Ignore the terrible pun that serves as a title. It is no indication of what this story is like. This is NOT humor, so please do not give me any reviews that say anything to the effect of, "OMG, Azula totally deserved that... haha..." Psychotic illness is nothing to laugh about and should not be wished on anyone, be they fictional or not.

Disclaimer: My name is not Mike. My name is not Bryan. I cannot combine my name with someone else's to make the name Bryke. Therefore, these characters are not mine.

She's everywhere.

Azula glanced over her shoulder, seeing a wispy figure disappear just as she focused on it. Her eyes crossed, and her body went rigid. Her fists clenched, unkempt nails biting into the soft palms. She felt them pierce the skin, felt the blood under her fingernails, but she did not release her deathgrip.

She began gnashing her teeth together, feeling the already flat molars grinding against each other. The grains of enamel coated her tongue, making her cough.

"It's not beautiful," she said, her voice completely unrecognizable. She unclenched her fists, pulling her nails from their permanent sheaths in her palms. Azula reached in front of her, grabbing onto the bars in front of her, blood permanently stained on their metal surface.

"No, it's not. No, it's not." She pressed her forehead to the bars, barely feeling the cool touch against her burning forehead.

She's coming.

A strangled scream escaped her throat and she began banging her head against the bars, her soft skin bruising on impact. Her fists remained clenched, but whether she would not or could not let go was unclear.

"Azula," a voice was coming from down the hall. "Azula, dear, how many times have we told you not to do this?"

It was a soothing voice, but no body accompanied it.

As Azula narrowed her unfocused eyes, a ghostly pale hand floating in midair reached through the bars and touched her now stringy, greasy hair.

"You always had such beautiful hair."

"No I don't!" Azula screamed, backing away from the hand desperately, sinking to the floor. She scooted backwards in a kind of desperate crabwalk until she felt the wall against her back. She sank down, thumb and index finger finding their way into her mouth. She began biting at them, not caring how hard her teeth came down.

Her other hand found its way into the knotted tangle that lay at the base of her neck. Her fingers wound around the strands, becoming hopelessly snared.

"There's only one thing to do," she said after extracting her blood and saliva covered fingers from her mouth. A gap-toothed smile came to her face as her wet hand began searching though her layered clothing.

She silver tip impaled her finger when she found the desired object, but she did not notice. Her slippery fingers fastened around the tool, and she drew it out of her clothes.

Someone had been careless. Someone had allowed a pair of scissors to fall into Azula's grip.

With dexterity long forgotten, she neatly sliced through the knot, right above her fingers. She pulled the dead tangle from her neck, looking at it with surprised eyes.

"It's so pretty," she found herself saying, dropping the scissors to pet the lifeless matt still entwined around her fingers. Azula's expressions softened as she lowered herself to the ground, still looking at what had once been her hair.

She drew the tangle close to her chest as she curled up into the fetal position. Her mother was right. She did have lovely hair, and she would take care of it from now on.

As the only Avatard who did not laugh during Azula's breakdown, I am asking you to keep your ignorance to yourself and not tell me that you laughed during this. Keep that to yourself. Trust me, this wasn't funny.