It was the cat that got me. A prissy grey Persian was the one that batted me from the bough of the festive pine. She prowled into the room with a lazy ease. Her natural instincts had dulled over the years, so it took her a few moments to figure out how to scale the tree after she weaved in and out of the landmine of wrapping papers; I might add that it was Christmas morning, so no one was supervising the little she-devil. The cat managed to find a path to the tree, and she took a minute to sharpen her claws on the base of it. After that, she slowly pulled herself up the trunk, but not before I caught a glimpse of those calculating orange eyes. She took her sweet time figuring out how to reach me about three-quarters of the way up the tree. The tallest branches swayed under her weight. My breath hitched in my throat as a wave of fear pulled me under. The cat set her sights on me, a round blood-red ornament. That was the moment I lost all hope, it was the point of no return. She stalked down my branch as gracefully as her plump body would allow. The next few instants were a blur. The Persian reached out a fat paw, and swiftly knocked me from my high perch. In those few airborne moments, I recalled the looks on the children's faces this morning, a picture of pure bliss, and suddenly dying didn't seem that bad. That was my last thought before I hit the ground with a sharp CRACK and the world receded from around me.
So there's a holiday short story for you! A REALLY short one, at that.
