A/N: This story is very personal to me, my father battled addiction and on March 10th it will be six years since he died. I can identify with Andy's struggle to deal with her father's addiction, and I'm hoping I can portray that in this story. Hope you like it, even if it does start out kind of dark.

CHAPTER 1

Andy stood in front of the mirror and brushed her fingertips across the scar on her shoulder. That night, that moment, it was on a constant loop in her head, but she wanted nothing more than to forget it entirely.

*Flashback*

"DAD!" Andy said, as she beat on the door of his apartment, "…DAD! Open the door!"

Nothing.

She had called him several times; his phone went straight to voicemail.

She went to the fire escape and climbed to his window, she was ashamed at how habitual this had become.

Andy checked to see if the window was unlocked, and to her surprise, it was. She assumed it was because her father was sick of having to replace it when Andy had to break in when he drank himself half-dead.

The apartment was a mess, completely ransacked. Cautiously, she searched each room until she found her father passed out on the floor of his bedroom, clutching his gun.

"Please wake up," she shook him, panicked.

Startled, Tommy McNally drew his gun and pulled the trigger.

The impact knocked Andy into the wall before she fell to the ground.

"Andy!" Tommy exclaimed, once he snapped out of his drunken daze and realized what he had done.

Within seconds, Oliver was standing in Tommy's apartment after having broke the door down, radioing dispatch for an ambulance, "…Officer down."

*End Flashback*

To Andy's knowledge, her father had been attending his AA meetings regularly; to Andy's knowledge, her father was sober.

Wishful thinking. She pulled her shirt over her head, covering the scar. The idea of going through the intrusive psychological therapy she knew was looming in the near future made her nauseous. What makes people think it's therapeutic to open up and spill your guts to some stranger? The doctor knocked on the door before entering, "…okay Miss McNally, everything looks great. The wound healed nicely. You may still be sore for a couple weeks, but nothing too bad. Take it easy on your left arm."

"What about work? Can I work?" she asked, anxiously. She felt like she was suffering from cabin fever. Her apartment was too small to be in 24/7, she felt like she was developing claustrophobia.

"I don't see why not, but nothing too strenuous. I'd imagine after something like this your staff sergeant will have you on desk for a while anyway," he replied.

"Yeah, he will," she said, her disappointment clear.

The doctor laughed, "…that's a good thing, for now anyway. Baby it for at least another week; you don't want to be out any longer than you have to, right?"

"Right," Andy answered.

"Okay, I want to see you again in a week. Keep taking your antibiotics, there is still a window for infection and keep your pain medication on hand. If the pain worsens though, call me so we can get you in," he said, as he handed her the yellow papers and a new prescription.

"Thank you," Andy said as she stood up.

"As far as physical therapy is concerned, I don't see it as necessary at this point, but we'll see how this next week goes," he said as he opened the exam room door.

"Okay."

He started to walk out but turned around to say one last thing, "…I'm serious about the taking it easy. You could seriously hurt yourself, be careful."

"I will, I promise," she said with a laugh as she followed him out the door.

She sat in the parking lot; staring at the big gray building she dreaded entering. This is a pointless waste of my time; there is nothing this person is going to be able to tell me about myself and my problems that I do not already know. She looked at the clock and realized she would late if she did not make her way inside soon.

Her phone starting ringing. Luke.

Andy hit ignore, opened the door and walked inside. Third floor, Suite 211. She walked up the stairs and all the way down the hallway; when she reached the doorway, she froze.

If you ever want to work the streets again, you have to do this. She opened the door and walked up to the desk, "…can I help you?" the disturbingly cheery woman asked.

"I have a 1:00 appointment with Dr. Graham," she said.

"And your name is?"

"Andy McNally," she answered.

"Ah, yes. Fill out these forms, and she'll be with you shortly," the woman handed Andy a clipboard and pointed towards the uncomfortably small sitting area.

"Thanks," she turned around and sat between a woman who was crying hysterically, and a man whose leg was bouncing at a mile a minute. Andy attempted to ignore the things going on around her by answering the questions on the form. Are you suicidal? Do you do things to cause yourself physical harm? Do you ever find it hard to get out of bed? Is it hard for you to find meaning in your life?

Andy read over the questions with disgust. No, no, no, no. I do not belong here! I am not suicidal, a little out of my mind ever so often, but not suicidal. She circled 'no' to all the questions, filled in her person information and then sat silently, forced to listen to the sobbing woman to her right.

"Andy?" a woman asked, as she opened the door.

Andy couldn't jump out of her chair quick enough, not that it would be much better in her office.

"I'm Dr. Graham, but you are more than welcome to call me Diane, please take a seat," she motioned to the couch.

"I don't have to lie down, do I?" Andy asked.

"That's completely up to you, whatever makes you comfortable," she answered.

Andy sat up straight with her hands on her knees, uneasy as ever.

"So, Andy, tell me why you're here," she said.

"I'm here because I have to be if I want to work the streets again," she replied sharply.

"But why?" Diane asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why can't you work the streets?" she elaborated.

"Because their afraid I may be emotionally unstable, whatever that means," Andy said.

"Why might you be emotionally unstable?"

Andy knew. She did not want to say it aloud though, she was comfortable forgetting about it; acting as if it never happened.

"Andy…"

"Because my father shot me," she said, holding back tears.

"Why did your father shoot you?" Diane asked.

"Because he was drunk, and I scared him," she answered, still choking back tears.

"How did that make you feel?" she asked.

"Disappointed," Andy said, straightening up. Hurt, angry, confused.

"Disappointed? That's it?"

"Yeah," she answered.

"I think we've got a long road ahead of us, Officer McNally," she said.

Perfect.

Twice a week, for God knows how many weeks, I cannot do this, Andy thought to her as she walked out.

Once she got in the car, she checked her phone: four missed calls and two voicemails.

Luke. Luke. Traci. Luke.

Assuming both the voicemails were from Luke, she deleted them without listening; she called Traci back.

"Hello?" Traci answered.

"Hey, Trace."

"Andy, how'd it go?"

"It went, it's over. I wish I didn't have to go back," she said.

"I'm sorry it was bad," she said, "…so what's the verdict, can you come back?"

"Yeah, I'll be there tomorrow, I think. On desk, of course. I still need to call Best and sort out the details," she said, the only bright side was that she was able to go back to work.

"Good! We miss you!"

"I miss you, too!"

"Look, Andy, I hate to cut this short but I kind of snuck off and left Noelle alone, but you should come by the Penny tonight," she said.

"Maybe, I'll talk to you later Trace."

"Come to the Penny, I gotta go."

Andy hung up the phone, she had avoided just about everyone over the last month. She pulled up in front of a familiar house, the shiny silver truck in the driveway. She had avoided almost everyone.

A/N: Let me know what you think, reviews will probably determine how far this story really goes.