the soil smells of petrichor, of earth and of death. something sweeter, too - flowers, perhaps. how noble her grave to be decorated with them. she's sure it's beautiful; but all she can see is darkness. who knew being buried would be so horrifying? her lungs ache, her newly restored power crackling along every nerve ending like an arc of energy, setting every part of her aflame. the adrenaline, the familiar warmth her power supplies is a balm against the chill of the dirt around her.
but man, is it getting boring being dead.
and she's sick of picking dirt out from under her nails, the mud from her hair, and she doesn't think these grass stains are ever going to come out. ugh.
an arm wriggles, then lurches up, launching flowers, grass, and soil alike in every direction. she claws her way up and out of her would be grave, a noise of disgust escaping the back of her throat (sure, she used to sleep on the ground in the middle of a forest but these days she's gotten far too used to the comfort of an actual bed; and a shower). agatha is not quite as graceful as she wants to be, and frankly she doesn't understand how rio manages it. rio.
climbing to her feet with a cough, dusting debris off her dress, she locks eyes with death and gives her a sharp edged smile.
"nice touch, the flowers. i think little billy bought it, don't you? that's one monkey off my damn back . . . though he's gonna be a real pain in the ass down the line."
@ladyohdeath
