still counting out time
Ashera turns, giving Eunie a last glance. "You will wait for me, won't you? Eunie."
And Eunie
just
can't move.
Rooted to the spot.
Sneakers melting to the dusty ground like baking soda getting boiled.
Normal Eunie would say something about how she's going to be sick - the acid-puke green of her jacket's lining would agree with her. Sure, go off and be sick, it's cunty enough.
Last-Life Eunie is losing her personhood instead of her lunch; her eyes shrivel to pricks as she realizes just what this war has given and taken from her, so swiftly, cruelly, wonderfully, all-at-once.