Fratricide.

To this day, I can’t explain why I didn’t see his headlights until they were glaring at me through the passenger window. But once I did, that was all I saw, dual luminary versions of foghorns screaming and cutting the soft glow of twilight.
I’m sure I was jilted in my seat, but I don’t remember any physical sensation after the collision. My entire focus had shifted to the sound that had come from beside me. Though the squealing brakes I expected to hear were conspicuously absent, I did catch the whine of metal bending and crumpling, the glittering wind chimes of broken glass, and the cacophony of sounds that signaled my brother’s body suddenly recoiling, being thrown into his passenger door, which had just been smashed in. An unmistakable part of that smattering of sound was the dull thunk of his skull colliding with his passenger window.
Had a printer been attached to my brain in that one instant, it would have fired off enough pages drowning in solid blocks of glossy wet black I killed my baby brother I killed my baby brother I killed my baby brother to fill a graveyard of coffins (or, of course, a library, which would be the natural thing to fill with pages).

I completed my left turn, narrowly avoiding the car on my left that we had almost been knocked into, and lamely pulled onto the first side road. Though I don’t remember vocalizing anything yet, my brother insists I screamed word salad at him until I stopped the car, which was when I turned to him and garbled “Dear God, are you alive?”
Jason was sitting upright and staring at me with his eyes wide open. “What just happened?” was sufficient response. He maintains that I pawed at him until he said “I just hit my head, I feel fine,” but I remember stepping out of the car into the chill morning air and shuffling to the corner to check on the other driver. The cars were all flowing through the intersection as if nothing had happened. There wasn’t a stopped car in sight. I finally tasted the blood issuing from my tongue where I had bitten it.
I returned to my car and got my first view of the damage. It actually looked like the other vehicle, which I speculated was a truck from the elevation of the dent, had stamped its entire front bumper six inches into the side of my Accord. In a moment of insanity, I wondered how big the dent in my brother was. But Jason, quite un-dented, rolled down his miraculously intact window and handed me my purse. “You’d better call Dad.”
I only caught fragments of the report my father was giving my mom while I sobbed incoherently into the receiver. “T-boned her… nobody seriously hurt… obviously disoriented…” Most of my brain was still on my brother, and the rest was marveling at how hard it was to keep the phone to my ear. I had always thought the post-trauma uncontrollable shaking of limbs so oft depicted in movies was just bad acting.
I continued my convulsions until, in true baby brother fashion, he asked me if I thought this would get him out of school for the day, at which point I thrust my torso through his open window and threw my arms around him, where they remained until my parents arrived to separate us. They nearly had to use the Jaws of Life to extract him from my grasp.