He was dragged out of the black of sleep, another dreamless night. Turning he saw the red lights of the clock flicker to 4am and he winced, both at the brightness and the hour. Rolling onto his back he stared at the ceiling, wishing yet again for one interrupted night of sleep. The ceiling became a canvass for his dead of night thoughts, ideas floating from one corner to another, then out of sight as new, just as irrelevant ones popped into existence before taking that same route out of his mind. He pulled his hands behind his head and felt the dampness of the pillow. He kneaded it inquisitively before flipping it over. Nothing new there, everything in this house seemed to feel the same way. Sometimes he wondered if he did too. His eyes drifted upwards again, perfectly timed to receive a drop of water straight between the eyes. He hated this apartment. It leaked, it reeked, and it was all he could afford. Abandoning the idea of sleep he dragged himself out of bed to get a drink. He fumbled with the door handle before finally picking it out of the darkness, and turned. And turned. Nothing.
This is hopefully the start of a short story I want to work on, this section was from a writing exercise about suspense.