The tiny shack with a tiny window (Wattys2016)

Buried

Winter. The coldest, harshest, most unforgiving of the seasons, to all but the now-nine-years-old boy. For the boy, it is yet another chance to paint his canvas, his canvas that was the floor, walls and ceiling of the tiny shack with a tiny window. The police had left, taking with them their yellow tape, their investigators, their news reporters, and their sirens, their loud and annoying and hurtful-to-the-ears sirens. Snow and quiet blankets the tiny shack with a tiny window as the boy steps into his world. 

World. There is really no other word to describe this shack, the tiny shack with a tiny window (other than "canvas," of course). It is the boy's world, it's what he lives for, it's where he lives. Into his world, the boy brings one body. Just one. It's unconscious, this time, so he can hear its pretty screams, its groans of exhaustion, its laboured pants.

Pants. The now-conscious body is tired, so very tired, from its screaming, and it can only pant. Softly. Its right hand is gone, cut into a beautiful blood-rose and displayed proudly on the wall. Its left hand's fingers are being cut off one-by-one, and each is being inserted into one of the body's orifices. The eyes, ears and mouth are left unobstructed, obviously. The body raises its left hand, which only has its pointer finger left. It points to the boy, the nine-year-old boy who's currently debating whether or not to use a bigger knife because yes, it'll lose precision, but the screams will be prettier, won't they? The body rasps, "You..." and breaks off to cough a few times. The boy looks up, questioning. "You're... you're like..."

"Like..." The boy frowns. He doesn't want to hear such sounds come from that mouth, those lips that are painted glossy and shiny and red with blood. He abandons his debate and grabs his original, slightly-smaller knife and cuts out the body's tongue. Logically, the body should still be able to scream, the boy thinks, and he'll still be able to hear the screams, right? The tongue is only used for tasting and talking and licking, so the boy nods and sets it aside, behind him, forgotten for the moment. Although there's latticework on the body's torso, the boy notices a lack of blood on its legs, so it scrapes delicately with the knife, ever-so-delicately, drawing forth tiny beads of blood in a scratch. The body whimpers, and the boy snarls; those aren't pretty screams or groans of exhaustion or laboured pants! Like a snake, he jabs the knife at the body's carotid artery and watches in satisfaction as the blood pools and stains the floor, the wooden floor of the tiny shack with a tiny window. The body falls into an endless sleep.

Sleep. The boy uses the body's garments as a blanket, shielding against the harsh cold winter and the harsh cold wind and the harsh cold snow outside the tiny shack with a tiny window. He follows the body into the realm of sleep, but his is with an end. His artwork is completed for the day, and the canvas walls of his world, of the tiny shack with a tiny window, are all painted. As he drifts off, he thinks of the pretty screams, the groans of exhaustion, the laboured pants, that lull him into a half-asleep stage, almost like a lullaby for the nine-year-old boy. He sleeps in the tiny shack with a tiny window in the middle of the coldest, harshest, most unforgiving of the seasons, to all but the nine-year-old boy: winter.

The body is buried underneath. 

A/N: Thank you for reading! I'll be continuing this with the first five commented words. The more random, the better; I'm not taking names (Ahem. Moriarty?) or articles/conjunctions/very simple words or verbs. If less than five words get commented (which is highly likely), I'll use a random word generator. 

A/N #2: If there are any typos or errors, please let me know. I used a few run-on sentences ("... their loud and annoying and hurtful-to-the-ears sirens.") on purpose.