Framed: I Sent the Real Culprit to Hell

1
I beat my wifethe one who swore she loved me more than life itselfand put her in the hospital. Then I walked into the nearest precinct and turned myself in, ready to go to prison.
I did it because, in my past life, the great love of her life came back to town after his divorce.
First, he had a meltdown at Tiffany's, smashing a display case to pieces. Then, he fled the scene in his car, lost control, and caused a massive pile-up.
Later, the Tiffany's store manager and the drivers from the crash all came to me, pointing their fingers, swearing I was the one responsible.
I tried to prove my innocence, but every single security video they produced showed my face.
My own wife backed them up, insisting I'd had a depressive episode and wasn't in my right mind.
I was stabbed to death on the spot by one of the victim's family members.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back. The night before her old flame destroyed everything.

I left my bruised and battered wife at the emergency room entrance. My impatient demeanor and the array of injuries on her bodywelts and bruises that clearly didn't come from a simple fallpainted a clear picture.
Just then, two police officers walked in. "Who called this in?"
I immediately held out my hands. "I did, Officer. I'm turning myself in. The woman I assaulted is in the ER right now."
The officer gave me a surprised look, confirmed my story with a nurse, and promptly took me back to the precinct.
The first thing my wife, Nancy, did after being discharged from the emergency room was try to post my bail.
"I really just fell! It has nothing to do with my husband," she insisted.
I stood my ground. "I'm the one who beat you. How do you fall and get whip marks?"
Nancys eyes blazed with a desperate, frustrated anger. "Mark Weinberg, are you insane? I'm trying to save you!"
But I was resolute. "I did something wrong, and I deserve to be punished. It's that simple."
Nancy was trembling with rage, but no matter how she pleaded, I stuck to my story: it was a deliberate assault.
Because I turned myself in and showed a willingness to cooperate, the police locked me up for five days.
Nancy had no choice but to let the nurse wheel her back to her hospital room.
But here, in this holding cell, a profound sense of peace washed over me.
This time, they wouldn't be able to pin those crimes on me. Not this time.
In my last life, when Henry Cole returned to the city after his divorce, my wife Nancys heart went right back to him. She started spending every night out.
I was at a shady clinic undergoing agonizing electroconvulsive therapy when Henry called her. She left in a hurry.
"Henry's been drinking, I have to go get him," she'd said. "I'll be back for you in a bit."
But she forgot to turn off the machine.
She was gone the entire day. I was left alone, screaming, as the electricity coursed through me for hours.
It took me two full days at home to recover even a fraction of my strength. Just as I was about to confront Nancy and demand an explanation, the news broke.
Henry Cole had smashed up a Tiffany's, then gone on a rampage through the city, racing at 120 miles an hour and causing a twenty-car pile-up.
I had urged him to turn himself in, to sell his house and car to start paying for the damages.
But Henry had just sneered at me. "Mark, you're the one who caused a hit-and-run and vandalized a luxury store. What does that have to do with me? Why should I sell anything?"
Then Nancy had slapped the divorce papers on the tablepapers she'd tricked me into signing weeks before. "We're already divorced, Mark," she'd said, her voice like ice. "You can go to prison by yourself. The house and car were always in my name. Don't even think about touching them."
I didn't understand. Henry was the criminal. Why was I the one who had to pay?
But then the store manager and the accident victims all came for me.
They even had surveillance footage. And on every screen, it was my face.
"The evidence is clear, Mark. Are you still going to deny it? Pay up."
"Twenty cars. A lifetime of work won't even begin to cover the damage."
I stared at my own face on the screen, completely baffled.
I didn't do it. So why was it my face?
But reborn, I would not make the same mistakes.
Five days later, I was released from the precinct.
Before I could even take a breath of fresh air, a hand grabbed my arm.
A man was seething, his words dripping with venom. "You're the bastard who put my wife in the hospital! I'm going to kill you."
He lunged for my collar, but I was faster, stepping back just in time.
I realized a crowd had formed around us, a sea of hostile faces glaring at me as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb.
"Mark Weinberg, you murderer!"
"You're not sick, you're just pretending! What depression? You smash up stores and race through the city at 120? Do you have a death wish?"
The mention of the high-speed chase drew in more passersby. Someone pulled out their phone and started a live stream.
Facing the aggressive mob, I clenched my fists.
I had locked myself away in a cell this time. Was it still not enough? Were they still not going to let me go?
I took a deep breath and calmed myself. "You have no right to slander me with these baseless accusations," I said, my voice loud and clear.
The person streaming snorted and held up their phone, playing a video for me to see.
"Who's slandering you? Look for yourself."
In the video, I was seen entering the luxury store with my mother. After a brief argument, I suddenly flew into a rage, smashing a glass counter with my phone. My mother was grabbing my arm, screaming.
"Mark, stop! Stop it, we can't afford this!"
The me in the video was emotionless. He even kicked my mother to the ground.
She lay on the floor, clutching her chest, and yelled to the staff, "That's my son, Mark Weinberg! He has depression, he can't control himself!"
My blood ran cold.
In my last life, it was Nancy who stood outside Tiffany's, screaming that I had depression.
But this time, the very first thing I did was put Nancy in the hospital and get myself locked up for five days.
And yet, the person shouting my name, shouting about my illness, was now my own mother.
How could this be happening?
"No way to deny it now, is there?"
The luxury store vandalism had been a huge story. Now that they had their suspect, the live stream was exploding, shooting to the top of the trending charts.
My face remained a mask as I stared at the image of myself on the screen.
The store manager shoved a long list of damages in my face, his chest heaving with rage. "You destroyed three of my display cases. The jewelry inside is all damaged to varying degrees. The total comes to five million dollars."
"Some of those pieces were one-of-a-kind. They're gone forever because of you."
A man who had been in the crash was even angrier. "My wife is three months pregnant. The shock of the crash she's in the hospital right now, fighting to keep our baby. And you had the nerve to flee the scene. I've got you now. You're coming with me to the police."
He tried to drag me back towards the precinct.
"That's right! People like you should get the death penalty!"
His cry was met with a chorus of agreement. The crowd surged with renewed fury.
I fought to break free. "Everyone, calm down! I wasn't the one who did these things!"
The manager scoffed. "Your own mother was shouting your name in the store. How could it not be you?"
"The person who did this was Henry Cole," I explained desperately. "He's my wife's old flame. Go ask her! He's the one who trashed the jewelry store. He's the one who was racing through the city at 120"
As I was trying to reason with them, a sharp sting exploded across my cheek.
Nancy had appeared from nowhere and slapped me hard.
"You're still trying to frame Henry? You'll never change," she spat, her voice filled with disgust. "You've done all this, and you still feel no remorse. Apologize to them. Now."
She tried to force my head down, to make me kneel.
I shoved her away. "I didn't do it! Why should I apologize for something I didn't do?"
Just then, Henry peeked out from behind her, playing the victim to perfection. "Mark, what's happened to you?" he said, his voice soft with feigned disappointment. "Nancy has been so good to you, and you sent her to the hospital. Even now, she's only worried about you. She wants you to apologize so you can get a lighter sentence."
His words struck a chord with the crowd. Their glares grew even more contemptuous.
The attacks in the live stream chat intensified. Someone had already doxxed me, posting my home address.
I stared at Henry. "I said it wasn't me. Why are you so defensive?"
Nancy raised her hand to slap me again, but this time I caught her wrist.
"I told you," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Henry Cole did this. What are you trying to do? Beat a confession out of me?"
Seeing the attention shift to him, Henry cried out, "Mark, how can you accuse me like this? Yes, I know Nancy and I were close, but that was just a childhood friendship. To avoid any misunderstandings, I even moved to another city. All these years, I've put up with your jealousy, not because I'm afraid of you, but because I didn't want to make your condition worse. Mark, it's time to stop."
His masterful performance sealed it. The crowd's disdain for me turned to pure hatred.
This guy's 'illness' is self-inflicted. He's so paranoid, sees rivals everywhere.
Someone tries to help him and he attacks them. Classic.
This is what happens when you let crazy people walk around.
The chat was a waterfall of ridicule.
Seeing this, Nancy's anger flared. She kicked the back of my knee. "Apologize, damn it!"
And then, my mother appeared.
She looked at me with eyes full of disappointment. "Mark, go and turn yourself in."
"We were at Tiffany's together yesterday. Others might not know, but I'm your mother. Don't you think I know?"
Nancy held my leg down while the crowd screamed insults. Someone threw a rotten egg, and it splattered across my forehead, the foul-smelling yolk dripping down my face.
The commotion finally attracted the attention of the officers at the precinct entrance.
"Stop! Everyone, break it up!"
They quickly separated me from the mob. The officer who recognized me paused for a second, then spoke sternly. "Mark, shouldn't you be heading home? Why are you causing trouble out here again?"
Seeing him, I instinctively pulled back, then grabbed his arm like a lifeline. "Officer, you're finally here. You have to help me."
The man whose wife was in the hospital snorted. "Why would a cop help a degenerate like you?"
Nancy sighed dramatically. "Mark, just confess. You'll get a lighter sentence."
The officer looked at the crowd, confused, a dawning realization on his face. "You've been out for less than ten minutes. What have you done now?"
Ignoring the shocked stares, I spoke slowly and clearly. "They're all insisting that yesterday I went to Tiffany's and smashed the place up. A luxury store like that I've never even dared to step inside. And they say I was racing my car at 120 miles an hour. They tracked me down the second I got out."
The officer stared blankly. "How could that possibly be you?"
As the crowd exchanged confused glances, Nancy shrieked, "Mark, what did you do to make the police cover for you too? You destroyed millions in jewelry! You caused a massive accident! There are lives at stake! How dare you protect him?!"
Her cry rallied the crowd. The phone streaming the event was shoved in the officer's face. The chat was flooded with accusations of bribery and corruption.
The officer's face darkened as he saw the comments. "What is this nonsense you're all spouting? Mark Weinberg has been in custody in our holding cells for the past five days. How could he have been out committing these crimes?"
The crowd froze. The live stream chat stuttered to a halt for a single, silent moment.
Then it exploded.
Wait, so Mark was in jail for five days, but he was also the one who smashed up Tiffany's and caused the pile-up YESTERDAY?
That's impossible. Unless he can clone himself.
The victims who had come for me were starting to hesitate.
I slowly got to my feet. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said, my voice sincere. "I don't know why my face is on that security footage. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that at that exact time yesterday, I was in a police holding cell. I never left."
Someone in the chat suggested the video might be a deepfake.
The store owner was the first to object. "Impossible! This is from my own store's security system!"
To get to the bottom of it, the officer brought in a forensics tech to analyze the videos.
The result was baffling. The videos were authentic, not tampered with in any way. And the face in them was, undeniably, mine.
The crowd erupted in confusion.
Nancy, her face a mask of fake concern, her eyes darting back and forth, suddenly had an idea. "That is Mark! I've slept next to him for years, I'd know that face anywhere! He must have snuck out of the precinct! He has depression! He probably faked a symptom to get sent to the hospital, and then he slipped away from there!"
Henry gasped, playing his part perfectly. "That has to be it! Mark used to do that all the time, using his depression to get to the hospital and then sneaking out. Officer, the proof is right there! Arrest him!"
The crowd, desperate for an answer, seized on the theory. "Arrest him!" they chanted.
The officer's face was grim. "Mark Weinberg was never taken to the hospital during his time in custody."
He had just made this confident declaration when another officer approached, looking uneasy. "Actually, sir yesterday Weinberg complained of feeling unwell. We were worried it was an episode, so we did take him to the hospital for a check-up."
The words hung in the air. Henry pounced. "You see, Officer? I was right! Arrest him! He deserves the death penalty!"
Now even the first officer was looking at me with suspicion.
I looked at them both, my voice pleading. "Officers, you have to clear my name. I was brought in five days ago. Even when I went to the hospital yesterday, you were with me the entire time!"
The second officer looked down, mumbling, "During the urology exam I didn't go into the room with him."
Henry's voice boomed. "That's it! He slipped out during the urology exam! That hospital is right near Tiffany's! Confess now, Mark, and maybe you'll get some leniency!"
His performance, so full of fake concern, had the live stream viewers praising his magnanimity. How could he be so kind to the man who had wronged him?
The crowd grew restless again, pressing in, shoving me. A punch landed on my cheek.
I was a ship tossed in a storm, pushed back and forth. But as the chaos swirled around me, a smile touched my lips.
Not because I had gone insane. But because I knew Henry wouldn't let this go so easily.
And I had come prepared.
"STOP! I can prove Mark Weinberg didn't do any of this!"
At the sound of that voice, my smile widened.
The person I'd been waiting for had finally arrived.
A plainly dressed man pushed his way through the crowd and stood in front of me. "What are you all doing? What right do you have to condemn a man without any real proof?"
The store manager, at the front of the mob, shot back, "Who says there's no proof? And who the hell are you to butt in?"
His words opened the floodgates, and the crowd turned their anger on the newcomer. Just as the wave of insults was about to crash over us, the man whose pregnant wife was in the hospital shouted.
"Everyone, stand back!"
He rushed forward and grabbed the newcomer's hands, his voice filled with gratitude. "Mr. Sun! What are you doing here?"
The crowd fell silent, looking from the furious man to the newcomer, utterly confused.
The man explained, "This is Nathan Sun, the reporter who was first on the scene of the crash yesterday. He's the reason my wife and baby are still alive. He let me use his electric bike to get her to the hospital in time."
"Not only that," he continued, "Mr. Sun brought a medical team with him. They started treating people right away. That's why, in a twenty-car pile-up, not a single person died."

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