Waking up to the sound of heels going about the room was hell in my case because of a hangover. I tried to peel my eyes open, but they wouldn't budge. I groaned in agony and tried to not get irritated with the sound of heels, but they were too loud!

I lifted up my arm and rubbed my eyes off sleep, head feeling like someone was knocking on my brain. A sledgehammer was doing the hammering and damn was it painful. The heels momentarily stopped, making me force my eyes open. Shelly was hovering above me, her blonde locks falling down in waves as she stared down at me. What is she doing?

"I see you're awake. You should get ready 'cause you got work today," she said, making me groan in exasperation and annoyance of having to go to work. I was hungover! There should be a policy that states employees shouldn't come to work if hungover. If that existed, I would be sleeping in the bar just to avoid going to work. Kids, being an adult is no walk in the park, I tell you.

She patted my head and left, the clicks of her heels indicating she went to the kitchen. I stood up, albeit reluctantly. I stretched my arms and yawned, my hand covering my mouth. My head felt like I was run over by a truck. Why did I drink?

I dragged my feet to my bedroom to pick out my clothes for the day. My movements were sluggish, body heavy and head hurting. I'm never drinking again, I swear. I sighed and collected my clothes and headed to the bathroom to prepare myself.

By the time I was done, I was begging Shelly for pills to soothe my headache. To my great annoyance, she refused, saying it was my fault that I had a hangover. I sat down at the table and ate my breakfast. It was a struggle to even eat because every time I swallowed, I felt like I could vomit. It was quiet, the silence making the room tense. Shelly also seemed tense. Whenever her eyes locked with mine, she would avert them quickly away. I didn't understand why, but I didn't want to ask for the sake of peace, somehow.

We continued with our breakfast and when we were done, I stood up from the table and was about to collect our dishes.

"No, I'll take them," Shelly stopped me from taking her plate and glass.

"No. Don't worry, I'll take them," I responded, grabbing her plate. She went for it too and gripped it tightly.

"Just leave the damn plate, Jason! I said I'll take them!" she yelled at me.

I let go of the plate, stunned. What did I do to deserve this?

She abruptly stood up from the table and snatched the plate I was holding in my hand, together with the glass. She put them in the sink and grabbed hers too.

"What's wrong, Shelly?" I asked, voice low. I was still in shock.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" she yelled, her head snapping in my direction, eyes blazing.

"What's wrong? I'll damn tell you what's wrong! You are so damn difficult to deal with! You are so selfish and so... so difficult!" She was now clutching her head with her hands, eyes closed tightly as if trying to get rid of something inside her head.

I was gaping at her. What the hell?

She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation and exclaimed, "You're just going to stand there and stare at me? You won't try to explain where you were last night, having me all worried?"

I just stared at her, flabbergasted. She rolled her eyes in annoyance and turned back around, letting the water out and washing our dishes.

Am I selfish? Am I?

No. I'm not selfish. I am not selfish.

"I'm not selfish, Shelly," My voice was above a whisper, but she heard me loud and clear. She snorted, scrubbing the poor plates to perfection. They were not even dirty.

"Shelly, I am not selfish," I repeated myself, fists clenched tightly.

She turned back around and raised a brow, glaring at me. "If you're not selfish, then what are you?"

I stayed quiet, staring at her fiercely. She was starting to irritate me. I ran a hand down my face and sighed, taking a deep breath to calm myself down. "You know what, I've got to go to work. I don't have time for this," I gestured between us, turning around and heading for the doorway.

"That's what you always do. You always run away from your problems!"

That's the last thing I heard when I disappeared into my bedroom to grab all that I needed for work.

What is up with everyone saying I run away from my problems? Is that true?

They are all wrong. I don't run away from my problems. What problems are they even talking about?

I might be a coward when it comes to pain, but I wasn't afraid to speak my mind and I wasn't running away from my problems.

I buttoned the last buttons on my shirt, put on my tie and grabbed my wallet, car keys and cellphone, together with my briefcase. Some part of me wishes that Shelly would just leave right now before I leave. The couch was uncomfortable, making me miss the comfort of my bed that was inhabited by Shelly.

God knew how much I wanted her gone, especially now since we've had our argument. I know she's helped me when I was at my weakest point and I'm grateful. I thank her every day for taking care of me, but I could only tolerate so much before getting fed up.

The moment I made it to my floor and the elevator doors opened, I could feel eyes all over my body, analyzing me, judging me and criticizing me. I felt self-conscious as I walked the short walk to my office. Why were they staring? Do I have something on my face?

I quickly ran a hand down my face to detect anything that might have been out of the ordinary. They are going to make me trip on thin air, man. The moment I finally reached Melissa's table was when I heaved a sigh.

"What's up with everyone looking at me like I'm a walking dead?" I exclaimed, looking her in her eyes that were wide like saucers. I waved my hand in front of her face to get her out of whatever trance she was in.

"Oh... Hey, Mr. Jones. H-how are you today? Hope you're doing well?" she stuttered, a nervous chuckle escaping her. She fiddled with her hands that were on top of the table, her eyes never meeting mine. They looked everywhere, but mine.

"Melissa, what is going on?" I asked, still feeling the stares. They were like an itch that needed to be scratched. I was still waiting for an answer.

She was gaping at me like a fish out of water. I didn't quiet... see...

What is going on?

I was starting to become aggravated. I slammed my briefcase on her table and demanded her to tell me. "Tell me what the heck is going on or so God help me! I will fire every damn one of you in this freaking department!"

I was addressing everyone. I came to work in a bitter mood and these people just made it fucking worse! Is it a crime to know what's going on if it's clearly about me? Is it?

She was shaking, tears on the verge of escaping her eyes.

"Are you going to or should I take action against you all?" I asked, my voice booming, bouncing across the walls. I felt horrible. Oh God, I felt horrible. I felt so horrible. But they were provoking me. I swear they were.

"We... I h-heard from Mr. Hughs telling someone t-that you tried... that y-you tried to commit sui... suicide..."

My breath hitched, chest constricting in pain at being shocked. How could he? How could he spread lies about me? I told him that I wasn't trying to commit suicide, right? Then why could he say that I was? How could he do this to me?

Am I breathing? I can't... I can't breathe.

My hand shot to my chest, trying to hold myself together. It was like someone took all the oxygen out of reach from me.

"Mr. Jones? Mr. Jones, are you okay? What's wrong?"

I heard Melissa's voice ask, but I couldn't focus on her. I slumped to the ground, energy leaving my body as breath seemed to escape too. My breathing was loud and heavy, reaching my ears louder than Melissa's voice.

What's wrong with me? I've never had a panic attack before. Why now? I am so pathetic. In front of all these people? In front of them? I go and have a panic attack?

I felt two arms try to make me stand up, but I couldn't be sure because my senses were all over the place. My ears were ringing, any sound heard drowned by the horrible ringing. I didn't know how I quite arrived in my office or when someone gave me the brown paper bag to breathe into, but I was grateful.

I breathed in and out of the bag, my chest still painful. My senses were all coming back to me in a tidal wave, washing me ashore.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Jones? Can you?" Melissa's voice was above a whisper, but I'm sure she was yelling at the top of her lungs.

I nodded slowly, tears blinding me from seeing clearly. My breathing was still loud, but now it was controlled. All that was filled in my head was the possibility of everyone thinking that I tried to commit suicide.

How could he do that to me? Was it revenge for talking back at him at the hospital, or was he just bitter? What was it? Was it because of how we met? Was it because I beat him to a pulp? Was this his revenge? To humiliate me?

I needed an answer, and I needed it now. If I find that son of a bitch... better pray I don't find him!