Read Online The Last Superhero by Astrid 'Artistikem' Cruz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Astrid 'Artistikem' Cruz
Tags: Superhero
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my smartphone propped on the bottle of wine
I brought for the occasion, an interactive map of the storm looping
on the screen while I sit all warm and cozy at the breakfast bar
watching Steven go on about him not being as good a cook as me but
his stew being finger-licking worthy anyway.
It can taste like poop and
I'd still be thrilled, if only for that smile and crinkling eyes.
“ Oh!
Forgot I've got something for you.” He dries his hands on his
apron – yeah, he's wearing one – and darts for the living
room.
I follow him with my eyes as
he brings forth a large, old-looking book.
“ Thought
you'd like to see it.”
Leather binding. Real
leather. Dead animal leather.
The
words Waldorf
Family in gold lettering on the cover.
I take it, mindful of the
flimsiness brought by time, and set it on the bar. He goes back to
the range, sipping from the one and only glass of wine he says he'll
have tonight.
I haven't told him, but this
is a fifty-dollar bottle of Pinot Noir. You don't sip it, you don't
drink it, you revel in the way it dances in your mouth, setting it
alight, setting your taste buds on fire, and gifts you with its
smoothness while packing that punch that makes your eyes go...
“ Wow!”
He glances at me over his
shoulder.
The book happens to be a
photo album of the whole Waldorf Family and it's... I don't know... I
don't know how to explain it because I'm suddenly scared of these
people and, at the same time, fascinated.
“ It
must have been quite a time when your type were around.”
He makes a sound that I
can't quite register as a carbon sketch of a woman with eyes
completely white next to a thin man with curly hair catches my sight.
“ You're
holding most of my family's history in your hands right now.”
Better not let it too close
to one of the candles nearby then.
Oh yes, he prepared the
atmosphere with the whole candles and stuff.
Sketches, daguerreotypes,
paper pictures. Silent thanks to that History of Photography
professor back in college.
Portrait after portrait.
Face after face. Kind after kind.
One thing that really gets
me is how much all the men look alike.
“ What's
up with you dudes looking almost the same? Whatever happened to the
female genes in this family?”
“ No
idea, but we all look very much alike.”
Not that I'm complaining.
This is fucking amazing,
though, and I love that he's showing it to me.
No need to say I've
forgotten about Daphne and Ross. This is too good.
I keep turning pages,
turning ages.
So fucking fascinating.
Then a picture of baby
Salvatore and Michelangelo comes up. Recognizable thanks to
Michelangelo's tiny wings and Salvatore's raven black hair and eyes.
Salvatore was the oldest brother and he's standing on wobbly little
feet, holding his mother's hand while Michelangelo is held by his
father, one of his wings draped over the man's forearm.
Steven's turned to me,
moving my phone off the bottle, pouring himself a second glass of
wine.
Only one, yeah sure.
“ Aaron
and Marzia Waldorf. My grandparents. They were Italians. I almost got
Salvatore as a first name, hadn't it been for my mother.”
“ What
powers did they have?” I wonder because none of the adults give
away anything from the picture, I'd say they both look very normal.
No costumes either.
Thunder strikes outside and
the rain becomes heavier.
“ Marzia
had the power of magnetism, but Aaron, he was like a Rosetta stone;
he'd understand any language instantly, even those my father invented
to tell secrets.”
Steven props himself on his
elbows across from me and there's this mischievous smile on his lips,
I want to drink it whole.
“ Were
there any other physically represented abilities in your family? Like
Michelangelo's?”
Another page shows a picture
of Salvatore and Michelangelo as teenagers, though who knows what age
they really were. God, I don't even know Steven's exact age in human
years. Do they call it human years versus superhero years? Must ask.
Thing
I brought for the occasion, an interactive map of the storm looping
on the screen while I sit all warm and cozy at the breakfast bar
watching Steven go on about him not being as good a cook as me but
his stew being finger-licking worthy anyway.
It can taste like poop and
I'd still be thrilled, if only for that smile and crinkling eyes.
“ Oh!
Forgot I've got something for you.” He dries his hands on his
apron – yeah, he's wearing one – and darts for the living
room.
I follow him with my eyes as
he brings forth a large, old-looking book.
“ Thought
you'd like to see it.”
Leather binding. Real
leather. Dead animal leather.
The
words Waldorf
Family in gold lettering on the cover.
I take it, mindful of the
flimsiness brought by time, and set it on the bar. He goes back to
the range, sipping from the one and only glass of wine he says he'll
have tonight.
I haven't told him, but this
is a fifty-dollar bottle of Pinot Noir. You don't sip it, you don't
drink it, you revel in the way it dances in your mouth, setting it
alight, setting your taste buds on fire, and gifts you with its
smoothness while packing that punch that makes your eyes go...
“ Wow!”
He glances at me over his
shoulder.
The book happens to be a
photo album of the whole Waldorf Family and it's... I don't know... I
don't know how to explain it because I'm suddenly scared of these
people and, at the same time, fascinated.
“ It
must have been quite a time when your type were around.”
He makes a sound that I
can't quite register as a carbon sketch of a woman with eyes
completely white next to a thin man with curly hair catches my sight.
“ You're
holding most of my family's history in your hands right now.”
Better not let it too close
to one of the candles nearby then.
Oh yes, he prepared the
atmosphere with the whole candles and stuff.
Sketches, daguerreotypes,
paper pictures. Silent thanks to that History of Photography
professor back in college.
Portrait after portrait.
Face after face. Kind after kind.
One thing that really gets
me is how much all the men look alike.
“ What's
up with you dudes looking almost the same? Whatever happened to the
female genes in this family?”
“ No
idea, but we all look very much alike.”
Not that I'm complaining.
This is fucking amazing,
though, and I love that he's showing it to me.
No need to say I've
forgotten about Daphne and Ross. This is too good.
I keep turning pages,
turning ages.
So fucking fascinating.
Then a picture of baby
Salvatore and Michelangelo comes up. Recognizable thanks to
Michelangelo's tiny wings and Salvatore's raven black hair and eyes.
Salvatore was the oldest brother and he's standing on wobbly little
feet, holding his mother's hand while Michelangelo is held by his
father, one of his wings draped over the man's forearm.
Steven's turned to me,
moving my phone off the bottle, pouring himself a second glass of
wine.
Only one, yeah sure.
“ Aaron
and Marzia Waldorf. My grandparents. They were Italians. I almost got
Salvatore as a first name, hadn't it been for my mother.”
“ What
powers did they have?” I wonder because none of the adults give
away anything from the picture, I'd say they both look very normal.
No costumes either.
Thunder strikes outside and
the rain becomes heavier.
“ Marzia
had the power of magnetism, but Aaron, he was like a Rosetta stone;
he'd understand any language instantly, even those my father invented
to tell secrets.”
Steven props himself on his
elbows across from me and there's this mischievous smile on his lips,
I want to drink it whole.
“ Were
there any other physically represented abilities in your family? Like
Michelangelo's?”
Another page shows a picture
of Salvatore and Michelangelo as teenagers, though who knows what age
they really were. God, I don't even know Steven's exact age in human
years. Do they call it human years versus superhero years? Must ask.
Thing
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