I would've murdered my brother.
When we were growing up he knew how to push all my buttons. He was younger, the apple of my mother's eye. When he was a baby he had jaundice and was sick all the time. Even after he got older he was always treated like bone china. I fucking hated it and resented both my mother and him.
When I was about 13 or 14 he pushed me too far. I'd always had an explosive and violent temper, something inherited from my father I'm sure. That day I grabbed hold of a huge, heavy-bottomed frypan from the drying rack and smashed that smug little dickhead in the face. Blood, screaming etc. My hysterical mother yelling at me to clean blood of the kitchen floor. I looked her dead in the eye and said to my deeply religious mother: "I'm not my brother's keeper and that's his blood, let him clean it up." The audacity is breathtaking and I'm surprised she didn't brain me with the same pan.
I don't regret my actions at all. I purposely decided to stop having anything to do with him when I was 17 and remain estranged.