Personal Narrative: My Father's Death

Late into the night, the snow fell and fell. I can still feel the cold air going through my spine, the hot tears running down my face, my heartbeat going faster; I can still hear my mother screaming while I stayed there, not sure about what to do: I was too young to understand what happened, too fool to believe it was a joke or an accident. I couldn't go near my mother, I couldn't go back in the house, the only thing I could do was crying, as if it solved the huge tragedy that destroyed our lives forever. What tragedy, you ask? My father's death. Or better, his homicide. How do I know? I have proofs. I mean, I obviously had to do some researches first. But my story doesn't start here: this is just one of the events that signed my existence.