** Don't worry, the members of Hollywood Undead come in later, chapter two. It's a book, although a short one, so I needed some pre-HU for some substance. I'm telling you right now, the first chapter is a true story. Well, everything except the very end, the thing about the cousin in Hollywood. (GAWD I wish that was true.) The rest is pretty much what I'dve liked to have happened. Also, I know Deuce isn't still in the band, but I feel like I can work with his personality more than Danny's in this particular Fan-Fic.

***NAMES: Funnyman/Funny - Dylan; J-Dog/J - Jorel; Charlie Scene/Charles - Jordon; Deuce/Producer - Aron; Johnny 3 Tears/J3T - George; Da Kurlzz/Kurlzz - Matthew/Matt/Matty {I'll be using them throughout so watch out}

*** Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD, OR ANY PAST OR PRESENT MEMBERS

CHAPTER ONE - Righting Ryan's Wrong

Aurra stared at the broken pieces of glass scattered throughout the house. There were empty bags of chips and crumbled up beer cans strewn through the kitchen and the bulk of the backyard.

"Fuck."

The party her brother had thrown was brutal, and now he was gone, probably off with his friends getting drunk. Or… more drunk. Her stomach filled with rage, but it was normal. Ryan did things like this all the time, and she put up with it. It was a tiny house, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a tiny living room and bite-sized kitchen, but he always threw massive parties.

And always got high.

And always got drunk.

And always left her to fix it.

She walked over to the small cupboard above the sink and removed the black trashbags from within. She then commenced righting Ryan's wrong, like she did every day of her life. The whole process was getting old. Yet, she couldn't abandon Ryan. Being a 25-year-old, a year older than her, didn't help his chances. He was lazy and unqualified for all work, save maybe a trashman. Trashmen made good money too, but Aurra could never seem to get through her elder brother's thick skull.

Once the house was decently clean, she chucked the trashbag into the corner and heard it land with a satisfying smash. Normally she wouldn't let her temper get out of hand, but this was the third party this week. It was only Wendsday. Ryan was running her dry. A job as a secretary can only hold two people for so long in a city like New York. New York had always been her home. She had never thought of living somewhere else and beleived she wouldn't. Once her parents died, Aurra successfully sold their old house and put the money into savings, using her own money to buy this pitiful shack in the suburban outskirts of the city. By now, she had become acoustomed to the flimsy life she lived, but it was never enough for her. A job as a secretary was far from satisfying as far as she was concerned. Back in college, she had dreamed of becoming someone else, someone artistic. Instead, she was taking orders from a fat man in a suit and was fighting for her paycheck. She had always dreamed of being someone important, someone that people would want to listen to. Had her parents not died and sent Ryan in a downward spiral, she might have done something noteworthy with her life. Every night, before she went to sleep, she would think to herself, I'm only 24. I still have time. But she knew that she would never have the courage to quit her job and move away, or even begin an artistic career like the one she had in mind. She also knew she didn't have the heart to abandon Ryan. In the end, she turned over in her bed and cried herself to sleep because she convinced herself so thoroughly that she could never make it and didn't even have the courage to try.

The door to the basement creaked as she opened it. She flipped the light switch to the 'on' position and watched the various colorful lights come to life. It illuminated a set of polished, black drums with two wooden drumsticks laying dormant on the seat, a cheap electric keyboard layered with buttons for 'record', 'play', 'stop', and various other sound-effects, and her pride and joy: a white electric guitar. It was shiny, she always kept it that way. It had various symbols on it, in the colors of black and purple. A pick was woven between the strings at the neck. A wide smile gradually crept across her face, like it always did down in this room. This was her room, a good room. Posters lined the walls, all sporting graphic names and images of various bands and band members. The largest and most prominent was in the back, behind the drumset. It said in clear, easily distinguishable letters, "HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD."This made her smile the widest. They got it, everything about her new life.They got the 'so poor you worry about your next meal' thing and the 'worry about being attacked when you round a corner' thing and, or course, the 'I just wanna speak the truth and I don't care what others think' thing. The latter was the most important of all, at least to her. Being a secretary didn't give you much speaking power or the creative freedom she so desperately craved. You just took notes. She also couldn't tell Ryan the truth about what she wanted for fear of being beaten. Or shot.

Yes, Ryan owned a gun, which is the one of the many reasons why she locked her door every night. She continued to try and take it from him, without avail. He hid it, or threatened her with it. He was never sober any more, so threatening her didn't come as a surprise anymore. She was just glad he never brought girls home with him any more.

Her life was fucked up, she knew it, and she wasn't one to deny it. Through it all, Hollywood Undead kept her grounded. They gave her that minimal hope that she needed to keep breathing and dealing with things.

A small, black table sat in the corner of the room. On it sat a stack of papers, most tucked away in separate folders. The folder on top read, "Songs," in large, curly lettering. She ran her hand over the strings of her guitar and watched the strings vibrate. The notes hit her ears and soothed her, like always, and her eyes sparkled with delight, like always. She picked up the guitar and strummed a few notes, finding herself playing the first few chords of "Sell Your Soul." The lyrics passed her lips with ease, familiar and oddly comforting despite their raw anger. She paused before the chorus, unwilling to continue further. She had other things to do, like catch up on sleep. She had been working through the night lately to cover extra bills and increased taxes, so she had missed Ryan's recent parties.

Thankfully.

She rested the guitar gently against the wall and wove the pick back into the strings. She walked back to the door and, with a final look at the room, flicked the lights off and closed the door. She walked back up the stairs, much calmer now. She made her way to her tiny room, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed. The moment her eyes closed, she was enveloped in sleep.

*TWO WEEKS LATER*

She flicked the TV off as Ryan tottered into the small living room with his friend, Zach.

"Ger-mournin' lil sisseh." It was 11 at night. Zach stood by idly.

"Ryan, how about you go get some sleep?"

"'Kay." He stumbled over some invisible object and gripped the wall for balance. She sighed and rose from the grimy couch, took his hand, and guided him into his bed. He wordlessly turned over and covered his head with the blanket. As I closed the door, I heard his loud snoring. Zach had made it to his room unassisted. She grew to like Zach, just for the fact that he helped her pay the bills. He had just moved in a week ago, but for the most part, things were the same. She sat back onto the couch, and the phone rang. She moaned.

"I just sat down, bitch." She stared at the phone, all of 5 feet away from her. I'm lazy when I'm not at work, so what? Beaten, she stood and snatched the phone from the kitchen counter.

"Hello?"

A man was on the phone, his voice raspy. He was calling about a complaint from a neighbor about a drunken man repeatedly visiting this house. "Yes, he lives here." The voice asked if they were married. "He's my brother." He proposed rehab. It took her a moment to register what that meant for me.

No more Ryan. No more being afraid. No more paying bills I couldn't pay. Freedom.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" By the final yes she was practically screaming at the receiving end. She heard the man say something about dropping him off at an address with a concent form that could be printed at an internet address. She wrote it all down, her secretarial skills kicking in. She would have to go the library to print it out, but she didn't care. Without Ryan in the picture, it was all so much easier. Getting him to sign the paper would be a breeze with him drunk, same with dropping him off. I'll tell him we're going to a bar or something...The plan formulated in her head. With a few ecstatic thank-yous, the phone conversation was over. She immediately hopped into her car and drove to the library. On the drive there, she realised just how selfish she might be. She did research on the rehab facility and found it acceptable, printed out the form, and drove home in the small Honda. Once home, she set the form on top of her wooden dresser next to her double-sided knife. She looked into the mirror. Her hair was black and long, and hung over right eye. Her face and body were slender by nature, but also by the lack of food. Even in the dark, her blue eyes shone. On any other night, she would see someone she had been covering from the day her parents died, which seemed so long ago. Tonight, she saw someone worth fighting for.

She hardly slept that night. What she did to bide her time was concoct a list of things she was going to take. She was leaving. Once dawn began to peek through the solitary window above her bed, she rose and stuffed clothes into her duffle bag. Along with it came other necessities and a few worthwhile items. She stuck her knife in a side-pocket, just because she felt safer that way. She thought about sneaking into Ryan's room and looking for his gun, but she decided not to chance it. With everything packed into the single bag, she stared at it. Her life was in that bag. This depressed her beyond explanation or comprehension, but she picked it up and stuffed it into the back trunk of her Honda. She re-entered the house and flicked the light on in the basement. She lifted her guitar from its position on the wall and cradled it. She carefully wrapped it in a makeshift case and set in the trunk. Again, she entered the house and pulled a wad of cash from a locked box beneath her bed. This was the money she earned from selling her parents house. She was going to use it to start a new life. She placed the keys in her pocket and the box in the trunk. The trunk closed with a snap of finality, and she entered the house for the last time.

Careful to pass Zach's room without waking him, she shook Ryan awake.

"Whaa...?"

"Bar?" He smiled, a whiff of his morning breath escaping. "Looks like you finally get me, sis."

I always got you, bro. Even now.She didn't verbally reply, but instead lifted him from the bed. She packed a small bag in front of him, but he was still in such a stupor he didn't register what she was doing. They made their way to the car. She liked Zach for his ability to pay a small portion of the bills, but she wasn't willing to give up a chance like this for him. He was on his own now.

Before they left, still half-drunk and in a morning stupor, Ryan signed the consent form. She placed her signature a little straighter on the line then he did. The trip to the rehabilitation center was uneventful. Their arrival was greeted by, she suspected, the same raspy-voiced man from the phone. She handed him the paper. The man smiled pleasantly and introduced himself. He then beckoned to Ryan to follow and realized his mistake. He took the 25-year-old's arm and lead him down the hallway, not before reassuring me, "We'll take care of him." This might as well be a mental hospital, She thought. The last image she collected of Ryan was him waving blankly at her with his free arm. This brought a gentle smile to her face. This place would be good for him. This last reassurance to herself sent her out to door and into the airport. She knew exactly where she was headed, to the place where there were family lived that she didn't have to care for. Her cousin lived there. His continual phone contact always consisted of him bragging about being the 'leader' of the band, her favorite band. He was always saying she should visit. Yeah, she knew where she was going.

Hollywood.

*END OF CHAPTER ONE*