Family. The boy, now ten years old, realises that he's never really had one; his earliest memory is of his dead mother's body on the ground, in the dirt, with a man shovelling sand over her. He remembers being taken in by the man, being taught for four years how to survive, to maim, to paint, to kill. Two years ago, he introduced that man to death.
Death. Death to everything. That's the boy's motto, taught to him in the tiny shack with the tiny window by the man whom he killed two years ago. Sooner or later, he'll bring death to himself, too, but not just yet. He has more artwork to complete. He has two bodies, this time, both alive; one is a female with blood already dripping and no cut—he's confused, confused but mesmerized as he watches the blood pour out from her—and the other a male, his torso cut open and exposed to the damp shack's air as the boy plays with his intestines. The male is sobbing, his face and hair wet with sweat and tears, begging to die and not knowing that the boy is able to effectively ignore sounds that are annoying and broken.
Broken. The boy broke his toy, the male, and it died. He doesn't want to get a new one—it's too tedious—so he turns to the second. It's fascinating, watching the blood pour out from an opening-that-is-not-a-cut, and the blood is thicker than he usually sees. (He usually sees a lot of blood.) The blood is black, almost, and appears to have some mucus as well; he ponders this as it leaks out, drip by drip.
Drip. Drip. Leeeeak. Gushgush drip. The speed of the blood leaving the female's body is also quite interesting, changing every-so-often, and he cocks his head to the side every-so-slightly. It drips. After a while, he gets bored and casually makes a slit in her throat, ending her meaningless life.
Life. Death. What is the difference? To the boy, it is simply that he is able to make art in life. Death seems like an awfully boring choice; to the boy, the ten-year-old-boy who lives in the tiny shack with the tiny window, death means oblivion, constant darkness. If he goes to hell, he thinks, he wouldn't mind; it would be more interesting than oblivion. Realistically, though, the boy knows what will happen. Death isn't an adventure; it's death. It isn't a flight, it isn't a judgement, it isn't a reunion with friends or family.
Death is everything and nothing, all at once.
A/N: Thank you to sadsoulsbrokenhearts for the words.
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The tiny shack with a tiny window (Wattys2016)
HorrorA boy in a tiny shack with a tiny window creates beautiful, blood-red works of art.
