Story 90: Reza Shadey's Christmas Carol
In the quiet, pre-dawn hours of Christmas Eve, a frosty chill snaked its way through the neighbourhood, settling in the bones of every creature. Inside a cosy house, nestled amongst the sleeping occupants, was Reza Shadey. The magnificently self-absorbed Persian cat, a creature of exquisite taste and cunning, lay curled on a plush, emerald-green blanket. He was not dreaming of sugarplums, but of the immense bounty of unattended Christmas turkey, a prize he had already calculated how to procure and consume entirely by himself. His mind, a complex web of failed business ventures — from "Catio-Corp International" to the "Ghostly Go-Away Service" — was wholly dedicated to his own self-interest, leaving no room for the spirit of giving.
Suddenly, a disturbance. The gentle purr of the furnace was replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. Reza's ears twitched, his sleek body tensing. He opened one eye, then the other, and saw it. Hovering just above the floor, a translucent, shimmering form, a phantom in the shape of a magnificent feline. It was Shah Fluffybutt.
The ghost of his former rival was wreathed in an ethereal, bluish glow. Around his spectral form, a chain of forgotten, jingling bells, soggy leaves from his 'managerial clipboard', and a bent spoon clinked with every wavering motion. "Reza", the voice was a hollow echo, a whisper of a meow, "you see before you the consequence of a life lived without kindness. These are the chains I forged in life — a life of empty scheming, of putting profit before friendship, and of pitching a ridiculous 'Tuna Titan' on Channel 5 television."
The ghost fixed Reza with a mournful, glowing stare. "The same fate awaits you, unless you change your ways."
Reza, ever the pragmatist, was unmoved. "Fluffybutt, is that you? You look awful", he sniffed, "but I always told you that your business sense was dreadful."
The ghost of Shah Fluffybutt let out a mournful, ethereal wail that caused every hair on Reza's back to stand on end. "Do not be so glib, Reza. Three spirits will visit you tonight. Heed their warnings, or face an eternity of my own misery!" With one last, sorrowful look, the spectral form faded, leaving only a lingering scent of catnip and regret.
The first of the three spirits arrived as the moon reached its zenith. A sweet, gentle scent of fresh cat milk filled the air, and Penelope, the kindest and most sensible of all the local cats, appeared. But this was Penelope of another time. She was the Ghost of Christmas Past, her form radiating a soft, warm light. "Come with me, Rezzi", she meowed, her voice as comforting as a sunbeam.
Reza found himself floating through the walls and into the past, to a time when his tiny paws were still clumsy and his eyes were wide with innocent curiosity. He saw himself as a kitten, a mere fluffball of a cat, batting at a simple ball of red yarn. He wasn't scheming to become 'Boss of the Gardens'; he wasn't plotting to terrorise the neighbourhood; he was simply, genuinely happy. His biggest delight was the simple pleasure of a game, a moment of unadulterated joy. He remembered how he had shared his prize yarn with a stray kitten, and a pang of something he hadn't felt in a long time — pure, unselfish joy — pierced his cold heart.
"You had a good heart once, Rezzi", Penelope whispered sadly, "but you left it behind, somewhere on the path to becoming... this." The scene faded, and Reza was back in his own bed, the lingering warmth of the past still touching his fur.
The next spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Present, burst into the room with a flash of light and a boisterous laugh. It was Ginger Tom, his spirit form wearing a tiny, jaunty Santa hat. "Alright, mate, enough moping! Fancy a look at what's going on while you're sittin' here on yer own?" he chuckled.
Reza was whisked away, this time to a bustling Christmas market in Shanghai. The air was thick with the scent of fried dumplings and exotic spices. Ginger Tom showed him the teeming humanity and feline life, a celebration of community and shared happiness. He pointed to a rooftop where Mao Li, the wise one-eyed cat, was sharing a mooncake with the grumpy-looking Pekinese dog, Bao Bao.
"Look at 'em, Reza! Proper mates, they are. They ain't got much, but they got each other. You? You got yer fancy blanket and yer greedy little mind, and that's it." Reza felt a sudden, profound loneliness. He saw himself in his own house, alone, while a whole world of connection and shared joy was happening without him. Ginger Tom's form, along with the vibrant, noisy market, dissolved back into nothingness.
The final spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Future, arrived without a sound. It was Shadow, the sleek, mysterious 'witch's cat', who appeared as a gaunt, silent figure. She did not speak, but simply pointed a silent, accusing paw.
Reza followed her gaze and found himself in a cold, dark, and empty warehouse. There was no warm blanket, no loving human, no fellow cats. Only a solitary bowl of stale dry cat food (with too much vegetables and no tuna) and a hollow echo that seemed to whisper his name. It was the future he had forged for himself, a desolate and lonely existence, a consequence of his unrelenting selfishness. The scene shifted, and he saw another glimpse of the future — a small, scruffy tabby cat with a bad limp. It was Marmalade, the cat he had once 'rescued' for his own glory, now alone and shivering in an alley. Reza saw his own callousness reflected in Marmalade's misery, and a wave of guilt, sharp and painful, washed over him. He knew he was responsible, that his greed had contributed to this little cat's sad fate.
"No!" Reza cried out. "It doesn't have to be this way! I'll change! I'll be a better cat! I'll share the Christmas turkey! I'll be kind to Marmalade! Just tell me there's still time!"
Shadow's form looked at him for a long moment, then slowly, silently, faded away, leaving Reza alone and trembling. He was back on his plush, emerald-green blanket, a single tear tracing a path through his fur. He had a second chance.
On Christmas morning, Mrs Higgins was surprised to find not a single scrap of the Christmas turkey had been touched. She was even more surprised to see Reza, instead of hoarding his favourite food, nudging a large piece of it towards Marmalade, whom he had somehow found and led into the kitchen. And in the heart of Reza Shadey, a new feeling was born. A glimmer of a Christmas spirit, a tiny spark of kindness that promised to light up the long, cold winter ahead. He was still Reza Shadey, of course. But perhaps, just for today, with a slightly bigger heart and a slightly smaller portion of turkey.
Night night. Sleep tight.