Unreliable help

My breathing became heavier. I touched my neck. It felt like my throat was closing or the place was running out of air. I got on my fours, gasping for breath. The wooden box was spacious enough to move without hitting my head. My head spun, entering panic mode. The reason for being present there completely slipped my mind. My chest muscles tightened and quickly turned into a sharp stabbing pain that grew worse by the second. 
Was I having a panic attack or a heart attack? Whatever it was, I was pretty sure that it would end in my death. My life flashed before my eyes as my vision grew blurry. I couldn’t focus on anything, and suddenly, everything went pitch black.  
Two hands grasped my arms. My eyes were still closed. I imagined being transferred into a casket. As I could feel and hear but couldn’t move my body, I deemed myself a trapped soul in a corpse.  
“Miss Walter,” someone called my name, tapping my cheek. 
My mouth was sealed. Though I wanted to, I couldn’t answer. The tapping on my cheek became harsher. I was low-key getting slapped at that point. During my living years, I had heard about the dead having the ability to feel, hear, and see everything, but the hand on my unliving cheek was too real. I could feel every sensation and a slight pain very properly. 
A revolting smell entered my nostrils. It was a smell capable of killing a dead person twice and having him running for hell to get away from it. 
I woke up throwing a punch in the air.  
“Ouch!” I heard a shriek of pain. I was so happy about regaining control of my body that I didn’t realize I had hit someone. The good thing was that it was the same stranger who had helped me hide, and I was still present in the same art room. “These are some twisted times. You can get punched in the face for helping someone.” He applied pressure on his nose. 
“Gosh. I am so sorry,” I said. “The punch was not meant to hit you. I don’t know what happened there. I thought I was dead, but then I smelled a stomach-turning stench. It made me wish I were dead.” 
“Hm.” He looked at his hand. “It’s surprising that there is no blood. You throw a mean punch. And thanks for calling my gym sock the stinkiest thing on Earth. It gives me confidence to achieve my lifelong dream of making it to the Guinness Book of World Records.” 
“Um. Sorry again,” I said. “What happened here?” I looked around, expecting to find everything out of order. Nothing seemed to be out of place. They weren’t searching for a murderer. Why was I expecting there to be a mess? 
The stranger offered me his hand. I took it and stood up with his help. “First, tell me why there is an army of servants after you. Your offense doesn’t seem to be as trivial as I thought. Have you stolen something?” 
“No. What!” I exclaimed, dusting off my clothes. “It may look like that, but I didn’t steal anything from anyone.” 
“What is your crime then?” The man appeared as dubious as Nathan was when he had accused me.  
“I ran out on Nathan,” I replied. 
His eyes widened in shock. “That’s a bigger crime than robbery here. I pray for your safety.” 
“You seem well acquainted with Nathan’s anger. How long have you been working here?” I asked. 
The man pressed his lips together, hesitant to answer. “Long enough to know how big of a crime it is to upset him. My name is Elijah Cullen, by the way.” 
“Nice to meet you, Elijah. My name is Amelia,” I said delightfully, shaking his hand. Every enemy of Nathan was my friend from now on. “Thanks for helping me. I didn’t want them to find me. I have had enough of Nathan’s nonsense.” 
“It’s my pleasure to be of service to you,” Elijah replied. His tone was the friendliest I had heard on the Sinclair estate. “Why did you pass out? There were holes in the box for oxygen. Do you suffer from a serious health condition?” 
My physical body was fine. Traumatic events surrounding the mafia had messed up my mental health so much that a small stressful event triggered a dangerous panic attack.  
“It is all because of that self-centered jerk, Nathaniel Sinclair!” I fumed. “Everyone told me how big of a walking red flag he was, but I didn’t listen. I thought I could change him. I could have changed him if his problem was his mood swings. That man is a hundred shades of crazy. He wants me to get proof of being hunted by the mafia. What does he want me to do? Should I contact the mafia and ask them to give an official signed note claiming that they are indeed wanting to kidnap and kill me? Is this what he wants? I feel so used and pathetic. I was leaving. That idiot was the one who came up to me and asked me to stay. I didn’t ask him to act like a hero. I didn’t ask for any of this!” I rambled without realizing I had revealed my life story to a stranger. It didn’t matter because Elijah seemed to hate Nathan as well.  
“Okay. I didn’t get any of that except you hate Nathaniel Sinclair with a burning passion,” said Elijah, perplexed. 
“Hate is a small word for what I am feeling right now. I will gather all the servants of this house and make him suffer. Let’s make his bath water colder than he likes and not listen to him when he calls us. Or even better, force him to eat soggy, stale bread for breakfast. His anger hits the roof when his toast is not crisp enough. I wonder what he’ll do when it tastes bad and is not fresh,” I suggested. My plan sounded so evil in my head that it gave me goosebumps. “Would you like to join us in this anti-Nathan movement?” 
“Uh, excellent plan,” Elijah commented. “It has a lot of unique ways to make him mad without hurting him.” 
“Yes, do you think we should hurt him for real? Like beat him or something?” I asked. 
A knock on the door interrupted us. “Mr. Elijah Cullen, your uncle Mr. Sinclair wishes to see you in his office.” 
Uncle? My ears must be deceiving me. Or the man before must be the biggest liar in history.