he seems dead serious. His hand tightens on my shoulder. I look round at the room. There\u2019s a loud cheer as the stopper is removed violently from a decanter of sherry. Drinks are poured out. Kate brings me over a glass. Somebody tinkles on theirs with their keys. My ex-wife addresses the room. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for coming, everyone. It\u2019s wonderful to see so many old faces. It\u2019s been ages since I saw some of you.\u201d She gives me a little smile, and glances around the room. \u201cSome of you have come a great distance to be here. So, from Mum and me, thank you. And merry Christmas.\u201d She lifts up her glass. \u201cAs you know, this Christmas it\u2019s been ten years, so\u2026 to Dennis,\u201d she says, and gestures towards the chair by the fire. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTo Dennis,\u201d come the replies. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBugger off!\u201d says Dennis. But then he looks around the room. Everyone is looking in his direction. He glances over at the mantelpiece over the fire. A nice big photo of him is sitting there, with tinsel around the frame. <\/span><\/p>\n

He looks me straight in the eyes. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome back,\u201d he says. \u201cYou\u2019re needed here. You can have my old room\u2026\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI really can\u2019t, Dennis. And actually, I\u2019m going to have to leave now. I have to get the next train or I\u2019ll miss my connection\u2026 you know how it is. It\u2019s been great to catch up, old friend. I\u2019ve missed you so much these past ten years. I think I always will. Be at peace, Dennis.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

I mingle for a bit and then I say my goodbyes and Happy Christmases. Kate stops me on the way out. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad you could make it. Let\u2019s not leave it so long next time?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

I look over, expecting to see Dennis giving me a cheeky wink. No, not expecting. Hoping. Yearning. What I actually see is what I was expecting to see all along. An empty chair. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d I say. <\/span><\/p>\n

She hugs me goodbye. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSafe travels\u201d, she says. <\/span><\/p>\n

I step slowly down the gravel path away from the house. I look back at the living room window. The house gives off a warm, inviting glow.<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tMax Leonard Hitchings\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/h4>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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Max Leonard Hitchings is an artist, writer and musician based in London.<\/p>\n

Their work has been exhibited in London, Exeter and Bussana Vecchia, Italy.<\/p>\n

In 2014 they attempted to invoke Woody Woodpecker as an anti-arborescent avatar to destroy hierarchical structures in a beach hut at the Whitstable Biennale.<\/p>\n

They make music as Amnertia.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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You can follow Max on Twitter<\/a> and Instagram<\/a>, find out more about Amnertia here<\/a> or visit their website here<\/a><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Share this article or save to read later<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Photo by Fabrice Villard<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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