The Forecast

“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to The Forecast, where I give you a look ahead at the weather and more.” Brit paused for a moment to give herself a blank space in the audio, a cue to add in the intro music when she edited later today.

She scanned down her notes, the scribbles she had made over the last twenty-four hours. Nothing too exciting today. The weather, of course, including a storm front crossing over the city around lunchtime. Smoke drifting over from wildfires on the coast. A small uptick in the stock market. No mass shootings, no riots, no disasters.

Brit hated when the bad things turned up in her visions. She had tried not writing them down, leaving them out of the daily forecast. But if she didn’t say them, they didn’t happen. Not that day. Instead, they climbed up her throat, pushing her tongue forward, pressing on her teeth, her lips, until the words bubbled out. As soon as the words left her lips, they were written in stone. Whatever she said would happen did happen. Brit quickly learned it was best just to get it out, get it over with.

Brit narrated the day’s events, fleshing out the bare notes with the specifics she could remember. It took her less than an hour to run through her list, edit the recording to include the musical intro and outro, and post the day’s forecast.

The rest of the day was hers. Sort of. Brit knew she would be interrupted with flashes, snippets of events she would need to include in tomorrow’s episode. This was why she didn’t drive. Losing her vision to inner sight while driving was likely to end in her death or someone else’s. She didn’t handle knives, didn’t use the treadmill in the basement, didn’t mow the lawn. 

Brit relied on her sister Rebecca to handle those tasks for them. Rebecca was also the only person who knew who she was, that she was the Forecaster. It was a secret they kept close to keep the crazies away, to keep them safe.

By dinner time, Brit had quite a few items jotted down for the next episode. A train derailment outside of Chicago. A bank robbery in Tulsa that ended in civilian deaths. An outbreak of Ebola in southern Florida. Brit was not looking forward to the words she would have to say in the morning. She knew she would not sleep tonight, the words would repeat in her head, circling endlessly until she spewed them out.

Rebecca slid a plate of stir fry in front of her. As always, Brit’s first thought was that she could never make this. Her second thought was to reach for the eggroll perched on the side of the plate.

“Thanks, Rebecca. You keep me well fed.”

“You make the money that buys the food, so in my opinion we’re even.” Rebecca reached across the table, dropping another eggroll onto Brit’s plate.

“Hey, what’s the weather going to be on Saturday. I thought we could go for a hike.”

Brit pulled her notebook out of her pocket, flipping one small page back to get to the last weather she saw. “It should be sunny and 75. A hike sounds great.”

“Anything else of note?”

“Not here,” Brit replied. She read off the events in Illinois, Oklahoma, and Florida. Saying them now made them so, but she would still repeat them in the morning. It was only fair to share the news with the world. Giving it just to her sister would make her feel like she wasn’t doing her job. It would also mean she wouldn’t get paid.

As Brit set her notebook down and picked up her fork, another vision blocked her view of her plate. It was Rebecca. She was walking through a park, the sun either just beginning to rise or finishing its fall behind her. A blurred streak of black and red with a slash of silver streamed toward her. The silver swiped Rebecca’s skin, pulling it open and releasing a flood of crimson.

The fork fell from Brit’s hand, clattering on the plate, sending strips of chicken and peppers flying.

“Brit? What’s wrong?” Rebecca was at her side in an instant, moving away the pointy fork, scooting the plate and glass of soda away from Brit’s hands.

Brit didn’t answer, didn’t make eye contact. Her gaze was elsewhere, seeing a Rebecca that didn’t exist yet. Watching her die.

Brit snapped back to the dinner table and the sister kneeling next to her chair.

“What did you see?” Rebecca asked. 

It was an innocent question, one she asked every time her sister received a forecast. This time, it was not so innocent. It was deadly.

Brit shook her head, her lips pinched tight against the words she felt rising from her belly. She could not let them out. Ever.

“What is it?” Rebecca asked. 

“I can’t,” Brit replied. “I can’t tell you.”

Rebecca’s brows pulled together. “What could be so bad that you can’t tell me?”

“I just can’t.” Brit pushed back from the table and fled, slapping her hand over her mouth to hold in the forecast.

In her room, Brit slammed the door, fumbling the never before used lock into place. She slid down the door to the floor, her hand once again over her mouth. Even if no one heard the words, letting the forecast out would push it into reality.

The words were right there, sharp pricks of claws crawling across her tongue, pulling themselves closer to her lips. Tears welled in her eyes. How could she keep this forecast in? It would continue to push until she gave it her voice.

There had to be a way to keep it in. This forecast could not become truth. Brit pushed to her feet and headed for the shelves near her recording desk. She had no idea what she was looking for, perhaps a brilliant idea that carried hope with it.

Batteries. A stack of unread novels. Duct tape. That had a flicker of possibility, but was too easy to remove. Paper clips. Nail polish. Old notebooks. Epoxy glue. Colored pencils.

Brit’s hands trailed back to the epoxy. She turned the tube over, her eyes skimming over the text. Bonds fast, bonds strong. Avoid contact with eyes and skin.

She took a deep breath. Immediately the words were on her tongue, clamoring to escape. She bit her tongue, slamming her lips closed again. 

She twisted the lid off the tube, slowly moving it toward her lips. The fumes were strong, making her eyes water, blurring her sight of what she was doing. It made it easier, not seeing the tube coming.

Her lips parted just enough to give space for the tip of the tube, her fingers squeezing as she glided the tube along her lips. She tried to pretend it was lip gloss, that there was no burning, no stinging. Brit pressed her lips together, pushing the sticky goop to the edges of her lips, rubbing them together like she might to distribute gloss.

She held them there, pinched tight, her eyes closed against the fumes as she began counting. It took a long time to get to six hundred. 

Brit relaxed the pressure she had put on her lips. They stayed, fused firmly together. She moved to her bathroom, flipping on the light to look in the mirror.

Her mouth was now a straight line, no curved cupid’s bow, no full lower lip. The line was red, angry. Closed and safe. Brit lifted her hand, tempted to touch it. The thought that her fingers might get stuck to stopped her.

The forecast poked inside her mouth, testing the strength of the glue. There is no way out, Brit thought. My lips are sealed.