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MidReal Story
The Rebirth of Elvis
Scenario:A black man get out of jail
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Elijah Thompson
He is a former inmate who was wrongly convicted of a crime. He is resilient, determined, and compassionate. Elijah spent 10 years in prison for a murder he did not commit. With the help of a public defender, he secured his release due to new evidence. Upon leaving prison, he was met by his brother, who had been working on his case. Elijah was overwhelmed with emotion upon seeing his family. He later reunited with his mother, who had waited for him outside the prison gates. His journey began anew as he navigated life outside prison walls.
Bryce Thompson
He is Elijah's older brother who has been working on securing his release from prison. He is supportive, patient, and caring. Bryce has been fighting for Elijah's innocence for years and was present to greet him when he was released. He provided emotional support and drove Elijah home from prison. Bryce has been handling family matters while Elijah was away and continues to do so even after his release. His bond with Elijah is strong, and he helps him adjust to life outside prison.
Ryder Thompson
He is Elijah's younger brother who idolizes him. He is enthusiastic, curious, and impressionable. Ryder looks up to Elijah and was excited to see him upon his release from prison. He asks questions about Elijah's experiences in prison and listens intently to his stories. Ryder's interactions with Elijah show their close bond, as he brings gifts to make up for the time Elijah lost. His youth provides a sense of innocence and hope as Elijah navigates his return to society.
Elijah
I was a free man.
It took me ten years, but I finally made it back out.
The feeling was indescribable.
"Welcome home, Lil’ Elijah."
My brother Bryce shook my hand and pulled me into a tight hug.
I hadn’t seen him in just as long.
He was the only one who came to visit me regularly.
My other brother, Ryder, was too young to make the trip alone while my mother stayed behind to care for my grandmother.
I couldn’t wait to see them.
Bryce waited for me outside the maximum-security prison’s walls, fighting for my release all these years, and today he got to greet me as a free man.
Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes, but I blinked them away.
I’d spent too long in a place where showing emotion could get you hurt.
I followed Bryce across the prison parking lot.
I had a small cardboard box of my few belongings, and he carried a large duffle bag that I assumed was for me.
The concrete felt different under my feet without shackles.
Bryce’s car was a black sedan I’d never seen before.
He opened the trunk for my box and then the passenger door for me.
The leather seat was soft, so different from the hard benches I’d spent years sitting on.
Bryce climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
My eyes wandered around the interior, taking in all the things I hadn’t seen in so long.
There were family photos clipped to his visor: Mom, Ryder, and even one of me before I went to prison.
I realized I was finally part of the picture again.
During the drive home, Bryce pointed out all the things that had changed in the neighborhood.
There were new houses where there used to be empty lots.
I looked out the window at the passing scenery.
We turned down our street, and I saw our house, but it wasn’t alone anymore.
There was a blue craftsman-style house next door, where there used to be an empty lot.
"Who’s that?"
I asked, pointing to the house.
Bryce glanced over at it.
"That’s Mia. She moved in about six months ago."
He turned his attention back to the road.
"She’s really nice. She brings us food sometimes."
"Why?"
I asked.
He shrugged.
"I think she felt bad for us after she met Mom. She came over to introduce herself and saw your picture on the mantle. She asked who you were."
He paused as he pulled into our driveway.
"When I told her you were my brother, she smiled and said that was nice." I stared at Mia’s house.
It was neat and tidy with a garden full of flowers in front and fresh paint on the siding.
"Did she ever say why she moved here?" I asked, still looking at the house.
Bryce hesitated for a moment before answering, "She said she was looking for a fresh start, but there's something about her that feels... familiar."
I turned to him, curiosity piqued, "Familiar how?"
He shrugged, "I don’t know. I just can’t put my finger on it."
I leaned forward in the passenger seat, studying Mia’s house more intently.
The blue paint looked fresh, and there were wind chimes hanging from the eaves of her porch.
They were the kind my grandmother used to have.
Through the front window, I could see a woman moving around inside.
She had dark hair that fell past her shoulders.
She was arranging flowers in a vase on her dining table.
Bryce shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside me.
His fingers drummed a rhythm on the steering wheel.
"Do you think you’ll recognize her?"
I asked him, still watching the woman through the window.
He shook his head too quickly, "No, I don’t think so."
"Let’s get you home," he said, but his voice sounded strained.
As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced back at Mia’s house one last time and noticed something that made my heart skip a beat.
There was a car parked in her driveway—a black sedan with tinted windows.
I leaned back in the passenger seat, trying to shake off the feeling that something was off about Mia’s house.
The car nagged at my memory, but I couldn’t quite place it.
It was a common make and model, but there was something about it that seemed familiar.
I pulled the case file photos Bryce had kept for me out of my pocket and flipped through them until I found the one I was looking for.
The getaway car from the night of the murder was a black sedan with tinted windows, identical to the one in Mia’s driveway.
I looked over at Bryce, who was staring intently at the road ahead.
"Bryce," I said quietly, "do you remember the car from that night?"
He didn’t respond, so I continued, "It was a black sedan with tinted windows. Just like Mia’s car."
Bryce’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and he sped up slightly.
"I’m tired," he mumbled.
"I think we should get home."
But as we drove away from Mia’s house, I caught him glancing in the rearview mirror more than once.
And then, just as we were turning onto our street, I heard the sound of a car engine behind us.
I parked the photos on my lap and stared at Bryce’s profile as he drove.
His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes darted back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror.
The silence between us stretched until we pulled into our driveway.
Before Bryce could get out of the car, I grabbed his arm.
"Those photos don’t lie," I said, pulling out the crime scene image again.
"That’s the same car, isn’t it?"
Bryce’s shoulders slumped, and he glanced at our rearview mirror once more.
The sound of the other engine grew louder, and soon headlights swept across our house.
The black sedan from Mia’s house cruised past slowly, its driver hidden behind tinted glass.
Bryce exhaled sharply, "We need to talk to Mia."
While Bryce stepped out of the car to make a phone call, I remained in the passenger seat, my mind racing.
The black sedan had followed us from Mia’s house, and Bryce seemed to know more than he was letting on.
I glanced at the glove compartment, which was slightly ajar.
The corner of a manila folder peeked out.
My hands trembled as I reached for it.
The folder was thick and heavy, filled with papers that spilled out onto my lap when I opened it.
Newspaper clippings, surveillance photos, and handwritten notes filled the folder.
On the cover, in Bryce’s neat handwriting, it read "Mia’s Secrets."
Before I could read any further, I heard Bryce’s footsteps returning.
I quickly stuffed everything back into the folder and shoved it into the glove compartment, but one photo slipped under the seat.
Bryce opened the door and slid back into the driver's seat, his expression unreadable.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
I hesitated, then decided to confront him, "Why do you have a folder labeled 'Mia’s Secrets' in the glove compartment?"
I gripped the folder in my hands, watching Bryce’s face for any sign of deception.
The streetlight cast harsh shadows across the car’s interior, making it difficult to read his expression.
I pulled out the surveillance photos one by one and spread them across my lap.
Each photo showed Mia meeting with different men in parking lots, exchanging envelopes.
My hands trembled as I flipped through the images, my mind racing with questions.
And then I saw it - a photo of Mia standing next to a man in a suit, shaking his hand.
The man was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him until I saw the caption: "Judge Jameson."
It was the same judge who had sentenced me to life in prison.
I felt a wave of nausea wash over me as I stared at the photo.
Bryce reached for the folder, but I held it away from him.
He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
He leaned closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. The leather seat creaked softly beneath us as he shifted his weight.
Before he could say anything else, I cut him off, demanding answers.
"What is this? Why do you have these photos?"
His eyes darted to the rearview mirror again, and I followed his gaze.
The black sedan was still parked on our street, its engine humming quietly in the darkness.
Bryce’s voice was low and urgent as he spoke, "I’m trying to protect you."
I gripped the folder tightly in my hands as the black sedan suddenly accelerated down our street, its engine roaring louder with each passing second.
Bryce yanked the folder from my hands and shoved it under his seat, then threw the car into reverse.
The sedan’s headlights grew larger in our windshield as it charged straight at us.
I braced myself against the dashboard, my heart pounding in my chest.
Bryce spun the wheel hard to the left, and the tires screeched in protest as we backed into our neighbor’s driveway.
The sedan swerved to avoid us, missing by mere inches.
Through the tinted windows, I caught a glimpse of Mia behind the wheel, her face illuminated by the dashboard lights.
Bryce floored the gas pedal, and we sped away into the night, leaving behind a trail of questions and a dangerous truth.
While Bryce weaved through the side streets, trying to shake Mia off our tail, his phone buzzed repeatedly on the center console.
The sound echoed through the car, punctuating the tension in the air.
Bryce’s eyes darted between the road and the phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
As we took a sharp turn, the phone slid off the console and landed in my lap.
The screen flickered to life, illuminating an incoming message from Judge Jameson.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the preview: "Deal stands. 500K transferred. Keep him quiet."
Before Bryce could snatch it away, I grabbed the phone and held it tightly in my hands.
The leather seat creaked softly as he shifted his weight, reaching for the device.
But I held it just out of his grasp.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked the phone using Bryce’s birthday as the code - a detail I remembered from our prison visits.
Bryce's voice was strained as he finally spoke, "You weren't supposed to see that."
I glared at him, my voice rising with anger, "So you’ve been working with Jameson this whole time?"
His eyes met mine, filled with a mix of guilt and desperation, "It's not what you think—I did it to get you out."
I sat frozen, staring at the text messages that scrolled across the screen.
Each one revealed a piece of the puzzle, exposing a deal between Bryce and Judge Jameson.
My hands gripped the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
The leather seat creaked softly as I shifted my weight, my eyes fixed on the screen.
When I finally spoke, my voice came out hoarse, "How much of this was real? How much of my time in prison was part of your deal?"
Bryce kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw clenched tightly.
The only sound in the car was the hum of the engine and the occasional ping of an incoming message.
He took a deep breath before speaking, "I found evidence of corruption within the judicial system. But if I exposed it, they would have come after us all. So I made a deal with Jameson."
The streetlight cast harsh shadows across his face as he spoke, making it difficult to read his expression.
He reached for his phone again, but I pulled it away from him.
I scrolled through more messages, each one revealing a piece of their twisted agreement.
And then a new message popped up from Mia: "Meet tonight or the deal's off."
I scroll through the messages while Bryce drives, my finger hovering over each text.
The streetlights flash across the screen, illuminating the details of their $500K arrangement.
My brother keeps glancing at me, pleading to give him the phone back.
But I continue reading.
The evidence of their corruption makes my stomach turn - proof that my freedom was bought, not earned through justice.
With trembling hands, I select each message thread - Jameson's, Mia's, and the others involved in the deal.
I hit "forward" and sent everything to the press.
I sit in the passenger seat, clutching Bryce's phone as he steers the car onto a dimly lit shoulder of the road.
The engine idles while passing headlights illuminate his face in brief flashes.
My finger hovers over the sent folder, confirming the messages have reached the press.
Bryce grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, before turning to face me.
His eyes lock with mine, filled with a mix of desperation and determination.
"I did it all for you," he says, his voice cracking.
I notice his hand slowly moving toward the glove compartment where I found the folder.
I brace myself for whatever comes next, knowing there's no turning back.
I watch his hand hover over the glove compartment, my muscles tensing with each passing second.
The headlights of a car behind us illuminate his face for a brief moment, and I catch a glimpse of his trembling fingers.
His hand drops away from the compartment, and he stares straight ahead through the windshield.
"Mom was dying," he chokes out, his voice barely audible.
"Cancer. She couldn't afford treatment and wanted to see you free before..."
His words trail off, and I notice tears welling up in his eyes.
His shoulders shake as he fights back sobs.
I remember the prison visits that stopped two years ago, the excuses about Mom being too busy or traveling.
It all makes sense now.
Bryce reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.
He opens it and takes out a folded piece of paper, which he hands to me.
Under the dim car light, I unfold the paper with shaking hands.
It's worn and creased from being carried in his wallet for so long.
The familiar cursive handwriting hits me first - Mom's delicate loops and curves I remember from childhood birthday cards.
My eyes scan the first lines, where she explains her diagnosis, stage 4 lung cancer.
She writes about wanting to see me walk free, even if it meant making difficult choices.
As I read on, the paper trembles in my hands.
When I reach the end, signed "Forever your loving mother," Bryce quietly hands me a tissue.
I stare at the letter, my vision blurring with tears.
A heavy thud jolts me back to reality.
Something has landed on the hood of our car.
I look up to see a raccoon, its masked face peering through the windshield at us.
The creature's sudden appearance breaks the heavy silence in the car.
It scratches at the metal, leaving marks as it investigates its reflection in the glass.
Bryce reaches for the keys to start the engine and scare it away, but I grab his wrist, stopping him.
The raccoon's innocent intrusion gives me a moment to breathe, to process everything about Mom.
Bryce glances at me, confusion etched on his face.
"Why'd you stop me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Because," I reply, taking a deep breath, "we need to talk about what happens next."
I watch the raccoon hop off our hood and waddle toward the tree line behind the parked car.
Something about its determined movement catches my attention - like it knows where it's going.
Without thinking, I open the car door and step out, Mom's letter still clutched in my hand.
Bryce protests, "What are you doing?"
But he follows when I start walking after the raccoon.
The animal's ringed tail becomes our beacon as we push past thorny bushes.
Our phone flashlights reveal a narrow dirt path we've never seen before, despite growing up exploring these woods.
I freeze mid-step, grabbing Bryce's arm.
The raccoon has stopped and is acting strange.
It's no longer just an animal; its behavior is eerily human-like.
The raccoon stands on its hind legs, tilts its head, and deliberately winks at us with its right eye.
My flashlight beam catches the creature raising a paw in what can only be described as a "come here" gesture.
Bryce's grip on my shoulder tightens as we exchange shocked looks.
The raccoon waits patiently, maintaining eye contact with us, then points deeper into the woods where a faint blue light glows between the trees.
Despite my prison-honed instincts screaming danger, I take a step forward, drawn by this impossible sight.
I keep my flashlight trained on the raccoon as it turns and begins walking away from us, leading the way.
The dense underbrush swallows its small form, but I track its movements with the beam of light.
Every few steps, the raccoon pauses and turns its head to ensure we're still following.
Bryce stumbles behind me, his breathing heavy with exertion and confusion.
He's still clutching Mom's diagnosis letter in his hand.
When I reach back to steady him, my beam catches something metallic glinting near a fallen log.
I bend down to investigate and find a small key attached to a silver chain.
The raccoon chatters excitedly, pointing at the key with its front paw.
As I pick it up, the animal's eyes reflect an unnatural blue glow in the darkness.
Bryce whispers, "This can't be real, right? A raccoon leading us to a key?"
I nod slowly, feeling the weight of the chain in my hand. "I don't know what's happening, but I think this is what Mom wanted us to find."
He looks at me, eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope. "Do you think it has something to do with her secret?"
I grip the key in my pocket, keeping the flashlight beam trained on the raccoon's glowing eyes ahead.
The creature continues to lead us through the dense undergrowth, pausing every few steps to ensure we're still following.
Bryce stumbles behind me, his breath heavy with exertion and confusion.
He's still clutching Mom's diagnosis letter in his hand.
When I reach back to steady him, I feel the weight of the key in my pocket.
The raccoon darts between trees, leading us deeper into the woods.
We push past thick branches and fight our way through thorny bushes.
The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.
Finally, we come to a clearing, and in the center stands an old stone structure partially hidden by vines.
The raccoon stops at the entrance and turns to face us.
It makes a chittering sound and points at the key in my pocket. My heart races as I pull out the key.
It feels heavier than it should be, as if it holds more significance than just unlocking a door.
I approach the entrance cautiously, noticing that the air around us has grown quieter.
The only sound is our heavy breathing and the distant hooting of an owl.
As I get closer to the door, I see that it's covered in strange symbols carved into the stone.
They seem to match the markings on the key I found earlier.
My hand trembles as I insert the key into a small keyhole hidden among the symbols.
I turn the key, and the sound of ancient mechanisms clicking into place echoes through the clearing.
The door slowly creaks open, revealing a dark chamber beyond.
A musty smell wafts out, carrying hints of old books and decay.
I step inside, my flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.
The room is small, with shelves lining the walls filled with dusty tomes and strange artifacts.
In the center of the room is a wooden table covered in papers, books, and what looks like Mom's belongings.
Bryce gasps behind me as we spot Mom's red journal lying open on the table.
The raccoon scurries past us into the room, its glowing blue eyes illuminating cobweb-covered photographs on the walls.
When I step further inside, my foot kicks something that rolls across the stone floor.
It's a small, intricately carved box, and as it comes to a stop, the raccoon sits beside it, waiting.
I kneel down next to the box while the raccoon watches intently.
Its eyes cast an eerie blue glow on the walls, making it seem like we're in a scene from a horror movie.
My hands shake as I lift the lid of the box, revealing a folded piece of parchment inside.
The paper is yellowed and crackles as I unfold it, revealing a hand-drawn map of these woods.
There's the craftsman house where we live, the old prison, and winding paths through the trees.
Several trees and stone formations are marked with red ink, leading to a spot deep in the woods labeled "Truth."
Bryce leans over my shoulder, his breath catching in his throat.
"Mom drew this," he whispers.
I look closer at the margins of the map and see Mom's distinctive handwriting.
It's her code, used to mark important pages in her journal.
Bryce's voice trembles as he speaks, "She knew we'd find this, didn't she?"
I nod, tracing the lines on the map with my finger. "She left us a trail to follow, Bryce."
His eyes meet mine, filled with determination. "Then we have to see where it leads."
I stare at the raccoon in disbelief as human words come out of its mouth.
Bryce stumbles backward, knocking over a shelf of dusty books in the process.
The creature's blue eyes glow brighter as it repeats its message, its voice a strange mix of animal sounds and human tones.
It moves with deliberate steps, its paws clicking on the stone floor as it approaches a section of the wall covered in thick vines and moss.
The flashlight beam catches the raccoon's eyes, making them shine like sapphires in the dimly lit room.
I follow the raccoon's gaze to the wall it's approaching.
As it moves closer, I notice that beneath the thick growth, there are scratch marks etched into the stone.
They form a pattern that looks almost like a code or a message. The raccoon places its front paws on the wall, extending its claws to trace the marks carefully.
As it does this, it turns its head to look at us expectantly.
It's clear that we're meant to understand something from this interaction.
I step closer to examine the marks more closely, and as I do, I notice that they seem to be aligned with small grooves in the stone wall.
It looks like some sort of mechanism is hidden here, waiting to be triggered.
I reach out a hand to touch the wall, feeling for any subtle changes in texture or temperature.
The raccoon watches intently as my fingers explore the surface.
Suddenly, under my fingertips, I feel a slight shift in the stone.
I study the map in the dim chamber while gathering supplies from our backpacks.
The raccoon paces impatiently, its blue eyes casting an otherworldly glow on the worn paper.
Bryce pulls out flashlights, water bottles, and granola bars, his hands shaking as he checks each item.
When I find a compass in the mysterious box, it spins wildly before pointing to "Truth" on the map.
The raccoon chirps in approval, leading us toward a hidden exit at the back of the chamber.
I move deeper into the chamber, my flashlight beam revealing more shelves packed with Mom's belongings.
Old perfume bottles, photo albums, and stacks of letters fill the musty space.
The raccoon's blue eyes illuminate a particular shelf where a leather-bound diary sits.
When I reach for it, my hands shake so badly I almost drop it.
Bryce steadies me as I open the first page, revealing Mom's elegant handwriting.
The date shows entries from two years ago - when she stopped visiting me in prison.
Bryce's voice is barely a whisper, "She was hiding all this while we thought she abandoned us?"
I nod, my heart heavy with the weight of realization. "She was trying to protect us from something bigger."
The raccoon chirps again, almost as if urging us to keep going.