The tiny shack with a tiny window (Wattys2016)

Black

Bubbles. The boy, the now-twelve-years-old boy who lives in the tiny shack with a tiny window, has found a way to make bubbles from blood. He mixed some soap into the blood, the beautiful red blood that's spraying out from the body's femoral artery, and with a bubble wand he found off the side of the road, he's blowing pretty red bubbles and watching them reflect light waves into shiny rainbows.

Rainbow. A rainbow hardly makes its way into the tiny shack with a tiny window, as it only has a tiny window and a door for lighting, but when the boy's blood-bubbles float into the shaft of light coming from the tiny window—he remembered to close his door, this time—they shimmer, and all the colours of the rainbow can be seen. The boy looks at the rainbow and smiles, but he would rather see the beautiful blood-red. The bubbles burst when they come into contact with the wall, and his eyes light up when he realizes that he can use this new invention, the blood-bubbles, to paint his canvas, his canvas that's the walls and floor and ceiling of the tiny shack with a tiny window. He had a different purpose today, though; he had wished to catch the elusive unicorn.

Unicorns. They have been transformed and romanticized so much that nowadays, we think of majestic white horses with shimmering coats and pure-white horns between their ears. The Unicorn that the boy's hunting, however, was a being that had painted unwanted blue aerosol spray paint on the outer walls of his home, his canvas, his world. The annoyance always painted one thing: a unicorn. He painted the one described by society; the horse with a single horn. He's dead; his actions are being described in the past tense. His blood is now used as paint for the boy's canvas and bubbles for his amusement. The boy has another plaything, though, and takes out a cat.

Cats. Now, this cat is not the four-legged feline known for chasing after mice and birds, for sleeping in the sun, and for rubbing affectionately against its owner's legs. This cat, the one the boy has, is a cat-o'-nine-tails, often shortened to "cat." It's a whip with nine knotted strings attached, used for flogging (whipping) as severe physical punishment. It's called a cat because the marks it leaves resemble cat scratches, and the boy found one yesterday. He raises it and walks over to another body, one that's still alive and is typing away at a laptop.

Laptop. Now, as weird as this sounds, a male had arrived a few days ago and had brought with him a laptop, one of those large portable devices that one used as a computer and that rested on one's laptop, thus named. The boy had come home a day after the male had entered, and the male had just stared at the device, typing away and ignoring everything else. The boy had left him alone for three days, but now, after he had made beautiful blood bubbles with the Unicorn's blood and had painted his canvas once more, he decides to see what pretty sounds the laptop-obsessed male will make. He lashes down on the body, hearing its screams, and grins ferally as he slashes open a few arteries and resumes making bubbles.

The art on his canvas is black.