Second Chance for Innocence

1
A searing pain tore through my gut, and everything went black.
I checked my phone, then the fruit stand ahead. After a split-second hesitation, I rushed over, started a livestream, and began frantically shoving mangoes into my mouth.
The chat exploded:
Is this guy insane?
Look at the owner’s face!
What a way to go viral!
Viewers spiked. Someone called the police as I counted down. Ten minutes later, I collapsed on cue, foaming at the mouth.
In my past life, I was framed for raping and murdering a student. My girlfriend Mia gave police a video of me dragging the girl inside. My own parents testified they heard screams from my room.
That sealed it. Twenty years in prison, I never understood why. They welcomed me home with a feast—then I woke as a ghost, reading the headline: Evan Cross, Guilty, Commits Suicide.
When I opened my eyes, I was back. Back to the night of the frame-up.
Fine. If they wanted a criminal, they’d get one—with an ironclad alibi. I’d eat my way into the ER. Let’s see them frame me now.
The moment I lost consciousness, the live chat went from mockery to alarm.
Is he allergic? This isn't a joke!
Swollen lips, trouble breathing, hives breaking out all over… that’s anaphylactic shock! Somebody call 911!
The fruit stand owner’s anger had morphed into stunned horror. He took a step back, holding his hands up as if to ward off a ghost. Sticky, yellow juice covered my hands, the taste in my mouth a cloying mix of sweet and bitter.
Only one thought burned in my mind.
Even if I die, I'm dragging every last person who wronged me down to hell with me.
The wail of the ambulance siren was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. As the paramedics rushed toward me, the fruit stand owner grabbed my hand, his voice trembling.
“Kid, whatever it is, it ain’t worth this. If you die, I’ll never sell another mango in my life!”
His words were a punch to the gut. It was a complete stranger, a man I’d met only moments ago, who showed me this kindness. The irony was suffocating.
I gripped his hand back, my voice a desperate rasp. "Sir, please… can you keep the stream running? All the way to the hospital?"
In the chaos, unnoticed, I slipped a small paring knife from his stand into my pocket.
The chat was a mix of advice and scorn.
Don’t get stuck with his medical bills, old man! It’s not worth it!
That owner has the worst luck in the world.
Wait… isn't that my coworker? Evan? He's the quietest guy I know. What the hell is going on?
Seeing that comment, a sharp pang shot through my chest. It was tragically funny. In my last life, the only people who ever believed in my innocence were my colleagues.
I’d been arrested right after work that day, expecting to be released quickly. But then my father came to visit me in the holding cell. His first words were, "Just confess, Evan."
"Son, don't be stubborn," he'd said, his face a mask of weary disappointment. "As your father, I can't cover for you any longer."
I had stared at him, completely bewildered.
The lead detective on the case, a man named Miller, was a pillar of righteousness. He’d grabbed me by the collar, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "You animal. Do you have any idea she was just eighteen? She had just gotten into college."
The evidence against me was impossibly perfect. Mia had even provided a video she claimed showed me kidnapping the victim.
The fruit stand owner hesitated now, looking at the phone in his hand. I clutched it tighter, turning my frantic gaze on the approaching paramedics.
"If you don't let me keep streaming, I'm not going to the hospital!" I screamed.
Two of them moved to restrain me, but I didn't hesitate. I pulled the paring knife from my pocket, my eyes wild with resolve.
"You come any closer, and I'll kill myself right here!"
The live chat erupted.
WHOA! What the hell happened to this guy? He looks… desperate. That look in his eyes isn't an act!
He’s completely lost it. My coworker Evan is about to get married, he has a house, a car… why would he be doing this?
Fruit Stand Owner’s internal monologue: Oh god, that’s my knife!
A police car screeched to a halt. The man who stepped out made my blood run cold.
Detective Miller.
He strode forward, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and authority. "Son," he said, his voice firm but patient. "Whatever's going on, we can solve it. Don't do something you can't take back."
The familiar words sent a shiver down my spine. The live chat fell silent. In my past life, this was the man who had personally locked me away.
The fruit stand owner rushed forward. "Kid, I'll do it! I'll stream for you! Just please, put the knife down!"
Every eye was on me. Clutching the phone in one hand and the knife in the other, I spoke, my voice shaking. "I don't trust anyone. Stream this. All the way to the hospital."
The viewership had swelled to twenty million people. The owner nodded, taking the phone.
I finally let them help me onto the stretcher and into the ambulance.
The chat was already buzzing with conspiracy theories. On the way to the hospital, the police identified me and contacted my parents.
My phone rang. It was my father. The fruit stand owner held the phone up for me, and I nodded.
"Evan, you are a complete disappointment," my father's voice boomed, cold and hard. "You might as well just die in that hospital. Making a scene like this… do you have any respect for me at all?"
He didn't wait for a response. "I'm telling you right now, you get online and you apologize to everyone, or you're not welcome in this house ever again."
He hung up.
The chat was divided. Some praised my father for his strict morals; others called him heartless.
Detective Miller, riding with us in the ambulance, muttered under his breath, "That's one hell of a father."
His words reached me. I turned to look at him, the truth a burning coal in my throat. But who would believe me? The man in that video looked exactly like me. The police themselves had verified it wasn't a fake. And my own parents had corroborated the story. What kind of parents would frame their own son?
Miller caught my gaze, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.
I thought of the girl, the one who had just started college. I dredged up the hazy memories of that night and beckoned him closer with a finger.
I leaned in and whispered a few words in his ear.
Miller shot up so fast his head hit the roof of the ambulance. His face was a mask of grim seriousness. "Are you telling me the truth?"
I nodded.
This time, let's see how they frame me now.
I lay in a hospital bed, the steady drip of the IV a metronome marking the time. The chat was filled with comments of "Boring," "Just another clout-chaser," "Epic fail."
But I had what I needed: twenty million witnesses.
Then, I saw the time on my phone's lock screen.
8:31 PM.
The time was a recurring nightmare. In the video, that's when it all began. "I" dragged the girl through the door, started tearing at her clothes, spewing vile obscenities. If I’d had more time after being reborn, I wouldn't have resorted to such a desperate measure.
My parents never came. Mia never came.
The fruit stand owner, who had stayed with me, looked increasingly grim. "Kid," he said, trying to comfort me, "maybe they're just caught up with something. Don't overthink it. What do you want to eat?"
Yeah, right.
Right up until the moment they poisoned me, I had foolishly believed they were being threatened, that it was all some grand conspiracy to protect them. But after they fed me the poison, they had my body cremated immediately and fed the media a story about my suicide.
"You can turn off the stream now," I told him.
As he fumbled with the phone, it rang. He answered, and a sharp voice cut through the speaker. "This is Detective Miller. Is Evan Cross awake? Put him on."
He knew. He must have been watching the stream.
I ignored the phone and looked directly into the camera lens, a small, cryptic smile on my face. "Detective Miller, I think you're wondering how I knew what I told you. You'll have your answer in a few days."
I ended the livestream, leaving a torrent of questions and accusations in the chat.
The phone call was still connected. Miller's voice was tight with suppressed fury. "If you knew this was going to happen, why didn't you stop it? She was only eighteen—"

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