Create a story or poem inspired by a line in a Charles Bukowski poem: "some suicides are never recorded"
Some suicides are never recorded. Like my brothers. Ran off, they said, even though they knew the truth. We all did. We had all seen the bodies. But they insisted on the delusion. As though runaways are better then suicides. As though it could make it not real.
We didn't have funerals; that would have been too much of a giveaway. A giveaway that they weren't coming back, unlike what we told everyone. That they'd be back, just you wait. But I knew better. We all did.
We weren't supposed to cry. They were coming back, why should we cry? But they weren't. They were never coming back. So I sat in the window seat, and stared out at the rain, and let the clouds cry for me. Their tears would slide down the glass, and I would know they knew too. That they were sad, unlike us, who couldn't be sad, for it would be a giveaway. A giveaway to what the whole world knew anyway, but pretended not to.
The clouds cried for me for weeks.
Then one day, they stopped, and I knew it was because they, like everyone else, had decided that it hadn't happened. It wasn't true. They had decided to pretend, like everyone else. Pretend they were coming back. But they weren't.
Even now, years later, we are still pretending. Pretending my brothers are going to show up outside the door. But they aren't.
I still let the clouds cry for me.