Dusk Harbor 1999

Take Your Pick

Jordan sat with his feet up on the table, mindlessly sorting through a deck of blood stained playing cards. The trailer had a pungent stench that was a mix of unwashed socks and old food.

Whenever his friends visited, they complained. To him it was normal. He was waiting for his brother to return from the docks. He'd been out a lot longer than Jordan had anticipated. Jordan was reflecting on the mission that went awry. He glanced at the blood-soaked gauze on the table, and the suture kit that laid against the wall.

Felt the faint stinging of the home-stitched gash in his shoulder.

He palmed a glass of root beer and lifted it off the table, leaving behind a ring of condensation. As he brought it to his lips the trailer door creaked open, his brother Mason walked in, his brow furrowed with annoyance. He took his black gloves off and flung them onto the table before sitting down across from him.

His shoulders sagged and he half closed his hazel eyes. Let his hood fall off his head. He ran a hand over his head of shaggy brown hair that was a few months overgrown, he kept forgetting to buzz it down. He was tall, even when sitting. Six foot four. His skin was pale with reddish undertones, like permanent blush, and he had a strong, masculine face.

A sharp contrast to himself.

Jordan was a twig in comparison. A more wiry build, thin frame, a whole head shorter than his brother. He had soft brown skin, an even complexion, and curly black hair that sat in a big bun on the back of his head. He had a rounder face, and one woman had said that he had 'gentle eyes'. 

It was their father they had in common, but they'd grown up side by side since the day he was born. There was only a difference of two years between them, and their bond could not be rivaled by any other set of brothers. 

"Rough night?" Jordan asked as he put down the cards and his glass of root beer.

"Clearly better than whatever you had," Mason replied flatly.

"Dude, I totally flattened Evanesce," Jordan leaned forward.

"The bloody gauze is telling me otherwise," Mason commented with a tiny nod to the clump of gauze.

Jordan sat back again and took a long sip of root beer. It was off-brand so it tasted odd to him, a mistake he wouldn't make again. Some things were worth the extra dollar. 

"What makes you think I failed?" He asked. "Just cause I'm injured?"

"Jordan, come on," he grumbled, clearly wanting to retire for the night, "you and I both know that your little girlfriend always beats you. When she comes around, the mission fails. You've never beaten her."

"Now that's not true, I--"

"No, I've beaten her. You're good at fighting, Jay, you can take on almost anyone else. But let's face it, she's your weakness."

"What, you think I love her? I hate her. She's the bane of my existence. She's like Satan's spawn. Besides, I have a girlfriend."

"That hasn't stopped you before. Besides, I don't think it's love. It's something else," Mason said as he straightened up and looked at the patchy yellowed ceiling. "I don't know what to call it, but you know how there's losers on reality shows that you hate so much that you love them? Like, even though you hate 'em you secretly root for 'em?"

Jordan stared into him for a few moments and then raised one eyebrow, flashed a tiny smirk. 

"Dude, you watch reality shows?" Jordan asked.