A/N: Again, thank you so much for reviewing. Lets hope this new chapter is equally 'raw' and 'fresh'. What does that mean, by the way?
About two months after the filming of the fanmovie I decided to write another book. Of course, I was feeling rather lazy. Rather than start from scratch I decided to adapt an old Rocky Horror fanfic of mine (titled Life [not] At The Frankenstein Place) into something more original (known as If I Go It Will Be Double). Virtually all of the characters were original anyway. All I'd need to do was change the copyrighted names, change certain backstories, and rework certain sequences. There were also some inconsistencies with the plot. Little things.
Working on something so simple seemed like cheating. I may be many things, but a cheater isn't one of them. My heart is full of honor, etc. etc.
So I knew I'd have to think of a new gimmick of some sort, a new issues for the heroine (Laura, known in the fanfic as Columbia) to struggle with. Originally, she'd run away from home to join a circus (of sorts) because she'd been uncloseted as bisexual. That no longer sound exciting enough. No. Then I thought of something brilliant! What if she'd deliberately become a heroin addict to spite her parents and make her sister Agnes, who had a bastard son named Oliver, look better? To make things even more dramatic I added in bits about an ex-roommate named Mary who becomes an addict due to Laura's bad example. I think I was trying to teach a moral lesson, though I can't quite remember. Maybe I just thought it sounded dramatic.
There was a problem, however. The entire tale was written in first person from Laura's point of view. It's her diary. Since I'd never been high before I knew I wouldn't be able to write certain scenes correctly. In fact, I didn't even know what poppy-derived drugs did to people… except make them get sickeningly skinny, look really tired, and randomly fall over. Well, that's what happened to Gary Oldman in Sid & Nancy. I suspected there was more to it than that. Why would someone want to inject a drug that did nothing but make them overly skinny, tired, and wobbly?
After ruminating for a while I decided to go to my cousin's coffee shop. That, I knew, was a very good place to think and write. Not to mention I could always ask the baristas for advice. They're all so nice. Well, maybe not the one guy with that tattoos and piercings who often wears large denim overalls. Though there's always at least one odd one out.
When I arrived at the coffee shop I entered via the backdoor. Then, I sat down at the big, smooth wooden table that fills about a fourth of the shop. Across from me sat a man in his late 30s, hunched over a laptop. His hair was an ordinary brown, his eyes tired. Papers covered in scraggly handwriting were scattered 'round the computer. I had to push some of them away in order to place my own laptop (which I'd brought with me, as usual). Luckily, the man didn't seem to mind or even notice.
I glanced around the room. There were quite a number of customers, happily sipping my cousin's coffees. He makes a variety of flavors. Some of them sound really strange, though they're all better than whatever Starbucks is serving. Probably. I was so anti-drugs that I never had any coffee or soda in my entire life. No matter how much my cousin pleaded, I always refused to drink anything so caffeinated. I did, however, often make an exception for the hot chocolate.
"Miranda!" a voice beside me said.
I turned to see Kirsten, my favorite barista. She sat down next to me at the table. It must've been her lunch break. Indeed, she held a trashy paranormal romance novel in her hand.
"Whatcha working on?" she asked, grinning.
"Oh, a story," I replied vaguely. "About a girl."
"I still need to do some research. There are some things I don't understand."
"Things" I paused, nervously, then cryptically added: "What if I tried something real? Took… serious stuff?"
"Serious numbing agents. Well, I think they're numbing. Narcotics has the same root as Narcolepsy, right? Doesn't 'narco' mean numbing?"
"I don't know. You're the writer here - you probably know more about words than I do."
You what I really, really hate? When people don't have answers. Especially when they're older than me or when they think I'm smarter than I am. All too often I have to figure things out on my own. Perhaps that's why I've read so much over the years. I was going to have to go to the library, wasn't I? Oh dear.
That's when I remembered the incense. If I were correct about it containing opium, I'd be able to actually get high rather than merely read about it. Surely I'd know exactly what to write after such an experience. If you ask me, anything can be done in the name of research. Accuracy is indeed important when you're writing.
Well, that was the excuse - the reasonings behind the mad scientist's experimentations.