Bleach makes things white.

Catherine sits on the couch in the closest thing you could call an entrance hall in the house she drags herself to every day. She waits for whatever drunk man stumbles in next that takes a liking to her. The red almost-velvet lounge is one of the few pieces of furniture in the establishment that isn't white. The things that take place behind closed doors necessitate that.

Drinks get spilled. Sperm doesn't get its one-in-a-trillion chance. If things get rough--or dangerous--blood seeps into fabric.

All returns to white with a servant who's never seen and bleach that is only smelled. Bleach makes things white.

The boss makes his "employees" layer on whatever cheap perfume they can afford and encourages his patrons to bring in their drinks. Enough alcohol and rose can cover any smell.

The boss isn't in the house for once, apparently having decided to take his drinking outside with the beggars.

Catherine stands, ready to go back into the white with a man who has decided his wife and kids are no longer enough when a scream pierces the air. Her heart stops in her chest. 

Any mother knows how her child's terror sounds. If she's lucky she won't ever hear it but she knows the exact pitch, the echo, and the volume. Perhaps out of instinct, or out of fear. Either way, a mother knows the scream, and she knows it's the last thing she ever wants to hear.

But Catherine is hearing it. The high-pitched desperate terrified scream of her child. Not the joy-tainted screech from a tickle fight or the breathy wail of a scraped knee. Not the wet cry from his first minute in this world but a sound that could mean his last.

She abandons the man and the hall, throwing herself through the door as quickly as possible to see the oily man who runs the place throwing her screaming child on the ground.

She starts to rush across the street until a strong hand hauls her up to look into vicious black eyes. The words "this should teach you not to make accidents, whore" barely registering under the child screaming and the rank stench of black teeth and bleach.

Bleach makes things white.

She falls to her knees next to her son on the ground. He's still screaming. He's still screaming as she pulls him into her lap and pries his hands from his eyes. The skin is angry and red, the soft bridge of his button nose merging with scarlet eyelids.

She can smell bleach.

Her senses and time cloud. 

She's pulling the hem of her dress to rub his face. 

Another face, a stranger, her lips move but sound doesn't come.

 A bucket of water. 

Finn is spluttering. 

The world comes back. She's wet, the screaming has stopped; replaced by coughing. She picks up her child and holds him close to her chest. He's wet too. She hugs him tight and she can feel soft downy wings. She can feel his tremors and hot flesh. She can feel the eyes on her. She can feel the eyes on her baby and she can feel the hard road as she takes them both home.

She can only afford a day at home. She has to return to the house where she sells herself to disgusting men. She has to return her son to the corner where he can be seen. She sets his hat in front of him and kisses his forehead.

She pulls his face up and looks into his eyes.

Bleach makes things white.