Ritchie sat on the blue plastic chair in his room, sweat dripping from his firmly chiseled body as he cooled down from his second five mile run of the day. He looked around the bedroom, it decidedly lacked personality. There were no more posters or pictures on the wall. The bed was covered with a plain tan blanked, the desk was free of clutter, and everything was extremely tidy. If it weren’t for the three wrestling trophies, one for each year he was the Florida state champion in wrestling, the area in which Ritchie lived could be mistaken for a guest room. If the teen had it his way, even the trophies would be elsewhere, but his mother insisted.

Ritchie raked a towel over his forearm, removing the sweat that was building up and possibly taking a layer of dead skin along with it. There was a knock on the door, which wasn’t unexpected, but an annoyance none the less. Over the years, Ritchie had learned to cherish the solitude of his life.

“Come in,” Ritchie called out in his deep baritone that made him sound so much older than he actually was. Many strangers confused him for a thirty year old.

Ritchie’s mom came in, looking over the room sadly. She couldn’t understand why her son chose to live like a convict, or a priest, but she wasn’t about to start that argument again. It took enough to convince him about the state trophies, even though there were a lot more stored in the garage. “Torturing yourself again, I see,” She said tersely.

“It’s not torture, Mom,” Ritchie didn’t want to come off defensive, but he knew he already failed. “It’s training, I need to be prepared.”

“Yes. I know, the army is calling,” Mrs. Motts said in concern. “Speaking of being prepared, have you thought about preparing for your own senior prom? It’s coming up you know.”

“I’m not going,” Ritchie said flatly.

Mrs. Motts frowned, yet another battle to force her son to actually live and enjoy life. “Why not? It’s a perfectly fun, healthy and normal thing to do.”

“There’s no one to go with and I’d be bored to go stag.”

Mrs. Motts laughed. “Look at you. Any girl in the county would give their right eye to have a hunk like you ask them to the prom, so don’t tell me you can’t find a date.”

“The prom should be with someone special, Mom,” Ritchie objected. “Not some tart.”

What about Jessica? You’ve always been close to her.”

Ritchie rolled his eyes. “She’s near three hundred pounds and is self-conscious as it is. All she wants to do is get the year over with and get the hell away from this place.”

Mrs. Motts shook her head. “Ritchie,” she said sympathetically. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Are you gay?” Mrs. Motts blurted out. “You know I love you no matter what.”

“No, Mom. I am not gay.” Ritchie said with annoyance in his voice.

“Are you sure? I mean, you’ve never been on a date, never had a girlfriend. You hardly show any interest in girls at all.”

“That’s because the girl I loved died ten years ago, and you know that!”

“You were eight years old,” Mrs. Motts matched her son’s intensity. “How can you say you were in love? You had a crush, that’s all. It’s time to let it go.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Ritchie resigned himself to the fact that only he would ever know how deeply in love he was, even at eight years old.

“I understand it all too well. You still blame yourself for the poor girl’s death. Don’t you get it? You did all you could’ve done. What more could you expect to do?”

“To die in her place! To fix it. To somehow make it right.”

Mrs. Motts was too dumbfounded to respond right away. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s too bad. I’m sending you to get help, and if you refuse to go, I’ll make sure West Point knows the little secrets you don’t want them to know.”

“But mom…”

“There is no ‘but mom’ here. You’re going for help and that’s final.

Ritchie didn’t want to go to this person who his mom arranged for him to see. She said this Angel person would help. Of course she would say something like that, instead of saying something like “I arranged for you to waste an entire Saturday with a person who’s going to do nothing but ask you about your feelings and charge me a gazillion dollars an hour.”

Ritchie sat behind the wheel of his VW Rabbit. It was a sensible car, and resembled much of the teen’s life. He looked at the crudely drawn map, popped the car into gear, and headed on his way. If his Mom wasn’t serious about her threat to make West Point aware of certain activities in which he indulged, Ritchie would blow off this meeting and hide out in the woods.

“Like this Angel person can help,” Ritchie mumbled to himself. Since his car didn’t have a radio, he often spent long drives talking to himself. “He can’t help. No once can. The event is over, done with, finished, and I screwed up. You can’t go back in time and undo a failure, and that’s the only thing that could help. Right now all I have to do is make amends and that’s what I am doing. First I do West Point, then the army, then the FBI, and I make sure what happened to Carrie doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

It was a simple plan, straight forward and easy to follow. Ever since Carrie’s funeral, after he cried for the last time in his life, Ritchie has strived to follow his basic outline for his life and somehow redeem himself for letting his love down.

After an hour of driving, Ritchie pulled off the paved road and traveled down a rocky, bumpy, tree-lined road that probably wasn’t too good for his car’s suspension. If took another half hour to finally come into a clearing where a small, modest house stood with its back to the Gulf of Mexico.

“Great,” Ritchie sat back in the seat, mustering the wherewithal to go through with this charade. “My Mom probably set me up with some gypsy who’s going to cure me with snake oil and chanting. I’ll give it a half hour, hour tops.”

Ritchie pulled on the door lever and left the comfort of his car to face the relative unknown. The air smelled of the sea and of an approaching storm. It wasn’t suppose to rain until late afternoon and Ritchie planned to be far gone by then. The house wasn’t much to look at. It was a small house, painted white with pale blue trim. The only adornment was a wrought iron piece of artwork in the shape of a marlin, painted blue to match the trim.

Throwing caution in the wind, Ritchie knocked on the solid, wooden door that had four planes of glass shaped in a semi-circle just high enough to not give a visitor a good look inside.

The door opened and Ritchie was relieved. Instead of some gypsy, a lady dressed in a light tan business suit answered his call. Her blonde hair was up in a tight bun, and even though she wore glassed to disguise the fact, Ritchie could tell the late twentyish woman was mildly attractive.

“You must be Ritchie Motts,” the lady said in a warm, almost joyful way, as if she was meeting a friend of a friend for tea.

“I’m here to see, um, Angel?” Ritchie still felt unsure about the prospect of having some stranger try to decipher him. Besides, he preferred to be an enigma.

The lady smiled. “That would be me,” Angel said cheerfully. “Why don’t you come inside, or do you plan to give every mosquito on the west coast a free meal.”

“Yes. I mean no.” Ritchie fumbled, already he felt scrutinized. “I mean, of course I’ll come in.” Instead of talking himself into a further hole, Ritchie crossed the threshold and found himself in a fairly large living room. On the far wall there was a fireplace, which seemed odd for Florid, but the cream, floral print couch and easy chairs seemed right in place.

“Why don’t you sit in this chair here?” Angel motioned to the chair farthest away from the exit. A brief, yet funny thought crossed Ritchie’s mind; if she’s planning on blocking my escape, I think I can take her. The visual imagery brought a small, almost indiscernible smile to his face.

Angel sat in the other chair. She wasn’t exactly across from him, but instead the two chairs were angled, affording both a look at the empty fireplace. “I suppose we should get down to business,” she said evenly.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Ritchie felt himself tensing.

“Normally I ease into things,” Angel explained. “But I sense from you that you’re a person who doesn’t like his time wasted. Besides, you only plan to give me a half hour, an hour tops. IF I’m to help in that kind of timeframe, I don’t have a second to lose.”

Ritchie looked at the woman skeptically. Just because she could read his demeanor and guessed at his self imposed time frame, he wasn’t about to be impressed. “To be honest, even if you had a decade, I doubt you could help.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” There was a certain glee in Angel’s eye that said she was serious. “From what I got from your mother, you’re stuck in the past.”

“I’m not stuck,” Ritchie cut the counselor off. “My life is affected by something that has happened in the past. I’m sure that goes the same for most people. I know that I can’t go back and undo a tragedy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be prepared for the next time.”

Angel leaned in. “You say a tragedy; what happened?”

“A girl that I was in love with was murdered by her step-father, if you must know.” Ritchie said for the pure shock value of the declaration.

“Oh my! How old were you when that happened?”

“I was eight. And before you start on that I couldn’t possible be in love at eight, let me let you know that I know perfectly well what love is and I also know that’s what I felt for Carrie.”

“I’m equally sure that it was also,” Angel assured. “By the pure fire in which you speak of her, it’s obvious. But, I also hear the regret in your voice.”

“Of course there’s regret,” Ritchie vented. “She’s still dead, isn’t she?”

“And you blame yourself?”

“No. I blame her step-father. He’s the one who beat her to death. Want to hear why he claims to have done that?”

“It seems important to you that you tell me,” Angel said, keeping her emotional detachment while encouraging her new client to dig deep into the thing that had wounded him so deeply that his whole live had been captured by it.

“He claims that he walked in on her and she was masturbating, penetrating herself with a large carrot,” Ritchie spoke as if by rote. “He says that the sheer vulgarity of that act caused him to snap and by the time he came to his senses, she was dead.”

“It sounds like you disagree. What do you think happened?”

“I think, though I wish I knew for sure, that Carrie’s step father walked in on her while she was changing – he had a habit of doing that. Carrie probably put her foot down and he hit her a few too many times and harder than he should. He had a habit of hitting her too. The Friday before her death, I told the teacher what was happening, but it was too late.”

Angel shook her head. “So sad. I’m sure the man is tucked away where he could do no further harm.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you!?!” Ritchie turned red with anger. “But he’s not. He’s living in California somewhere.”

Angel was astonished. “But how?”

“He was found innocent by way of mental defect. He spent four years in a mental hospital, they said he made great strides and released him. The worst part is I didn’t get to testify. They said my testimony was inadmissible because it was hear-say and conjecture.”

“Now we’re back to you. You still have regrets from back then.”

“A mountain full! Much too many to go through now.”

“Why not?” Angel smiled. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Ritchie eased into his chair. He didn’t know why he was rehashing this pain with a stranger, but he felt compelled to get it out of his system. “Sure, why not? This way I can tell my mother we tried.”

“That’s really not the spirit,” Angel frowned. “But, it’s a start.”

“Maybe I could’ve done something different. I should’ve been more persistent with Mrs. Reinhart, made her call the police or something. If I would’ve found out sooner, we all could’ve intervened somehow.” Ritchie bowed his head. “I don’t know. It was a mess. If I had my choice, I rather it would’ve been me to die that die, not her.”

Angel scrutinized her client. “If it were you who died that day, think about all that you wouldn’t have accomplished in your life, and what you will accomplish.”

Ritchie laughed bitterly. “What life?!? I died that same day. Everything that gave me joy was sucked out of my body and I’ve been living in purgatory ever since.”

“Hmm? Purgatory? You don’t strike me as the religious type to believe in such a thing.”

“I’m not. I use to be, back when life was worth living. Believed in God, Jesus, the whole nine yards.”

“Tell me, do you pray?”

“Not anymore. Not since God didn’t answer my last prayer.” Ritchie gripped the arm of the chair tightly, forcing himself to show an outwardly detached expression while inside was a violent tempest.

“What prayer was that?”

“That he’d take me to Heaven instead of Carrie.” A tear escaped Ritchie’s eye, but he pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing to make it look as if he was simply tired or bored. “I prayed that at her funeral.”

“You would truly trade your life for hers?”

“In a heartbeat.” Ritchie didn’t even have to think about it.

“Do you know what the Bible says about that?”

Ritchie shrugged. “It’s probably against it.”

Angel gave an easy smile. “Not at all. In fact, the Bible says there is no greater love than for a man to lay down his life for his friends.”

“God never gave me that choice, or I would take him up on it.”

“He’s giving you that choice now.” Angel clasped her hands together and brought them to her forehead. In that instance, the world stopped.

Ritchie was frozen in his seat, not because he was unable to move like the rest of the planet, but because of the weight of what he was offered. His whole body tingled as he realized this wasn’t a farce; his prayer was about to be belatedly answered. “But how?” he stammered. “Why?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the angel said. The business suit was gone, replaced by nothing but an aura of white light that did a remarkable job of maintaining the creature’s decency. “By the way, the prayer answered wasn’t only yours, but your mother’s as well. It takes great love for a mother to allow her son to sacrifice himself for another. Somehow humanity missed that part of Mary’s life; the mother of God had to also bear that pain.”

“So I’m to die now?” Ritchie was ready to give up the ghost. In fact, he felt a great peace about him.

“Don’t be silly, child. We’re giving you a week to intervene. A week to influence the past the best you can. But first, you need to prepare.”

“I’m going to be my eight year old self again?”

“Not quite. There are other arrangements made. It would be unfair to the whims of fate to allow you back in time in your own body; to much of an advantage. But don’t worry about that now.” The angel rose and put her hand on Ritchie’s shoulder. The world fell away, only Ritchie and the angel existed. “I do try to balance the scale though. If you’re going to stop something, you need to know exactly what happened.

Ritchie was aware of existence, but was without form. For a reason he could never understand, not explain, he was at peace with the world. The fact that he was no longer held captive by his earthly body didn’t adversely affect him at all. His consciousness was intact, his vision still filled the same scope that it always had, and he was well aware that the angel was nearby; even though he couldn’t see the being, he could sense her and that was enough.

They were right outside a house. It was one that Ritchie knew well, almost as well as he did his own house. It was Carrie Alvarez’s old house, looking exactly like it did ten years ago. Odd thing was that Ritchie never saw Carrie’s house until after she died, and, for a while, visiting it became an obsession.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ritchie noticed a long haired eight year old frantically running towards the house. The girl’s white sun dress was far too short for modesty’s sake and with every stride she took her lime green panties were exposed.

“Oh my God!” Ritchie exclaimed. “That’s Carrie.”

“Yes it is,” the angel said calmly. “This is the last day that Carrie ever walked the Earth. Take special notice of everything you can, of anything that can help you on your mission.”

Ritchie’s consciousness floated behind the girl as she barreled through the door. He noticed the clock read 7:05. He made note of that, it was important.

Carrie ran straight to her room; closing the door firmly and engaging the lock behind her. She flung herself down on the bed and tried to catch her breath.

Ritchie always wondered what a little girl’s bedroom looked like, but it wasn’t much. A twin size bed occupied the center of the room. It had a thick, flowery comforter on it. A red, plush star-shaped pillow sat at the head of the bed, its smile displaying a little bit of perkiness. A white dresser was up against the wall opposite the closed window and a small radio lay on the nightstand next to the bed. Ritchie was disappointed by the plainness of it all.

The door knob turned and the door slowly opened, causing the little girl to look up.

“What time were you suppose to be home.” A pot bellied man in boxer shorts asked.

“Where’s mom?” Carrie asked instantly.

The man looked at his step-daughter greedily. Ritchie found himself wishing for his body so he could deck the jerk. “Mom went out,” the man said triumphantly. “If you were home at seven o’clock like you were suppose to be, maybe you could’ve gone with her to her little Mary Kay party.”

“I tried Hector, I really…”

“What did you just call me?” Hector demanded.

Carrie realized her mistake a little too late. “I meant dad,” the girl corrected herself fearfully. “Really I did.”

“I will not tolerate insolence,” Hector yelled. He snatched the girl by her wrist and yanked the eight year old to her feet. In an instant he was sitting on the bed and his step-daughter was over his knee.

Ritchie’s anger was stoked, but with no body, he was unable to lash out.

“First you were late, then you disrespect your father,” hector read off the charges as if he were a judge. The girls dress was already above her hips, so the man had no hindrance to pulling down her underwear, revealing her much whiter bottom. “This’ll teach you about responsibility!” Hector’s hand flashed across the girl’s fleshy bottom, his eyes all the while admiring the young girl’s flesh.

Carrie yelled in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she pleaded as her legs kicked involuntarily. “I’ll never be late again.”

“I’m sure you won’t!” Hector mocked. “This is for your disrespectful insolence.” His hand came down a second time with a whack!

Carrie cried as her legs flailed. “I’m sorry daddy, I’m sorry.”

“We’ll see about that.” Hector placed his hand tenderly on the girl’s bottom. “Is there any other lesson you need to be taught?”

“No daddy,” Carrie’s voice quivered.

“I think there is.” Hector noticed he had a free view of his step-daughter’s ‘honey’. The smile on his face, and the way he cocked his head for a better view betrayed that he liked what he saw. He slid his long pudgy middle finger between his step-daughter’s leg and stroked her ‘kitty’ once.

“Please!” Carrie pleaded as she felt the violation.

“Oh, I’m going to please you alright.” Hector rubbed again as he grew under his daughter. He stood with the girl and plopped her on half of the bed.

Carrie flopped to her back and saw her step father lower his boxers, freeing his manhood. “No!” she shouted in fear and disgust.

“Oh no you don’t.” Hector slapped the girl across the face. “You don’t get a man riled up, ask him for it, and then tell him no.”

“You bastard!” Ritchie screamed, but the sound remained in his consciousness. He looked on with horror as the man entered the girl, brutalizing her. The pig reached his climax in a few strokes.

“You see,” Hector grinned as he looked at the stunned, emotionless girl. “I told you, you wanted it. You’re a woman now.”

“I’m telling my mom,” Carrie said in a monotone voice.

“Go ahead.” Hector shrugged it off. “Tell your mom, I’m sure she’ll be real happy about what you made me do.”

The play didn’t work on the girl. “I’m telling my mom and you’ll go to jail.”

Hector violently grabbed the child. “You listen to me and you listen good you little whore. You tell your mom and I’ll kill you both.”

“You don’t scare me,” Carrie said defiantly as she stood up to confront him. “You’re a bad man.”

Hector grew red with anger. “You little bitch.” He threw a hay-maker at the child, catching her squarely on the chin. The audible crack let him know he had hit her a bit too her as the child fell limp in his arms.”

“No!” Ritchie yelled as he snapped back into his body.

“Are you prepared to stop that?” the angel asked calmly, even though her eyes couldn’t hide the sorrow she felt for seeing the scene.

“With every ounce of strength I have,” Ritchie intoned.

“Then so be it,” the angel put her hand on Ritchie’s forehead, causing him to fall through reality. After a great sudden halt, his consciousness was wiped clean.