"Frank!" My mom cried loudly. A gunshot blew heavily and deafeningly inside a dark room, along with my mom's sobbing. She repeatedly yelled the name of her husband, but my dad wasn’t budging. My dad was dead on the ground, bloody and bruised. It took only one second for that pistol to fire right through my dad’s head. "Frank!" My mom cried my dad’s name as if he would wake up anytime soon. His body was starting to get colder in her arms. The warmth of his skin and the life in his eyes were now slowly fading away. "Mom?" A faint voice echoed inside the living room of our house, and I walked out of my bedroom silently. I looked over to the man who was holding a white handkerchief. It was still fresh in my mind—this memory that would scar me forever. I saw how that man pointed a gun at my dad. How calmly he pulled the trigger, like it was just a normal day at work. Unknowingly, I memorized the face, the gestures, and the physique of my father’s killer. Seeing a loved one die right bef
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