Sam creeped silently through his front door and into the night. It was cold out. Sam did not care. Nothing was going to make him come back. Not even the sub-zero temperature.
He stalked ever so quietly down the shadowed front walk, and into the dismal gray of the street.
He felt a drop. Rain.
Sam looked back at his old decrepit house, and tasted bitterness in his mouth.
He hated the place.
Sam turned and ran down the street into the never ending night.
Never looking back.
I love the “shadowed front walk”…the “dismal gray of the street.”
The way you write the rain, the bitterness, Sam’s hatred makes us feel it the way Sam does: with a sort of resignation. No panic, just hard fact.