Oh my gash I know it's been so long since I've written on here, but I've decided to try something new.

THIS STORY CONTAINS SELF HARM. PLEASE, IF YOU DO NOT LIKE READING THESE KIND OF FANFICS, DO NOT SEND ME FLAMES. SIMPLY SCROLL PAST MY STORY. Thank you.

I was inspired by the band Hollywood Undead. So I'm thinking about doing a collage with there songs throughout every chapter, or somethin' like that, anyway.

Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT, thanks.

Song: We Are, Hollywood Undead.

Onward!

It was pouring in Manhattan. Rain beat against the pavement down below, as a teenage boy sat on the side of a rooftop. He pulled the slide back of a 50 caliber pistol, and sitting next to him was a bottle of pills. Slowly raising the gun up to his head he pressed his finger to the trigger, only to stop himself. The boy buried his face in his hands and softly cried. He looked over at the bottle and picked it up, and the boy only cried even more as he squeezed so hard causing his knuckles to turn white. He lifted the gun again, bottle still in hand, but he still knew he couldn't do it. The boy quickly stood up, suddenly angry at himself.

Why am I angry? He asked himself. What am I angry about? Am I angry because I can't kill myself?!

The boy clenched his teeth, hot tears still running down his cheeks and threw the gun down on the rooftop and dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands, as the rain gave him no mercy. He reached into his jacket pocket, and searched for the little tiny razor blade he brought with him. Pulling back his jacket sleeve, he looked at the many scars he had on his wrist from every single time he dared to risk his life with just a little blade.

He looked down at his wrist again and pressed the blade into his skin, feeling the relief and pleasure, and looked up into the sky. He sighed and looked down as the pain slowly started to sink in as blood rain down his arm and dripped onto the rainy rooftop. The boy closed his eyes. If he wouldn't die by gunshot, he would die by cuts. He pressed the razor blade into his skin again, forming words out of his own flesh. Only feeling pain now, he forced himself through as red filled his vision. Collapsing atop the rooftop, the boy's jacket sleeve was stained red with blood, and the cuts were formed into the word Broken.

If you want me to continue, leave a review. This is only a prologue, and my prologues are always short.

R&R!