[It isn't the first time she's woke up with dirt in her mouth. And it never precludes anything good.

Abby's eyes snap open and she looks up to see the grave digger tossing another pile of dirt on her. Instantly, she's scrambling to her feet and pulling herself out of the hole with an ease that might be surprising to any witnesses.

Immediately, she goes for the Gravedigger's shovel, wrapping her hands around the shaft, and pulling with all of her might before the Gravedigger's grip breaks. Then Abby is on her, somewhere between trained soldier and rabid dog. She presses the shaft up against the Gravediggers throat and pushes, shoving her back against a grave, trying to stun her with the force. Then Abby pulls back and brings the shovel down on the Gravedigger's head. The corpse explodes, coating her with blood.

The blood isn't unfamiliar and the killing blow was natural, like she's done it hundreds of times. And she's pretty sure she has. Though she's not sure why she's in this place. She looks back at the grave to the gravestone, where the epitaph reads:
Abigail Anderson
A piece of shit.

Abby's stomach clenches and she grits her teeth as she looks around. She's missing someone. But she can't remember who. And anyone else around... she doesn't think she knows them but there the only one around.

Awkwardly, she wipes the blood off her face but it mostly just smears.]

So uh. Do you remember dying? Because I sure don't.

[Abby does not remember killer flowers despite being quite certain that a lot of things have tried to kill her in the past. Flowers are new. Thankfully, she's kept the shovel from the gravedigger, unable to resist the urge to carry some kind of weapon, as she makes her way through the maze. She stays low, carefully looking around every corner to make sure the way is clear. Then she comes across someone else, you perhaps, encountering the deadly flowers.

It's a good distraction, allowing her to move through without being detected. She starts to move and then hesitates as a churning feeling of guilt stirs in her gut and keeps her feet in place. If she leaves... will that person die.

"Fuck."

She mutters to herself before standing up and charging, full speed, at the flowers and clobbers one with head of the shovel as she makes contact.]

Hey! Back off!

[The smell of death isn't unfamiliar to her. It makes her feel unanchored and miserable but not surprised or even afraid. She's been around death.

She's caused death. A lot of it. Part of her feels justified, stubborn, as if daring the world to criticize her. Another part feels nothing but disgust and loathing.

There's a sharp inhale and a swallow before she speaks.]

I think. I think... I killed someone. And they deserved it. But I don't remember why. And I don't know why part of me regrets it.