The black Scorpion
Darkness is a weird thing. You feel so detached from the world. Your last thought, last feeling still menacing in your mind. I felt so muted. Like I had been trapped inside myself, lurking just under the surface. All I needed was to break out. So much of me was put out of action, I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't see. All I had left was touch, the mud floor, taste, blood on my lips; smell. They say you can smell fear, well I agree with that, I could almost smell the panic in the air, just as well as I could hear it.
I calmed myself. What had happened? Why was I in this state? An obsidian shell - that was the last thing I could remember. A speeding shape, scuttling towards my feet. It had uncurled its mirrored tail, striking my unexpecting leg.
It had burnt so badly, like the creature had been on fire, one moment of impact causing me to writhe, dizziness and pain taking control of my entire body. All I could do from then on was grip on to the cold floor, digging my fingernails into the mud, clawing the ground like a rabid animal.
Ever since I was a child, poor and lonely, wandering the mean, grey streets; every time I was afraid I would hold my breath. I would count slowly to ten, each of my seconds counting as a regular minute. One, two, three, four, my face would turn to a deep blue, five, six, seven, my throat would struggle painfully... eight, my hands would go limp... nine, my eyes would close... ten; my body would fall to the ground...
I was terrified, the poison was terrifying, the thought of leaving my family was terrifying, and the thought of endless blackness was terrifying. With that my lungs closed. I refused to breathe until my brain had firmly shut off.
I heard my husband above me, my sceptic, rationalist husband. "Anything," he said. "Herbal remedies," he said. His soothing voice was so frantic, his low pitch wavering with worry. I heard him bless every potion, every powder that could be stuffed into my mouth or rubbed on my skin.
I attempted to move, give reason to my panicking husband, calm my whimpering child; whose voice was so clear through the buzz of neighbours. I heard, out of everyone, the cry of my child, I needed to hug him. To break through and calm the poisonous atmosphere.
So many people were speaking, gawking and gossiping at my expense. I felt so much shame through their vicious words, so tinted by fake religion and misused facts. They told my children that my pain was justice; they told my husband that my death was good.
If it were not for my numb, lifeless body, so broken by the searing poison, I would have returned their unjustifiable insults.
I gasped. Crashing through the crust that had separated me from the world. I could breathe again. I felt the air fill my swollen lungs as reality flooded into me. All I could say, through each excruciating breath was...
'Thank god the scorpion picked on me and spared my children'
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This is a peice I'm doing for English in school, based on the poem 'Night of a Scorpian.'
Please review
)
Does she want to suffocate herself so she doesn't have to face whatever she is afraid of? What would the passers-by think when she just drops down seemingly-dead in the middle of the street? You may need to expand on this more. 
