The cell creaks open slowly. Azula, sleeping, with her hands tightly bound by way of chi-gloves, can't summon the fire to illuminate her visitor. By the time he leaves, and she is pulling her clothes on with trembling fingers, she doesn't want to.
If she can't see, she can pretend it was a dream—or a nightmare. If she can't see, she can fool herself that she isn't hurt.
In the dark, though, she can't help but think of the reasons why she deserves it. Her mother's right.
She is a monster.