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It's fascinating how she, someone who thrives off pain, who loves it with every fibre in her body because of the way it pushes her, who cannot live without the pain, gets so annoyed at small inconveniences. Well, this isn't exactly a small inconvenience, but it still shouldn't bother her as much. It's like a stone in her shoe. Small, insignificant, yet impossible to ignore. Constantly bothering her.
Where is the line between pain that pushes you, drives you, and pain that incapacitates? Why can she stand so much yet lose her composure over such a small thing?
She hates Zuko simply for this. For getting under her skin, for being so weak and pathetic, for being her brother. Brother. She wishes he'd love her like one.
Azula stares at the paper in front of her. She's been doing this for too long; the words have muddled up, stopped making sense. Her head aches, her legs are asleep and her neck is cramped up. It doesn't matter, she tells herself. She needs to get this sequencing right. With Zuko being a massive failure, she's the one next in line. She hates him for it. For being so vulnerable, so easily replaced, for being her elder brother yet passing all the responsibility onto her.
He's supposed to be the one with the pain. The one everyone expects things off. Yet, I am, and they refuse to even care for me.
She takes a deep breath, smoothing back her hair. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that if she isn't perfect, her father will most probably be disappointed and refuse to show her any more affection. It doesn't bother her that Zuko, her brother, has been banished and despite her hating him, she still misses him, because he's still her brother and she still had good memories with him. Maybe she even cared for him. She scowls at the thought, her pretty mouth curving down into an ugly and hateful shape. She doesn't care that her mother thinks her a monster, thought so till the day she left. It doesn't bother her that everybody leaves. Her mother, Uncle Iroh, Zuko, everybody. They all choose him over her. She's the one who's worked hard all her life, she's the prodigy, she's the future Firelord, the child mature and clever well beyond her years, not him. She groans, rubbing her face aggressively. Why would they choose him over her? She was everything he wasn't, and so much more.
Fools. They'd regret it. They'd all regret it.
Still, a voice at the back of her head taunts her, mocking her for being so stupid, for trying so hard and still being overlooked for somebody who wasn't even half as good as her. Maybe, if she'd been less of a monster, her uncle and mother would've loved her. Maybe she truly didn't deserve her mother, as Zuko said. She clenches her jaw. He was right, she didn't deserve their mother, she deserved better. Better than a weak mother who couldn't recognize that her own daughter was hurting, better than a mother who decided to hate her ten-year-old daughter for being a monster when she was nothing more than a product of war. She deserved better than an uncle who turned his back on her when she needed just as much support as Zuko, if not more, better than a brother who never once tried to care for her.
She takes a deep breath and smooths back her hair, pulling on it to ground herself. It doesn't matter.
She stumbles slightly as she gets up, feet numb and prickling, and she makes her way to her bed, basically collapsing onto it. Her body screams at her for sleep, and she can't deny the fact that she's tired, but she needs to finish learning this sequence. She doesn't close her eyes in fear of falling asleep. She knows she needs the rest, but this is important. She'll catch up on lost sleep another time.
Instead, with all the energy she has left, she procures a flame. It takes more strength than it should, leaves her far too tired and empty. She hates it. She hates feeling so empty, as though someone has carved out her heart and chest and filled her heart up with nothingness. Yet, at the same time, she feels unreasonably heavy, and she hates that, too. It's as if someone has dropped a stone inside of her, chained her to a rock, forced her to carry this wretched thing around, this constant weight.
She hates feeling this heavy nothingness.
She's far too unfocused to get any work done, her mind working slowly, the blood in her veins sluggish. She frowns at the feeling, not liking this reduced version of her. She doesn't like being tired, feeling sad. She doesn't like feeling nothing, either. She doesn't like the sort of sadness that fills her, the quiet and blunt sorrow, shown in disappointed sighs and dead gazes. She prefers the sharp sadness, powered more by anger than unhappiness. She doesn't like panic, though. Her current state disgusts her, lethargic and slothlike, yet she can hear her heartbeat. She needs to be calm and collected and keen, not fucking dull and restless.
She brings the flame to her skin.
The pain is sharp, acute, awakening her, shocking her into the present. Good; sharp is good, so is the adrenaline that follows. She hisses, the discomfort has gone before she realizes it as her skin stays unaffected by the low fire. She's a firebender, it'd be stupid if her skin wasn't at least a little immune to fire.
She's too tired to make another one. She hasn't slept properly in days.
How dare Zuko leave her to deal with all this alone? Coward.
She reaches for the knife on her bedside, fumbling blindly, trying her hardest not to cry. She doesn't need to deal with her feelings right now, she doesn't need despair, she needs a distraction. And she needs to learn the darn sequence.
She brings it to her thigh and glides it across the skin. It's not smooth by any means, ridges and stretch marks and scars that disgust her, but there's an area that she's found to be painfully untouched. She presses down the tip of the blade there, hesitant despite having done this far too many times. She doesn't like her accelerated heartbeat, still agitated. She cuts her skin, quick and clean, in one fast sweeping motion before she can chicken out.
The relief is immediate. The pain allows her to breathe again, calming her and providing immediate serenity. She feels ten times calmer, taking in a deep breath as she indulges herself. Her heartbeat has lessened, and she feels far more alive now. Cleaning the wound won't be a matter that'll take much time, and she'll be done with it quickly. She doesn't like drawing much blood, a few drops will do. It isn't anything serious, honestly, just a little coping mechanism.
She was right, it barely takes her ten minutes to clean it, refusing to risk infection, and she gets right back to work. She'll be fine, she isn't her uncle or her mother or her brother, she will do whatever it takes to be good enough. Her father relies on her, he has nobody, he needs her, her nation needs her. They trust her enough, promise her enough loyalty, care enough for her, love her enough to need her, to allow themselves to rely on her. She cannot risk weakness. She's princess Azula, after all, and she can be nothing but perfect.