Port of Fandom, Friday Morning

Octavia had a boat. A 2001 Sea Ray Amberjack 290, to be exact, though even Octavia only knew that because it said so on the manual. It was a 29-foot thing of fiberglass that looked tiny next to the Cape Rouge.

The name painted on the back was Samsara. Octavia was yet to look that up.

She'd slept terribly last night. In fact, she felt like she'd barely slept at all. The nightmares hadn't exactly let up since the beginning of the week: instead, they were just gaining variety. Most things were still replays of things that had happened, but her subconscious was still adding new things into the mix. Faces from Fandom in places they shouldn't have been, for one.

But yesterday would have been - had been Bellamy's birthday. And as much as Octavia had tried to ignore it all day...

Well. She'd given up on sleep early this morning, and had slipped off the Rouge and come here. To distract herself by trying to learn everything she could. Or trying to distract herself, anyway. She was on the deck, sitting in the back, reading up on general boat maintenance in the manual.

She'd read this same page about five times, now.

[ooc: Open port is open, chick is... tired and volatile.]

The Cape Rouge, Port of Fandom, Early Friday Evening

Octavia's mood had not improved since the morning. In fact, it was significantly worse. See, her lack of sleep had eventually caught up with her, and without meaning to, she'd dozed off on her won boat -- Only to have woken up groggy and terrified, her heart trying to beat its way through her ribcage because of the things she'd seen. The bunker in flames, and everyone, everyone she had ever loved, turning away from her, one by one. Disgusted, disappointed, as if she'd done everything for fun, for herself, and not to keep each and every one of them as safe as she could.

And her, screaming at them to please understand.

So no. Octavia's mood had not improved.

She'd stayed on the Samsara as long as it had taken for her pulse and breathing to both even out. And then she'd stalked down the dock back over to the Rouge. And there, after some pacing, desperately needing something to do, she'd made her way down into the hold. They'd set up Duke's old, barely-used punching bag down there earlier in the week, for her to let off steam. And right now, she really needed something to take the edge off even a little bit of the mess roiling inside her.

She just barely had her hands wrapped before she took the first swing.

And then another. And another.

And another.

[ooc: For one. Kinda sorta taken from The 100 S6 episode 2. Content warning for the entire post for violence, magical manipulation, pain-as-therapy/magic-powers-as-drugs and generally unhealthy/self-destructive coping strategies. ETA CW also for suicidal ideation.]