She thought about just taking a breath, a deep inhale. She knew she had lost anyways and there was no honor in the manner of her loss. Entrapped in ice, cold as they said her heart, soul, and demeanor was. That was okay though, they could say it all they wanted, she knew that they were correct. So it might have been that the ice didn't faze her any. Why would the cold burden someone so like it in quality. The ice soon gave way to water. That was when she should have let the water in. But she didn't, a certain survival instinct was still ingrained within her, much too strongly. The waterbender navigated the icy structure with ease. And when the chains looped and tightened around her wrists, she regretted it very much; not taking that breath.
They could chain her, restrain her, but they could never control her. No, if she couldn't control her, then they couldn't even hope to. She didn't remember screaming, but that's what everyone said—in hushed tones—that she had done. And with fire too, from her mouth and nose and, according to some—who really adored a wild tale—from her ears as well. Azula only recalled one thing; the bite of the chains. The euphoric splitting of skin. The trickle and flow of blood down her bound wrists. She struggled some more against the chains if for no other reason that to coax more blood to the surface.
She had lost and there was no dignity in that.
She had lost so she needed to punish herself.
There was just as little pride in getting carted off like some kind of animal. She supposed though, that if she had chosen to act like an animal she deserved to be treated like one. The impression she left must have been strong, for even in the wake of her defeat, they still only felt comfortable in numbers. Great numbers at that. At least eight guards stood, waiting to subdue one girl. One broken, frenzied girl. They sneered at her as they dragged her away, as if some long overdue justice were being delivered. And they dragged her with little care. A rough hand holding her bicep too tightly, brusingly so. But she chose to focus on it, to zone in on the pain. It took her away from the torment within. She snarled at the man and tried to wrench herself from his grasp. Just as she had hoped his grip tightened more.
Since then, life played out in unrelenting shades of grey. A month in a straight jacket, fastened way too tight for her. Way tighter than even a straight jacket should be, she knew that they had done it on purpose with the goal of making her uncomfortable. She relished in it though, because she deserved it. She allowed herself to be defeated so she deserved every little thing that came with defeat. Everything from the straight jacket digging into her skin in the most painful way to everything that followed when they finally let her out of it.
A people person, that is what she had said of herself. But it was just another skill she only thought that she had. The other patients didn't take to her and she was awkward, at best, around them. No matter how hard she tried to assimilate, she couldn't even fit in with the rest of the freaks. She was an outsider to outcasts. It may have been that she was unkind in nature and they sensed it on her. It also could have been that she was a princess and they resented her for wasting everything that life handed her, everything they wished that they had. She missed it so much, the pristine splendor of the palace, the attentive pampering at the palace spa, the elaborate robes and headpieces, the constant praise of her father, but mostly the way heat surged in her belly and fire crackled on her fingers. All of it was lost to her in one sloppy topple from grace.
On one occasion, she put everything she had into making a friend. At least one, to ease the aches of losing the companionship of Mai and TyLee. At least one, to make her feel like she could possibly be worth saving. Azula never thought herself shy, until she tried to approach the girl everyone called, Zirin. Every time she mustered up some semblance of confidence to do so, some part of her told her that Zirin wouldn't want to talk to her anyhow. So alone she remained.
Alone but not left alone.
These people were vile and wild. On many days she would leave the lunchroom with food clinging to her hair or—when they fancied holding her down—smeared over her face. Each person would shout their own grievances into her ear. Some of it was the product of a spat had with her father, sometimes it was more personal. One girl, Kaku, turned out to be the daughter of the servant she had banished. She came to find that the woman had never made it home that day. For this, Kaku had a very particular vendetta against Azula and made it her personal mission to sabotage the princess every step of the way. Azula had lashed out at her many times only to be reprimanded—she found it odd that she was the only one who seemed to receive punishment—by staff. And when she wasn't in solitary confinement, Kaku's friends took it upon themselves to avenge the girl. They'd kick and spit and scratch. And it was someone new every day. Kaku, it seemed, was as well loved as Azula was deplorable. From then, the disgraced princess learned to hate herself. She let most of the fight leave her body, and on most days she would dwell in the recreation room or lurk in the lunchroom and let herself be thrown about and manhandled. She found that she no longer had the willpower or drive to put up a fight. She, as she had learned, wasn't good in combat anyhow.
Azula didn't know what the staff had against her, other than that she had given them a difficult time in transport. But they would often forget to bring her, her medication or forget to talk to her about her problems. And when she was in solitary they would forget to feed her and forget to let her out. She could scream and shriek until her throat split, but they would not hear her. She thought that, that was how she'd meet her death; alone in a padded room and starved. Yet she'd rather be in that room, it kept her away from everyone else.
One morning, she raked her hand across her face, leaving a trail of four deep and angry gashes. She swiped again at her other cheek. Over and over again until it looked like she'd had a decent run in with a rabid badgermole. That morning, with blood trickling down her face and staining her uniform, she decided that if she hurt herself, then they couldn't hurt her.
At first she'd done this exclusively in private, eventually—with all inhibitions lost—she began clawing at herself quite openly. Whenever and wherever a dark thought arose.
Zu-Zu had gotten the better of her, one scratch.
Her mother thought she was a monster, a second scratch.
She agreed, another.
Her father thought she was a failure, and that made four scratches.
She agreed, and two more.
She wanted to burn herself instead but remembered that she couldn't, she lost track of how many claw marks that thought had left her with.
She was no longer a dragon. Nor was she a human. She wasn't anything. She was hollow. Completely and horribly hollow. She had grown numb and hadn't even realized she was still digging at her own skin. Not until her nearly limp form was hoisted up and bound up in another straight jacket. She didn't remember if she cried, she didn't think that she did, she thought she had run out of tears to cry. But her cheeks were wet and not with blood. So she must have been. Her throat burned, so she had probably been shrieking too. The crowd parted like an ocean as they dragged her away with strangely comforting words and hands that were foreignly gentle. She couldn't recall the last time when she was treated with such care.
This is when they started feeling sympathetic.
The staff and her fellow freaks alike no longer manhandled her. So she had been right afterall, that if she marred herself then doing so would lose its appeal to others. Zirin, bless her soul, offered to let Azula sit with she and her friends. Some months back, maybe even a week or so, Azula would have taken the offer. But these days she didn't feel much like talking to anybody. What she felt like doing was sleeping. But she couldn't do that, her mind wasn't quiet enough for sleep. Even Kaku offered her companionship.
But it was too late by then.
Azula resigned to that she'd be alone. She wanted to be alone. It shouldn't have surprised anyone what she did to herself when she was alone. It shouldn't have surprised anyone to see her growing thinner and paler. It shouldn't have surprised anyone when the doctors had to force the food down her throat lest she died in their care.
She wondered why that even caused them to fret. It's not like there would be any outrage if she did. It's not like it would cause an uproar if the public found out that she'd been neglected.
She thought about that a lot. How Mai and TyLee didn't stop by at all. How there wasn't even a letter from Zu-Zu nor Iroh. How completely and irreversibly alone she truly was. It hurt, perhaps more than the cuts she'd slashed into her arms. Perhaps more than the voices that tormented her every thought. She completely and truly found herself unlikable and undeserving of companionship. If she didn't love herself then why would anyone else. That's probably why it was so easy for her to ignore how desperately Zirin seemed to be reaching out. And how Kaku was reluctantly apologizing. No, she already made her mind up.
No one from her old life wanted anything to do with the sorry, pathetic woman she'd become. She decided then that no one would miss her. No one wanted to visit her. No one wanted to check on her, so no one would miss her.
She didn't cry.
And she didn't scream.
She didn't make as sound as she opened her wrist wider than ever.
So they didn't notice that she was slipping away until she was finally free. In the first of her last moments was questioning her decision. In the second moment she was afraid. And in the last moment she had changed her mind. She had no time to truly realize it, she only had a vague sense that she had done something wrong and the teeniest fraction of a second where she registered all of the hands that had reached out. In that small second, she wanted to grab one and latch onto it but she couldn't lift her hand, it was bleeding too much.
They still somehow had the nerve to be surprised to find a child no more than sixteen curled up on the floor alone and abused.