Since you were a child, things would always break apart in your hands. The first toy doctor set your father bought you, your very first doll, that cricket bat you got a day before your birthday, and all the hundreds of tiny plastic cars you owned, you never quite remember how, but each and every one of them always broke down, turning into a ruin that couldn't be salvaged anymore.
The doctor set and the doll had only lasted a week in your hand, the cricket bat was broken into two by a month. And the cars... Besides losing them on a daily basis, you don't really remember what happened to those, just knowing that your once full box got empty as soon as you got them.
As time went on, this destruction and displacement of yours elevated into something more as childhood faded into adolescence, when you and your parents both deemed you worthy for odd little pets.
You got your first set of fishes when you were fourteen. Those fat orange little things were the first form of life you held in your hands, and pretty soon, even they perished away, not because of old age or sickness, but because of you.
It was a hard thing to digest for a fourteen-year-old. Being guilty of a life that you managed to kill, the very one you wanted to protect and cherish. But your life went on, and with that, new pets also came and went.
From little baby animals to other kinds of fishes and birds, you got them all, and you tried your best to fill their small little world with all the love you had for them. But one by one, each and every one of them faded away, and you watched them die with your empty eyes, thinking, hoping, praying that it wasn't your fault, even though deep down, the seed of doubt had already planted its roots.
Soon enough, the doubt turned into a tree inside you, and you questioned all of your actions, analyzing things carefully, trying to figure out just what you did wrong, and making sure you never repeated them again.
You stopped taking birds as pets when your last baby bird died inside the little box of home you built for her. You stopped getting more fishes when your little betta died after you cured him from a month-long sickness.
It grew worse and worse, this mascaras of yours. And then it wasn't just bound to animals alone. You watched even plants die in your hand, weeks of work on small growing greenery that turned brown within days before finally turning into dry straws.
Your heart turned colder and colder with every life passing. And you wondered whether if it was all really true. Did everything you touch always died in the end?
Unable to take the role of a murderer, you shut yourself out from them all, not allowing yourself or anything that surrounded you more suffering that you alone had caused.
"The heart I gave you... It's dying."
It took you a while to realize you did that to the people around you too.
No one ever stuck with you, and there was no one in this world you could keep for your own. The problem, it seemed, was with you and you alone.
You were born a destroyer, hands made to crush instead of comfort. A bringer of agony. A blanket that strangled instead of secoured.
It was an alarming thought, this.
You were always interested in murderers, after all.
Maybe that was because deep down, in your heart, you always knew you were one of them too.