25 Days of Hellmas (2024)

Day Twenty Five: Sinsmas

Apologize for any spoils for the final episode. This one is a what-if parody for Sinsmas. What If Octavia willingly listened to Stolas before jumping to conclusions?

The cold air of the Goetia mansion nipped at Octavia's skin as she trudged through the quiet hallways, earbuds in, trying to drown out her thoughts with music. She wasn't in the mood for the usual chaos of her home, and the silence that surrounded her was a small mercy. Her boots crunched on something unexpectedly brittle, pulling her out of her reverie. She glanced down and saw a dried leaf crumbling beneath her foot. Strange. Pulling out one earbud, she looked around, noticing a corridor of dead potted plants. Once lush and vibrant, they were now frozen and lifeless, their leaves curled in on themselves.

A chill ran through her that wasn't just from the cold. Her father had always cared for those plants. Their decay felt like a reflection of the house itself—something beautiful turned hollow. Her thoughts were interrupted by laughter—sharp, cutting laughter that carried through the mansion like shards of glass. Octavia's brow furrowed as she followed the sound to a nearby room. Cautiously, she pressed her ear to the door. Inside, she heard her mother's familiar voice, sharp and venomous, laced with amusement. "He's been trying to call her all fucking month, and it's hilarious!" Stella's laughter rang out, unkind and mocking.

Andrealphus' smooth, icy voice joined in, his laughter blending with hers. Octavia peered through the crack in the door and felt her stomach churn. Stella and Andrealphus were lounging in a makeshift spa, their every whim catered to by a line of visibly stressed imp servants. Stella reclined lazily with a cup of tea, her phone in hand, while Andrealphus enjoyed a shoulder massage, smirking as though he owned the world.

Octavia's jaw tightened. She'd always known her mother could be cruel, but this blatant mockery of her father, her family, was too much. Without a word, she stepped back from the door and turned away, her heart pounding. The mansion felt even colder now, the air heavier.

Octavia retreated to her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She grabbed her guitar and flopped onto her bed, her fingers absently plucking at the strings. The familiar notes usually brought her comfort, but tonight they felt hollow. Her gaze wandered around her room, landing on the constellation mural painted on her ceiling, the books about stars lining her shelves, and the photographs pinned to her wall. One photo caught her eye—a family picture. Her father's face had been hastily scribbled over in frustration during one of her darker moments. Regret tugged at her chest.

Her father wasn't perfect, but he had always tried for her. Memories of stargazing together, of him pointing out constellations and telling her their stories, flashed through her mind. The warmth she once felt in those moments was a stark contrast to the chill now permeating her home. Unable to shake the unease settling over her, Octavia set her guitar aside and left her room. She needed to feel closer to her father, to find some reminder of the bond they used to share. Octavia slipped into her father's closet, the scent of his cologne is faint but still present.

She scanned the shelves and boxes labeled "Stolas' Stuff," her fingers grazing over the items he had packed away. It felt wrong, seeing his things shoved aside like they didn't matter anymore. As she dug deeper, she uncovered treasures from her childhood: a crayon drawing of the two of them beneath a starry sky, a handmade Father's Day card that read, "To the best dad in the universe," and a photograph of them stargazing together, "Star Observation" scrawled beneath in her messy handwriting. Tears pricked her eyes as she held the photo close. Despite everything, he had kept these mementos.

They mattered to him, just as she had once mattered. Her heart ached with longing and anger. How had their family fallen apart so completely? The picture crinkled slightly in her grip as her chest burned with a mix of sorrow and fury. She had always known her mother was cold, but this blatant disregard for her feelings for her father was unbearable. As she reached to place her guitar on the shelf, something caught her eye; a small bottle sitting conspicuously on the edge. Curious, she picked it up, turning it over to read the label. "Happy Pills" it read, the name of the medication and Stolas' own inscribed below.