Work Text:
Case #0021813 - Statement of an anonymous man only referred to as ‘The Host’, regarding his friendship with one ‘Bim Trimmer’.
Original statement given March 21, 2016.
Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Statement begins:
The Host hadn’t had many friends. No one really wanted to put up with his constant narrating. That was before he met Bim.
The Host didn’t remember where or when they’d first come into each other’s lives. He did, however, remember the feeling of elation when Bim never pointed out the way he spoke in third person or narrated everything he did or said. It was just as well, Bim had an overdone game show host voice, even when he wasn’t working.
Before The Host had met Bim, he had been a devoted fan of his game show, ‘Hire My Ass’. It was a high-energy production, and he’d enjoyed it. The Host had never been one for television-watching, as he couldn’t see a thing (due to his blindness), but ‘Hire My Ass’ was different to him. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he tuned in for every episode.
It was strange. When he spoke about it to anyone who happened to be briefly appearing in his life, they only ever told him that they’d never heard of it, and any research into it turned up with nothing. The Host didn’t mind. The lack of people who knew anything about the show didn’t change the fact that it was a good show.
The Host had been taken aback when he’d first met him. He’d had the thought in his head that, perhaps there was no Bim Trimmer and that he’d just been a delusion, and yet, the man stood before him. The pair quickly became friends. They spent many of their days together, where Bim would complain about work, and The Host would narrate it all. Bim was exaggerated, dramatic at times, but it was all in good taste, and The Host didn’t mind.
One day, though, The Host had knocked on Bim’s dressing room door, only to be met with humming. He recognized it as his friend’s flamboyant singing, and knocked again. Nothing. He pressed his ear to the door to hear if he might have been showering or dressing. It was silent, excluding Bim’s crooning.
He knocked for a third time, louder. The humming stopped abruptly, something clattering to the floor. The latch came undone, and The Host backed up as Bim opened the door. Bim smiled, and though The Host couldn’t see it, he could hear it in his words. It sounded fake, but The Host didn’t think it was his place to ask if he was alright. They hadn’t been that close at the time.
They went for a walk in the park near the studio, Bim linking his arm with The Host’s, to guide him. (The Host should note, there were no feelings aside from their shared platonic ones towards each other, as Bim had a very strong crush on a man named Matthias). They spoke together for a long time, about nothing at all, and slowly but surely, Bim’s voice lost the fake-smile sound to it.
After Bim had walked The Host home, he had mentioned that he needed to go back to his office to work on a project. The Host didn’t really think much of it, thanking Bim for escorting him back to his house, and turning in for the night.
When he returned to Bim’s studio the next evening, Bim didn’t answer the door, no matter how many times he knocked. He pushed open the door, finding it to be unlocked. He still couldn’t hear him inside. There was a soft, repeating sound though. An irritating drip, drip, drip. The Host had just assumed that the bathroom had a leaky tap, and decided that perhaps Bim had gone home early and forgotten to call him to tell him that he wouldn’t be meeting him.
On his way out, he stepped on a slick patch on the carpet. Bim must’ve spilt something. He walked home, and called Bim. He didn’t pick up.
The Host didn’t see much of Bim after that. Yet, everyday he came to the studio, finding it to be empty or Bim would come to the door, telling him that he was busy or sick. Eventually The Host found that he never answered the door. Though The Host missed him, he knew that no matter how close he got to someone, they would tire of him eventually. Then they’d leave.
‘Hire My Ass’ stopped airing a few months after they stopped talking. No announcements, nothing. It just never played on TV again. Episodes of a show that The Host thinks was called ‘Whose Line Is It Anyways?’ played instead. The Host never left the TV on for the whole episode.
The Host didn’t forget about Bim. He always thought that he was going to call, going to answer the door. He never did.
One day he went to the studio, the usual quiet hum of the employees at work not surprisingly missing. They hadn’t been there for a while. The Host continued towards Bim’s dressing room, a routine he’d built up over the past year. He knocked on the door, not surprised to find that Bim did not answer. He listened for movement inside, but only heard the damned dripping of what he decided was the sink all those months ago. Though, as he listened closer and stilled his breath, a low slurping sound could be heard from inside. The Host’s stomach went cold. He suddenly didn’t want to see Bim this evening.
He stopped going to Bim’s studio. The Host missed the walks and the conversations, but he could no longer even pass the studio without feeling cold and ill. He didn’t know what the slurping sound was. He didn’t want to know.
The Host lay in bed, weeks after he’d quit going to see Bim. It was unnervingly silent, the night completely devoid of the usual wind blowing, cars passing, dogs barking. The world outside his window felt as if it didn’t exist at all.
He felt himself slowly, slowly drop into unconsciousness, relaxing into the sheets.
He was awoken in the middle of the night, to hands cradling his face. A voice that couldn’t be anyone’s but Bim’s came from above him, but it was lacking the enthusiasm he usually held.
“Please don’t hate me, please.”
His words sounded strangled and forced. He was crying. Salty tears and coppery blood dripped from Bim’s face onto The Host’s as he pleaded, repeating the phrase over and over again.
The Host couldn’t remember any pain.
He could only remember Bim’s hands on his cheeks, icy and covered in dried blood as the man sobbed.
He could only remember waking up in the hospital with surgical staples and a scar running down the side of his neck, down to his collarbone.
He could only remember the thought that crossed his mind, the one thought that simply stated that he would never see Bim again.
The Host knows that this is a strange story. He doesn’t care. He just needs to get this down on paper.
Statement ends.
After reading over this, I decided to look into who Mr. ‘Bim Trimmer’ was, and found no records of the man. The way that the man that made this statement never referred to himself in the first person was odd, though his statement is one of the more… believable ones that we have here in the Archives. The names in this story are both incredibly strange, and ‘The Host’s’ lack of human contact aside from this game show host is disconcerting. However, I did look into this his medical records, a hard thing to do without his name, and found that this injury did occur. It was caused by what the surgeons who operated on him think were teeth, from the uneven cut and traces of saliva in the wound. The cut ran inches deep, making me think that perhaps the teeth were not human.
I am sure that this story will invade my thoughts for many days after this recording is archived. It is truly an enigma, but it will likely remain untouched for years.
End recording.