Sorry if my English is a bit off, it's my second language. My first is Klingon.

Thank you for the reviews and favourites. :3

Listening to: Music to be patriotic to. England Keep My Bones – Frank Turner.

Warnings: I don't beta anything. Aforementioned confusing English. A habit of assuming everyone is obsessed with History like I am. Pointless violence. OC. Segregation based upon ones nationality ((although played for laughs))

I keep having dreams,

Of pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylan,

Of people wrapped up tight in the things that'll kill them,

Of being trapped in a lift plunging straight to the bottom,

Of opens seas and ways of life we've forgotten,

I keep having dreams.

Rashel bumped her knee into the hard step and swore, hitting it again with her bruising knee in retaliation. Her hand then slipped on the soapy mess she'd made and her elbow found itself jammed into the banister. It was possibly the worst sequence of events to happen to her in the last 24 hours, with the exception obviously being institutionalized.

"Rough first day?" Someone remarked from above her, and Rashel looked up to see a tall, slightly messy looking girl smiling down at her, "It's always like this. Here," she leant down and pulled Rashel's elbow out, "let me help you."

You'd think that coming from such a large family Rashel would have a sense of trust in everything. But instead she had the feeling of mistrust and un involvement that comes from being the second youngest in her family. And therefore, she didn't trust a single word coming out of the strangers mouth.

Plus, her voice sounded creepily familiar. There was a cool stern authority behind her careful, gentle lilt.

Her fringe was pinned back to reveal a pale strip of forehead and her cheeks were flushed slightly, giving her the air of rushed-off-her-feet.

There was a pregnant pause that wasn't met by a witty closing line, but instead by the girl stretching out one calloused hand.

"I'm Keller," she smiled and settled back onto the step two up from Rashel, retracting her hand when it became obvious that Rashel wasn't going to take it, "I'd ask 'what're you in for?' but we don't ask that around here. And I'd recommend you didn't."

Rashel didn't like the way she spoke, but laughed stiffly alongside her.

"I'm Rashel," Rashel picked up the bucket and shifted it carefully down a few steps and Keller followed after her.

"Why're you on stairs duty anyway?"

"I was late downstairs in the morning."

Keller grimaced, trailing her finger in the soapy water. Rashel silently and slowly continued to scrub at the bottom portion of the staircase. All in all there were 217 steps, not including the second floor. Dusk was heavily approached by the time Rashel had finished.

She checked the face of the large grandfather clock situated by the heavily bolted entrance door and found it to be 4:50-something.

"4:30 to 5:55 is free time," Keller answered the question Rashel hadn't asked, "Unless if you're on kitchen or stairs. Then it's dinner right after."

Rashel didn't bother to correct her on 'Unless if you're on' and simply left her to her incorrect English. But upon seeing the look on Rashel's face and assuming it was due to the word dinner, Keller smiled her fake-warm smile and said, "You'll be fine. You have me, do you not?"

Rashel nodded, and Keller added, "Besides, it'll get easier; the first week is always the hardest."

Two months and twenty-three days later.

Rashel gazed down at the empty plate in front of herself longingly. She was really hungry, painfully hungry. Her nails were cracked and mud had set up shop in the spaces underneath where she couldn't wash. She'd been on garden duty as of late, not that she minded because at least it wasn't bathroom or – god forbid – stairs.

The home was far from the worst place she'd ever been in, although it was still incredibly... weird. As would soon become apparent and had already become so.

When she first arrived, Keller had been her only friend. But she was quickly joined by a girl called Marianne and another by the name of Thea. They were lovely, but Marianne spent too long arguing with another girl for Rashel to talk to her much. So far she had kept her head down and gone about her business.

She still didn't understand Bonaparte's third rule; she hadn't seen a single boy since she'd been thrown inside the asylum and-

"Rashel!" Someone was clicking her fingers in Rashel's face. Oh, it was Keller; she still hadn't dropped her light and happy facade. Rashel knew that when she thought that Rashel was asleep she slipped back into the monochrome voice she'd whispered in Rashel's voice on the first night.

"Hm?"

"Ms Jordan – Bluecoats."

A book was slammed down on the table in front of Rashel, landing on Keller's hand and causing a sharp crack, "It's time for tea, dears."

Did I mention that Bonaparte is completely insane and sorted all of the priso- inmat- girls into what roll she perceived they would play during various different wars?

Well, she did.

Therefore, as that week it was the American Revolutionary War, Rashel and her American counterparts had been labelled as Whigs and been made to sit separated from the rest of the girls.

Well screw Bonaparte, Rashel thought, we won.

So yes, she was incredibly insane, painfully insane, worryingly insane.

Rashel stood, walking slowly through the rows of conversion and smiling girls, happy to be able to eat after a long day of work.

Rashel, however, wasn't happy to eat, she didn't want to eat, she didn't like the food – it tasted disgusting and burnt, stumping and manufactured. Her stomach wasn't used to it's consistency and even after being at the Home for over two months she still wasn't used to it and every night she would find herself retching up her meal in the cold bathroom buckets, tears streaking down her cheeks as Marianne held her hair back and muttered to her friend.

Her friend that no one else could see.

"Miss, I'm not hungry." She said, stopping.

"Excuse me?"

"I apologize, M'am, but I'm not hungry."

The book slammed into the side of Rashel's face, sending her stumbling into a table of supposed Redcoats who only momentarily looked up.

"I told you – Miss or Mistress at all times. And this is of the finest English cuisine, how could you possibly object?"

At the words 'finest English cuisine' Marianne chuckled, but it went otherwise ignored.

"I'm sorry I just-"

"Can your fine stomach not handle it, Ms Jordan? This isn't the courts, dear."

Rashel turned her eyes back down to the spotless but still somehow grubby tiles and said almost inaudibly, "Your food just sucks."

The book slammed into her face once more, snapping it to the side and causing her head to throb, but she refused to move, or cry, to allow Bonaparte the satisfaction. There was a moment of silence before she finally said, "Very well. Off to bed with you."

She walked stiffly from the room, stumbling down the hallway with tears in her eyes and then-

Fuck, it's really not my day is it, she thought as she was pushed into the wall and then to the floor in a tumble. Her head connected with the floor and there was a painfully sounding crack as everything went dark.

For about a second she was free.

Then everything restarted, her eyes opened, double visioned and blurry to someone standing over her and asking, "Are you okay?"

Her vision regained to find herself met by a concerned-but-reserved looking boy, hesitantly curious but he still stood far away from her, next to the other wall.

"Y-yeah, I'm f-f-." She groaned, "I don't know. Head hurts."

"Did Bonaparte hit you?"

He called her Bonaparte.

"Mhm." She allowed him to help her up, "Miss packs a hit."

He winced, looking at the gathering book inflicted bruises on the side of her face. He touched one of them, gently cupping her face in his hand, before he said, "'s gonna leave a mark."

Rashel chuckled, "I suppose."

She was slightly warmed by his appearance, him being the first boy she'd seen since her arrival.

"I must go," he said, "Sir will have my head."

"Sir?"

"Brezhnev."

Is everyone in this bloody place named after Dictators?

There was a clatter, and someone yelled, "JOHN I SWEAR TO GOD TEN FUCKING SECONDS."

"Goodbye, stranger." He said, running off down the hall in the direction of the yelling.

He was long gone and the hall was silent by the time Rashel whispered, "I'm Rashel."

She lay in bed that night as Marianne educated her friend on how the French were far superior to her supposedly backwards country and Keller whispered in her bone chilling voice to, reciting poetry and sonnets, all she could remember.

Rashel lay in bed and thought of the boy, and how his eyes were the most lively and beautiful shade of grey she had ever seen.

Name: Rashel Jordan.

Age and Sex: 17, Female.

Married, single or widowed: single.

Of any family: Unknown.

Occupation: Hm.

Habit of life: What could you mean?

Religious standing point: Church of England I assume, what else?

Brought by: A certain Madam Hambridge of York.

Form of Insanity: Melancholia, Insomnia, Hysteria.

Cause if said insanity: Unknown.

Genetic, hereditary: Suspected.

If Suicidal: Seemingly not.

If dangerous to other: Very much so, although she has not yet shown it.

If destructive to property: yes.

State of bodily health: Ill.

Marks of violence: Cuts, bruises; self inflicted. Suspected signs of rape/otherwise out of wedlock.

Further Notes: She's odd.

"The American Revolutionary War started as a War between Britain and the original 13 colonies and ended in a full scale war between the major European superpowers fought internationally."

HOW. Just. HOW.

This story is a bit like /what.