Dreaming of the Sun

I notice I make so many stories, yet I seem to stop after just an intro or so

For that, I can say I'm simply trying out different writing styles with each idea I have. That, and each of my ideas rarely get to in depth to be more of a one shot, so it's all good. For this one, I'm hoping it flows smoother than my other works. and gets further than a starter. I'm always wishing to improve, so any comments are greatly appreciated


Part 1
Intro

A lone man sits, waiting, longing for the sight of something, within his house. The early hour of five, near six, in the morning. The house is silent, the streets shrouded in a light fog. Working a long night, he sits, waiting, longing for the sight of something. Staring out the window, he brushes his light toned brown hair to the side, some lone strands swinging before his eyes, his hazel bloodshot eyes. His jeans and jacket look stained with liquid, his shoes tossed to the side of his chair, legs crossed atop the chair, awaiting the sight of something.

The man wipes his mouth, some darkened liquid spreading down to his chin, also claiming the top of his hand above the wrist. He breathes heavily, on the verge of shuddering, barely managing to contain himself. The fog begins to lift beyond his window, and he feels a slight chill, wishing that hadn't happened. He sees the sun begin to rise over the hazy mountains, hears a car in the distance start up for a day of work.

He feels a mixture of dread, content, guilt, and pleasure. He glances at his hand stained with a sticky substance, and gives off a slight sigh, looking back to the window, seeing a car drive by, the driver fumbling with some of the features of his vehicle, swerving slightly before correcting himself. The man huffs, wondering what would have happened if more people were driving at this hour.

He stares back at the mountains, the sun beginning to rise, barely peaking out from the horizon. He taps his fingers on the windowsill, making a rhythmic tune. He whispers 'another day' as he digs his fingernails into the solid wood, the sun beginning to visually pierce the sky, the sunlight flooding the valley town. He lifts from his seat, grasping the blinds over the window as he lustfully watches the sunlight before it fully appears over the mountain.

Hesitating, he feels the sunlight touch his bare hand. For a brief moment, a flicker of a smile appears upon his face, looking back outside, which is where his smile fades and he closes the blinds, rubbing his hand. He woefully turns on a lamp within the room, showing a single couch with a computer in the corner, a small television smaller than the monitor of the computer tucked away next to it.

He flicks on the television and turns the station to the morning news at six, where he heard a female speaking of the breaking news story.

'... where a man in his late thirties was found...'

The man walks into the next room, his kitchen, and removes his jacket. He feels the sticky substance smudge from his jacket to his arms, staining them red. He leans into the room off to the side which held his washing machine and dryer, where he tossed the jacket into a hamper.

'...seemingly drunk and walking home from a bar...'

Quickly, he removes his shirt as well, then his pants, tossing all he was wearing into the hamper, grabbing a pair of shorts to replace them, showing off his slender, chiseled figure. His arms and face were sullied with a red substance, which he was quick to clean at the kitchen sink. He filled the sink with cold water and scrubbed at his arms and face, wiping clean any of the red sticky liquid that was left. Looking at the window, he could see the yards of his neighbors, the sun positioned in such a way that each one seemed to glow with no shadows, from his position his small, five room, one story house gave off only darkness, shadow drowning his own visible yard, which went uncut for large amounts of time, given the length of the grass.

'... seemed to have been ambushed, giving no struggle...'

The man opened his refrigerator, swiping a few eggs and cracking them open over a pan left on the stove, uncleaned from the day before, remnants of the man's last meal on it. He grabbed a spare fork and whisked the eggs, until they were ready to cook. He took bread from the table and buttered it, placing two slices onto a second pan to cook, having no toaster he used this method.

'... bizarrely, officials say, this man was half drained...'

Smelling the finished product, the man removed the makeshift toast from his pan, then the eggs, placing them on a plate from the prior meal. In a sudden impulse, the man placed his breakfast on the table, then gathered the few dishes that remained dirty and placed them in the sink, filling it with water and detergent before going back to his lukewarm eggs and cold toast. He brought his meal to his couch, watching the small television screen for a moment before rising from his seat. He grabbed the television and placed it on the chair next to the window, bringing both over near the couch so that he could watch it in full.

'... between one and three hours ago, perhaps earlier, due to the blood loss it's difficult to tell for sure, officials tell us...'

The man slowly eats his meal, watching on as images of a pale white body is lifted from the ground and put into a black bag, zipped up then placed on a wheeled cart. Video cuts back to the female reporter, who looks to be a bit nauseous herself from the images just shown. Ignoring what she's saying at this point, the man lowers his plate to the cushion next to his own, and leans back, putting his hands to his face, groaning from his long night. He spots a dot of red liquid left on his wrist. He brings it to his mouth, and licks it away, sighing with remorse as he did so. He pushes the power button of the television with his foot, and leans on the arm of the couch, closing his eyes, wishing to just sleep the night off.