A/N: Same verse as Black Roses and Fracturing, but having read those is in no way necessary. Originally an addition to the latter, but it got too long, so I'm publishing it separately. It's...emotionally intense? I don't want to give anything away, but please read with care.
Reviews greatly appreciated!
Warnings (may contain spoilers): Child sexual abuse, incest, physical abuse, suicide.
Her first realization of something wrong is when he comes home, his typically impeccable suit rumpled and messy. She sees the look in his eyes and wants to draw into the shadows, doesn't want him to see her, because she knows that when he finds her he's going to hurt her. She doesn't want to bear the burden of his anger. Not now. Not today.
"Azula," he calls. She hears his voice from up in her room. Her limbs automatically unfold and move her toward the door. She can't disobey. It would only make it worse.
His face is almost completely stoic. It is terrifying. She would rather he be raging. When he holds his anger inside him like this, it is all the more deadly. Her eyes glance down to his hand. He's holding a magazine, but she can't make out the cover from the angle.
"Come here," he says, his voice gentle. Feeling as if she is walking to the gallows, Azula obeys, taking small steps toward her father. When they're close enough, he tips her chin up with one hand, leaving their faces inches apart.
"Who did you tell?" he whispers. She can feel his breath on her face, the heat emanating from his skin.
"Nobody," she says automatically. She suspects she knows what they're talking about, though they don't discuss it except in euphemism anymore.
"Don't lie to me." The blow comes faster than she can anticipate and leaves her reeling, the left side of her face numb. It hurts, and the first thing to come to mind is that the black eye will be difficult to conceal for school tomorrow. . .
"I didn't tell anybody!" He's backed her up against the wall. She knows how it'll go: she'll deny it, over and over again, and he won't believe her. The only question is exactly how many injuries she'll sustain before Ozai tires of his little punching bag.
"You're a horrible little girl, Azula. Listen to you, lying to your father. You really don't have any shame, do you? Don't you remember when I warned you?" This eerie calm continues to be terrifying. Ozai shows no anger even as he buries his hand in her hair and pulls her head far, far back. It hurts, it hurts very badly, but she refuses to cry out. Ozai has made up his mind about her transgressions, and speaking any more will likely only bring on more pain. So Azula detaches, lets her mind go broad, tries not to think about the present. She recites the elements of the periodic table in her mind, but only gets to carbon before Ozai's hands close around her throat.
Forget the fact that she's done similar things to herself, imagined tying a rope similarly. There is no preparation for this, just the sudden pain and the compression as she tries to draw breath and can't. Her father's face swims before her eyes as they water, and she can tell that he still has the same calm mask. Her hands scrabble uselessly against his arm, but she's already too weak, and her head spins, and she needs air. Then her blurry vision pixilates, her mind continues to scream, and darkness descends not soothingly but as a tidal wave sweeping through her.
Azula awakes, crumpled on the floor, and a horrid headache is taking root in her head. Ozai has left the room, left his daughter there, but the magazine he was carrying is lying on the tile next to Azula's face. She catches sight of her father's face on the cover and shifts for a better view.
She is there too, she realizes, like a punch in the gut. The picture is relatively old, of father and daughter leaving a restaurant. Ozai is framed, looking away from the camera, his jacket slung over one shoulder, impeccable from head to toe. Azula is in the background, her hair caught in the wind, looking displeased.
Azula takes the picture in as her mind reads the headline, and she struggles to comprehend it. Once more she can't breathe; the feeling in her stomach is a thousand times worse than any blow her father could strike her with.
"CEO OF PHOENIX OIL GUILTY OF INCEST? CONTROL, PASSION, AND FAMILY: ANONYMOUS SOURCE TELLS ALL!"
Her breath speeds and her mind slows until Azula feels sure that she will pass out again. No matter which way she looks, the words of the headline follow her. She tells herself that it is simply a tabloid, that there is almost certainly no evidence, and that nothing will come of it, but panic is engulfing her. The truth is there, emblazoned above her face, written in a font and color made to grab attention. Who all will see it? Who, the country over, will know her name as the victim of the story?
She turns the pages as if she cannot resist, opens to the article proper. She reads with a detached interest, as if this is the story of someone else, as if this is just another magazine with just another sex scandal. Phrases catch in her mind and stick there: "motherless household," "where there is wealth there is immorality," "allegations of abuse over a period of six years…"
They describe her father: "A handsomely aging billionaire who never formally divorced his estranged wife…" "Hardworking and ambitious…" A footnote, the final phrase of the article, reads "Five years ago, this same man was investigated in association with his son's mysterious accident in a company factory, but charges were never filed."
It curves Azula's lips into an unwilling smile, even as her hands shake with a cold fury, when she reads how they've characterized her. The descriptions feel less like the ravings of tabloid authors and more like a personal attack. "Alleged lesbianism," "social ostracization," "ambitious but arrogant."
The account contains nothing very personal. The anonymous source could as easily have been a classmate of Azula's as an employee in the household, though Azula doubts the latter. Ozai pays them off well, and finding blood on a girl's clothes doesn't seem too unusual when she's going through puberty.
Azula stares down at the magazine for a long, long time, her mind refusing to react. Everybody can see it. Everybody can read about it. It doesn't matter whether they believe or not, because it's true. Everyone in the whole country can read the article and have nightmares with her face in them. Everyone in the country can sigh for this latest victim of child sexual abuse. And Azula, frozen in the midst, knows that her father's wrath will be terrible. Whether Ozai really thinks she did it or not is moot. He needs a target and she's just so convenient.
She needs to get to her room. She needs to hide. But he could be between her and the door, and she doesn't know what he'll do if he sees her again. Her father's anger is unpredictable and vicious, so vicious.
Maybe she would welcome punishment. That would be better than the bleak terror filling her. Azula knows how to deal with physical abuse. It's this emotional calamity that causes her to falter. She can't just rationalize the feelings away this time. The magazine is there and it is staring her in the face.
Finally, after laying on the ground for who knows how long, Azula pushes herself upright. Her face is aching, and movement just exacerbates the pain. She grits her teeth and fights through it. Her neck is sore, and she'll probably have bruises there…so it's a turtleneck tomorrow, then.
Her father isn't in the hallway. She makes it to the stairs and starts the ascent, her ears tuned for any sound. On the second landing, Ozai's office door is open a crack. Azula stops next to it, out of sight, and listens. Ozai is talking, presumably on the phone. His voice isn't the silky drawl he used to address Azula, but something commanding, something that hints at his anger.
"I don't have to tell you it's all libel, do I? We don't need to prepare a case because this isn't going to court. I just want you to be ready in case I do decide to sue."
Ozai throws his phone down and Azula catches a muttered oath. Before he has the chance to emerge from his study, she ducks into her room and locks the door behind her. It's only a facsimile of protection, but it makes her feel more secure. She'll at least have a few more seconds of warning if he decides to pay her a visit.
Homework is an insufficient distractor. Azula paces back and forth and tries not to get stuck on her reflection. Eventually the morbid curiosity burning inside of her takes a hold and she opens her laptop. A search of her father's name…and there it is, dozens of news sites carrying the story. She sees her father's face and her face all over the screen. She stares at herself, just pixels, just part of an article on another scandal.
MONEY LEADS TO IMMORALITY, a religious opinion piece screams. There she is, being used as a justification for taking money from the rich. It's funny to see her face and her name listed alongside a cause she couldn't care less about.
Her phone is buzzing. Azula tosses her laptop aside, fed up with her findings, and reaches for her cell. There's a host of unread texts and at least a dozen missed calls. She feels bile rising up in her throat as she sorts through them. It's out there. They know. Ty Lee's responsible for at least half the texts, ranging from "have you seen the news?" to the most recent, "are you okay? please call me!"
The missed calls are Ty, Mai, and her brother, surprisingly. Zuko's also left her a single text. "Azula, what the hell?"
She smiles at those four words. What the hell, indeed. What the hell what the hell what the hell what the hell…
The pressure is building up inside her head. It desperately needs an outlet. She wants to scream, but that will draw her father's attention. Azula can do nothing but sit numbly on her bed, her mouth fixed in a smile as she tries to reassure herself that everything is all right when it is abundantly clear that nothing will be all right. She's not good at lying to herself. There's no point to it. She can't imagine a future where this overwhelming emotion is gone. She can only think about the headline and the people who are reading her name.
The damned phone is still buzzing, so she picks it up and stares at the display. Zuko again. Just to hear something other than her heartbeat pounding in her head, she takes the call.
"Zuko."
"Azula, is this true?" He sounds entirely serious, almost like the devoted big brother figure who dominates pop culture, the elder brother she's never had. His concern is almost touching.
"Is what true?" She won't make it easy for him. Her voice is all purr and tease, giving away nothing of the overwhelming intensity of her emotions.
"Don't fuck around, Azula! This is serious!"
She narrows her eyes at the phone. He's one to talk. She knows exactly how serious it is. She's the one who's already borne the brunt of their father's anger. She's the one who'll have to slather foundation onto her face tomorrow to cover the bruises. He's just the bystander, just someone reading something in a magazine. He isn't part of the family any longer.
"Sorry, Zuzu, I'm busy." She hangs up and throws her cell across the room. It doesn't matter if it breaks. There is money to replace it, so much money. She imagined that money would save them, save her, from something like this. Paper is an inadequate shield after all. Words and ideas break through, and now some reporter's probably patting himself on the back for exposing injustice and collecting his paycheck.
She doesn't sleep that night. How could she? Thoughts are racing through her head at the speed of light. The overwhelming feeling, like she's about to throw up, is still there. She doesn't know how to make it go away. It's been years since she's felt anything so powerful. The last time she screamed and cried, but that's not an option. She's practically an adult. Outbursts will result in punishment, and they're unseemly anyway. Suffering out loud isn't an option. That is the way of the weak and the ordinary.
And she's afraid that Ozai will come into her room in the night and hurt her further, perhaps even decide that she's too dangerous to live. She has the power to legitimize the rumors, to turn them into concrete, but surely he knows that she won't do that. It would be pathetic, disgraceful. Things like this don't happen to people like her. She's going to inherit the company someday and be known for her business savvy, not remembered as a face in a magazine and some lost statistic.
So she stays awake, her room illuminated only by the screen of her laptop, as she does math and chemistry and anything to distract herself, solving artificial problems so that she doesn't have to confront real ones.
Azula faces the idea of school the next day like a condemned man going to the gallows. There will be stares, she knows, and murmurs, and she'll have to fend off questions from Mai and Ty. But when skipping means time with the unpredictable anger of her father, school seems merciful.
He catches her as she's heading out the door, drags her back into the house with one arm. She steels herself, but Ozai doesn't hit her. Instead he wraps his arms around her, one hand a vise on her breast, the other resting around her throat in a reminder of what he did to her yesterday. It hurts, but she says nothing.
"I'm sure I don't need to say this," he whispers in her ear. His beard tickles her skin. "If you tell anyone, you'll wish you'd never been born."
It's a cliché threat, but coming from him it is powerful and real. Azula feels a leaden weight settle into her stomach. To her it's the threat of more punishment, for whether she tells or not has no effect on what her father believes.
The ride to school feels a thousand times longer than usual. Azula stares out the window and the driver looks straight ahead, seemingly afraid to even risk eye contact with his young charge. It's just a confirmation to Azula that he's there only for the money, that they're all there only for the money. He won't even look at her.
The first step out of the car and Azula can already feel the pressure building up again, in her head, in her stomach. It is unbearable and it needs an outlet, but there is nothing there. Her mouth is dry and her heart is pounding, but there is nothing to do but hold her head high and walk to her locker as if nothing is happening, as if nothing will happen, as if people are not glancing at her and muttering.
Ty Lee is waiting by their lockers, as usual, though her typical smile is absent. Azula sighs inwardly. She does not wish to deal with this, with any of this. Why should she have to explain herself? She has done nothing wrong—well, not in this situation, anyway—but she's being put on display like an animal in the zoo, like something in a museum.
"Azula…" Ty Lee is hesitant, and the faint quiver in her voice nearly sends Azula over the edge. Who is Ty to be crying? She isn't the one who has to deal with this, with any of this. She isn't the one whose world has been shaken beyond repair.
"You're so gullible, Ty Lee," Azula says, casual. "You'll believe anything in print. Of course it's not true. Now stop looking like that. If you have to cry, at least cry about something real." It's amusing how easily the lie slips from between her lips. It's hilarious how much easier it is to lie than to tell the truth.
"Do you promise?" Ty is biting her lip, and her eyes still look watery. Azula resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you really promise it's not true?"
"Yes! Don't you believe me? Come on. It's stupid to even be talking about this." Azula's impatience isn't feigned.
But even as Ty Lee seems content to let the subject drop, and even as she mostly returns to her usual bubbly self, other people in the hall still turn to look at Azula, their voices too low to hear.
Mai is conspicuously absent, which makes Azula suspicious; the older girl won't even answer her phone or text back. If she's at school, she's doing quite a good job of avoiding the other two, but Azula suspects Mai's gone. Where, she doesn't know, but because of paranoia and because of arrogance she suspects it's something to do with the article.
Azula is in the midst of second period when she's summoned to the principal's office. She rises with bile in her throat and leaves the classroom like she doesn't have a care in the world, like she doesn't know what's waiting for her.
She needs an outlet. There is no outlet.
It's worse than she suspects. Waiting for her are two police officers, a man and a woman, sitting in the principal's office. They gesture for her to sit across from them, which she does, grudgingly, never moving her eyes from them for a second.
The woman clears her throat. "Please don't be alarmed. You're not in any trouble and we aren't taking you anywhere. We just want to talk to you."
"About what?" Azula's voice is ice and her eyes are daggers. She refuses to make this easy for them. They're looking for her to admit something, for her to spill her weakness. She won't. She'll never crack. She's so much smarter, so much stronger, so much better than that.
"About this." The man produces a magazine and shows the cover. It's different from the one Azula saw, and once again the headline almost takes her voice away. The pressure gets bad and the pounding in her head goes up and up in volume.
"ALLEGATIONS OF SEXUAL ABUSE AGAINST CEO."
"What about it?"
The two officers exchange a look. Azula watches them like a hawk, her nostrils flaring. They will get nothing from her.
"Azula, has your father ever hurt you?"
"No."
"Has he ever touched your private parts?"
Private parts. God, Azula hates that phrase. They're called breasts and her groin. She's not in kindergarten anymore, learning about stranger danger. She isn't a child. "I'm not supposed to let anybody touch my private parts." Two can play at that game.
The two officers look at each other again.
"You won't be in any trouble," the woman says, and now her voice is soft, like she's talking to a skittish animal. Azula hates her for it. "If you don't feel safe, you can tell us. We can protect you."
They want to strip her down to nothing and make her name a headline. They want to throw her father behind bars and divvy his company among the stockholders. Azula has her own plans, and now they want to destroy them.
"This is ridiculous," Azula announces, standing. "I told you. He hasn't done anything like that. I don't have to answer your questions, anyway."
"We're trying to help you!"
"I'm not going to say anything else without a lawyer present," Azula sing-songs, and then she pulls her bag onto her back and heads out the office door without looking back. They're calling after her, but she ignores them, lengthening her stride and walking faster. She can't go back to class, can't see all of those faces. When they look at her, she knows what they're seeing. They don't see her, Azula. They're seeing her naked and under her father's hands. They're seeing a victim, someone to be pitied, and that has never been her.
She exits school and heads for the train station. Her father might be at home, but now that's a risk she's entirely willing to take. But while she's on the train, she can't help but think. When she remembers the way Ty Lee looked, her own eyes start to tear up. Azula hasn't cried in ages, but now there are tears running down her cheeks. People are looking at her. They know. They all know. Her pretense is gone and she is naked before them, all of her shields destroyed.
Her eyes are dry again by the time she reaches her stop and gets off, but her cheeks are blotchy and her makeup is smudged beyond repair. She sweeps her hair around to shade her face and walks with her head slightly down, something she has never done before. Usually she walks with authority, with command. Usually her presence is dominating.
Everything is different.
Her father's car is in the driveway and she holds her breath as she enters the house. He will have heard the front door, she knows. And sure enough, as she climbs the stairs, he emerges from his study to look at her. Contempt is written on every facet of his face, and his lip curls as if he finds her repugnant, from her tangled hair to her red cheeks to the dark spots under her eyes. It is an expression Azula cannot bear, but she must stand there silently while her father judges her wanting. Seconds pass, minutes, and then he speaks.
"Coward." His voice is devoid of inflection. The message is clear: she is not worthy of his emotion. "I'm disappointed, Azula. You're just like Zuko after all."
She needs to scream. She needs to cry. She needs to break something, rip out her hair, dig her nails in until there is blood. She cannot hold it in, because she will surely explode. But she cannot do it in front of him, and so she stands like a statue until Ozai returns to his office, until she is alone, so very, very alone.
In her room, she still cannot lash out. The walls are not soundproof. The pressure is building inside of her head and she is screaming on the inside, desperate for an outlet, desperate for this pain to end. Her phone buzzes and she silences it, wanting to crack the screen, wanting to break it open.
It is sunny outside when Azula goes into her bathroom.
A used, dented car pulls up in the driveway, at odds with the rest of the house, and the young man who was driving steps out. He looks up at the home he left a long time ago, and the scar over his left eye catches the light. The passenger door opens to reveal a girl with blunt black bangs and a still face. They walk together up the driveway to do something they should have done long ago, to free someone who has long been crying out for help.
On Azula's bed, her phone screen lights up, displaying the number of a woman Azula hasn't seen in years, the desperate attempt at a lifeline.
Azula doesn't come out.