If someone had been standing next to young Andrew, aged 11 on June 12 at approximately 7:15 a.m. They might have heard the near invisible sound of his fragile mind crack. They might have stood with him, as he stared at the blood on his hands in terror, worried--just as he was--that he was going to die. But the blood that had soaked his white fruit-of-the-loom underwear and consequently ended up on his hands when he explored the dampness, was minimal and only the result of his violent rape.
He shook and his eyes blinked several times as he forced the memory to return to it's dark corner and pulled a sweater over his head to ready himself for the Doctor's appointment. The day had been on the colder side of Los Angeles life, dropping well into the 50's but not particularly unusual for this time of year. He was nervous but nervous didn't begin to describe the flood of emotions that carried through him like waves crashing against the rocks of distant shores. He tied his shoes and worked his long raven hair into a knot at the back of his head before pocketing his keys and heading for the bus stop.
Although he had contemplated bring Ben along, recent disagreements and complications with Dorian's past had warned him otherwise. Just as the decision to seek help had been without prompting he would have to go alone. He arrived at the office several minutes from the time he had boarded the East bound D, and took his time to enjoy a final smoke before entering the Keys Medical Center. Feeling rather clueless as to how this was going to work without identification cards or insurance, he nervously approached the counter. "I'm here to see Dr. Lookwood. I have a 3 o'clock appointment." His eyes never met with the receptionist but he accepted the paperwork and sat down to fill it out while he waited to hear his name called.