Name: Madam Bonaparte's Home for Wayward Adolescents.

Summary: After an accident, Rashel has been taken into a correctional facility where she'll find friendship, face fears, and grow to learn the real meaning of the words forbidden romance. That's if she can survive.

Notes: No regrets.

Warnings: Narrative swears, over description of stuff that no one cares about. Fast plot progression. Ect.

Happy half term!

A chapter a day, methinks.


"There are a few things you should understand about this place, Ms Jordan," the thin woman said as she curled a hand out towards Rashel, "for one, it's all for themselves."

Rashel took the hand and stepped from the cab. Her meagre belongings were dumped at her feet and the cab sped off into the inky black night with no short of a second glance. The place Rashel Jordan had been sent too was incredibly infamous. A place feared by the locals and known for miles around.

Madam Bonaparte's Home for Wayward Adolescents.

Yes, like the dictator.

The thin woman, otherwise known as Madam Bonaparte, spun around and began to walk towards the large mansion. Rashel looked around for a moment, before picking up her suitcase and following after. The garden to the mansion was neat and well kept, but still had the horrible feel of being dead of life. A lone tree sat off to the edge corner of the large walls, a makeshift swing hanging abandoned from one of it's branches. It was sad to see.

"Secondly, Ms Jordan, you are to call me Mistress or Miss at all times."

Rashel nodded, even if Bonaparte couldn't see her.

Bonaparte herself was a thin woman, I've already classed that. She was short, thin, and her left eyebrow always seemed to be raised in perpetual contempt. She wore a grey two piece the same shade as her hair, it collaborated nicely with her pale skin and watery blue eyes.

"Finally," the large wooden doors were twisted open in Bonaparte's thin fingers, opening up to reveal a large, monochrome hallway with a spindling staircase at the edge of it, "Do not associate with the males."

Rashel nodded, but Bonaparte spun around and snapped, "do you understand me, girl?"

"Y-yeah." Rashel stuttered, clutching her suitcase tightly.

Bonaparte smiled widely, "That's good. Now, run along to the dorms. First floor second door to the right. And that's a floor up from here, not this floor. We'll have to break your ridiculous American speech ways as soon as possible."

Rashel remained silent as Bonaparte ran her eyes up and down her frame quickly, "I think you'll do okay here, Ms Jordan. Dinner's at 6. As it's your first day you're not expected to work, but you must be up early tomorrow."

Then she was gone, and Rashel was left alone. Her suitcase held her pyjamas, a letter, a photograph and her lucky charms, all of which she was eager to hide.

She'd seen enough TV to know that all your stuff gets taken off you in these places.


The steps of the old stairs creaked as she made her way up them, her gaze constantly trained on the strange small square landing at the top that could barely hold one person. On it were two doors. One said first and the other said stairs.

The first one wouldn't fucking open for the life of it. She jammed her elbow against it, rattled the handle, and eventually threw herself against it as it groaned and creaked, whining and splintering. It abruptly shot open and slammed into the wall, the bang echoed throughout the large manor and Rashel froze in fear for a second before beginning to walk down the increasingly narrow hallway.

Door one, door two, door three- wait, she wanted door two. Rashel backtracked to the door that held the cracked brass plate that boldly exclaimed TWO.

Thankfully, it opened a lot more freely than the previous door, and the door silently swung open to reveal a spacious room crammed with beds. Rashel dragged her suitcase into the empty room and looked around. All the beds were occupied by bags or whatever besides the one in the very corner, next to the window.

She took her suitcase to it and put in on top of the bed, unclasping the locks and swinging it open. Running her hands over her possessions as she began to unpack them onto the bed, Rashel found herself beginning to silently cry.

It wasn't something she usually did, Rashel wasn't the type to cry. Ever. The situation warranted tears though.

Finally, at the bottom of her suitcase, was the warrant for her situation – a letter written by her Mom explaining to Bonaparte just why her daughter needed to be corrected.

Personally, Rashel didn't think she was all that wayward.

That's when she actually began to cry. She pushed the suitcase from the bed and crawled under the thick crackly sheets and allowed herself to sob into the pillow, hand curling around her keepsake. Her keepsake was a spoon – the first thing she's been able to grab before her mother dragged her from the house. She hoped it'd bring her luck.

And when I wake up in the morning, she thought to herself, when I open my eyes, I'll be at home and Mom will be making pancakes and Timmy will be bitching about the hockey match the night before trying to finish his maths homework whilst eating cheese on toast at the same time.

She cried until she could cry no more, trying to pretend she wasn't in some fucking horribly dated loony bin and there wasn't a draft and the springs weren't escaping from the mattress and jabbing into her thighs.

She cried until she was physically exhausted, and then at the first signs of sleep she simply allows it to over take her.

When I wake up, she thought, I'll be back in Boston.


"She seems pretty normal." A first voice, honey sweet and teasing.

"Seems being the key word. The craziest ones are always the nicer looking ones." A second, cold and business like.

"I like my toys to be pretty," came a third voice. It was clearly the leader.

Rashel remained still, trying to keep her breathing deep and even as the mattress sagged. The third one leaned over Rashel and pressed their noses together.

"Welcome to Wayward, little girl." She whispered, then flicked Rashel on the nose.


Rashel awoke with a start to the heavy beep beep beeping of an invisible alarm. Her room was abandoned, and she looked to the clock on the wall to find it was 10am.

She swore and stumbled from the bed onto the floor, falling uncomfortably onto the woodwork and glancing around in confusion because surely wasn't my suitcase there last night?

After quickly dressing into plain clothes that had been laid at the foot of her bed, Rashel tried to creep downstairs, only to find absolutely no one around. Actually, since she arrived she hadn't seen a single soul besides Bonaparte.

She crept through the manor; into the large dining room with closely crammed, long tables that could hold many people, then onwards into what could possibly be a lounge. In there she saw one girl, but the girl barely looked her way, instead making quick work on the incredibly large windows. Rashel carried on back out into another hall and was just about to try her luck at another door when from behind her came a voice.

"You're late by four hours and 37 minutes, Ms Jordan," Bonaparte said tightly, "care to explain?"

Rashel spun around, shock and guilt lacing her features, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry, Miss."

Miss sounded wrong on her tongue, but she didn't have time to get used to it as a mop and bucket were thrust at her, slopping soapy, cold water over her bare feet.

"Stairs. I want them spotless."

"Do I not get breakfast?"

"Shut up and don't talk back. Stairs."

Rashel scowled, but said nothing more.

She could tell she was going to love it there.

This is short.