I heard the door open and my thoughts were interrupted. I turned and saw it was Veronica. She looked so tired from work. Bags under eyes, hair a mess, slump shouldered. She looked tired.

"What are you doing?" Mumbled Veronica.

"Packing up my stuff."

"Oh, okay. Alright, I'm going to shower." And that was all she said.

That's how our conversations were. Cut short. She didn't agree with my decision of going to WKU. She said it was very far away, but she knew it was good for me. She knew I needed space. She knew I needed time. She knew I could do better there and that I needed to get away.

I was working to become a vet. Mom's dream. Peter always said to get a degree for music and become a music teacher or something. And at one time, I considered it. But, I said no. It would be a waste of my time I thought.

I woke up that night around 3 with another nightmare. Every night I have nightmares about Jack. I always have ever since he hit me the first time.

My parents knew about it. They knew about everything. I told them to do nothing though. Nothing could happen if we tried. Jack got away with everything. His father was the chief, his mother was the judge, and cousin was a police officer. His whole family was government related.

I went and got some water to help relax me. It didn't help. I had to get out of the house, so I grabbed my keys and jumped in the car.

As I was driving, I was thinking about Peter's lyrics. I hummed to the tune. I tried to process what they meant. Then, it all clicked.

Waterside, shooting star, night, lying next to each other. It was the field. Something has to be or resemble the field.

I drove there as fast as I could. It was pouring down rain when I got there. The last time I was here alone, if was pouring down rain.

I walked to our spot, barefooted, and plopped down into the mud. I laid down and thought "Something has got to be here." And I was correct.

As I was sinking into the mid, I felt a hard object jab my back. I sat up and dug into the mud. I dug until I could pull it out.

It was a brown box. Just a plain, wood box. But, if wasn't any box. It was Peter's box.

This was the box where we put our shitty lyrics in. Where we put our dreams in and the future. We wrote our butts off and stuck the writings in the box. Peter would always tell me to write down my feelings when I was angry or hurt and put them in the box. It was an emotional box.

This had to be it. This had to be the truth. The truth that I had been waiting and dying to know.

But, I couldn't.