Chapter 3

First Snow, 67 days later.

Have you ever felt so alive doing something so wrong? 

I did, and somehow I don't want it to stop.

I know I'm in so much trouble right now and they will call me a whore just for doing what I'm doing now. And yet, I can't help but keep smiling like a stupid, as Youssef, --the gentleman I met that night, on the top of The Bell Tower and few more times after that--, slowly rubbing his fingers all over my palm with a sheepish smirk on his face. 

"You are an interesting girl, Amber," he whispers as he slowly pulls my hand toward him then planted a small kiss on the back of my palm, "I like that." 

His eyes locked with mine. Those beautiful brown eyes. I look down at my lap really quick, and my face turns warm immediately when the warmth of his lips pressing the back of my palm. His touch gave me chills, and I can feel a sweet kind of embarrassment in my belly. I am breathing so hard, that I have to open my mouth to catch more air. This was the first time I feel any sort of fire inside me since--, 

NO. Not even HER gets to ruin this moment. I thought I would never feel another fire after she had gone. And yet this gentleman here makes me feel something inside me. Something I don’t know I could feel for another human being.

But of course, something like this didn’t happen out of the blue.

Eleven hours earlier. 

The day starts early here for women. The first light was just slightly above the horizon when I sipped the last drop of my black coffee in The Daily Bread to join a group of young girls in full-length baby blue dresses. 

"Ready to go?" A girl asked me as I hastily threw a black scarf around my neck, then secured it to block the freezing air around me.

"Uh-huh," I hummed, letting her know that I'm ready. It was probably below seven degrees outside, I could feel it in my frosty nostril and chapped reddish fingertips; winter was coming. I could almost see my breath as I walked down the alley to the outskirts of the town, passing through the alleys, houses and meadows.

It was twenty minutes of walking in silence until we reached a big red-brick cabin with a white tile roof over it. Just over the porch, there was a white block letter painted on the wooden wall; The Daily Dairy.

Sister Cecilia had moved me here; The Daily Dairy as a milkmaid about two months ago. And I guess it's for the best since I kept getting my tears into the dough at The Daily Bread, and zoned out most of the time that the bread often went either sodden or burned, and in the worst case both. 

Nobody deserves to eat inedible bread, and winter was coming so we didn’t have much food to waste. It’s just natural reassigning me somewhere with less change to mess up.

"Good morning, may peace be upon thee," we said, almost in perfect harmony to a lady in a full-skirt navy dress as soon as we passed through the front door. It is an acceptable greeting among us, wishing peace for everyone. 

"And may peace be upon thee, too, girls," she replied with a graceful smile. Always pleasant that one, Madam Anne, handing a set of metal and wooden utensils, as well as some soft, white straining clothes to each of us before she assigned us our daily task. 

When I did make it to the counter, Madam Anne gave me her signature smile and a quick glance. "Still can't sleep, huh?” I shook my head slightly as an answer.

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sick?" She was trying to make it sound candid somehow.

"No, Ma'am," I replied briefly with a faint smile, then lowered my gaze, to subtly let her know that I was not so much into small talk at the moment. Indeed, I have never been in the mood for small talk ever since--, well, you know. 

"Are you sure you're good to work, dear?" She gave me a gentle tap on the back of my palm despite my answer. From the metal utensils she gave me, I could see a glimpse of myself; puffy eyes, pale complexion, and lifeless gaze. I look like somehow I haven't got any good sleep in a thousand years, yet I nodded. It's easier that way. I don't want to be sent home to weep in my room. 

"You should let us know if you start feeling unwell."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not just physically. I know it could be difficult after--,"  she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, leaving her sentence unfinished. Yet she didn’t even need to finish it to nail it, I perfectly understood what she wanted to say. There was a good minute of silence before she did finally open her mouth, as if she was about to say something--, just to shut it up again. Hesitated. 

She felt tense around me, I could tell that. Everybody feels tense around me, and it feels like a constant reminder of what had happened. 

"You know," she brought her hand to the back of her neck, "if you need any help, you can always tell me. I can take you to the temple and you can stay there for a while, the sisters will help you," 

With what? 

With the sorrow in my blood?

Unless they can bring back Sam to life, like God did to Lazarus, I highly doubt they can help me. 

"It's okay, Ma'am," I said, trying to keep my smile on when my word choked at the back of my throat. "I would rather keep myself busy. Now if you will excuse me, what do I have to do today?" 

She smiled, a bitter one, the one with curls the corner of her wrinkled lips up, just not until her eyes, I have been doing that for a while now, I know when I saw one. "Well, scrubs your hand and nails, first dear. And when you are done, help those girls with the butter. We need a lot of them for winter to keep us warm." Her words were full of compassion, I immediately felt bad, she meant well and I was bitter. 

"Sure, Ma'am," I replied with a sincere, faint smile. 

“Good,” she said, satisfied. 

And I don’t know how, but before I realized it, I found myself already started churning the cream half-way. To be honest, after Sam killed herself, I didn't even really remember how I got through the most of days. I just did it without even knowing it, like I was zoning in and out time by time, all day long, for almost a seventy days now. Living in autopilot. 

Luckily for me, the work in The Daily Dairy doesn't require much concentration. It is actually kind of no-brainer to be frank. Every morning, before sunrise, we all start by scraping the cream from the overnight milk to the jugs and then pour them into a wooden churn. From there, everybody just starts churning those cream for a good thirty-five minutes up to an hour, depending on the weather. When the paddles start getting heavier, you would know that the cream starts turning into butter lumps and buttermilk. 

Then it is just some more crunching, draining, rinsing, patting, and repeat. 

Simple. And like I said; no brainer. Even a drunk-three-years-old can do it. and that's what I am, I guess; a bloody drunk-three-years-old.

But Madam Anne said once, the work here is more than just about milking the cows or making cream, butter, cheese, and feeding them to the entire bubble. It's about turning the mindless chore into something greater: a mindful moving meditation with the least simulation possible. 

Here how it works, we will sit still with our thoughts in silence for hours and hours while listening to nothing but the steady sound of the churning paddle and cream, as it slowly turns into butter and buttermilk. While doing so, we have to pay attention to our breath. Acknowledging every breath with gratitude and grace. 

And that's it, with a bit of luck and blessing from God, according to the sisters, we will hopefully notice an increased level of relaxation and inner peace. That’s why it’s a perfect work for the broken and battered ones.

Well, they are dead wrong!

I don’t usually use nasty words, because my mother and sister raise me better than that, but--,

Fuck that inner peace bullshit!

Fuck that stupid mindful meditation!

Fuck that bloody nonsense gratitude and grace!

Fuck everything!

The last thing I need right now was to churn the fucking cream into butter in silence for fucking hours. Alone. With my fucking thoughts!

Because when I'm alone with my thoughts, I start wandering into the back of my brain. And that’s where all my hatred of everyone and everything--, resides. 

Ah, here is the good one...