It is unknown how much time has passed between passing out in pain, and pulling out my eyes. Whispers have turned into taunts. I am sure someone is here with me, even if I can’t see or touch them. My life was good, and I was a good person. This punishment does not make sense. I’m done pulling. The hair keeps coming out after my useless attempts, and my eyes are entangled, lost, down the rope of hair. I lie on the floor in the soft bed made of tears and blood-soaked hair. I can feel something tickle the back of my throat. Something giggles from the bed.