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*Sweaty hands grip the countertop, firmly chocolate eyes blinking in an attempt to adjust to the foreign objects. The show host lifts his glasses from the cool counter top to slide them onto his nose, slowly examining the shade of his irises in his dressing room mirror. In the bright light provided by the bulbs rimming the reflective surface he can see that they’re...almost identical to his natural colour. Perfect.*
*Running a hand over his perfectly styled hair Bim Trimmer slips on a dazzling smile and saunters onstage, the door to his dressing room clicking shut behind him.*
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Morning, Host.
*The younger ego waltzes in as the narrator is sipping his morning tea. The Host offers Bim a gentle nod in greeting, but can’t help the way his softly murmured narrations follow Bim’s every movement, trying once more to pinpoint...something. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind crops up and the blind man almost wants to sigh at how often it’s begun to rear it’s head. However today...today maybe it’s right. Trimmer’s smile doesn’t seem as natural, his entire body language reeking of sleep deprivation - not unusual, and yet...*
“The Host wishes Bim Trimmer a good morning, and asks if Bim is headed back to the studio”
*Bim grins, barely managing to hide the exhaustion in his gaze as it trails toward The Host. He needs...he needs to get out before the narrator catches on.*
These TV shows don’t film themselves, Host.
*The Host sighs with a small but fond smile and a shake of his head*
“The Host only hopes that Bim Trimmer will not overwork himself. If Wilford Warfstache becomes problematic-“
Yeah, yeah, I know. I can handle ole Warfy, don’t you worry.
*With one last little wave the show host slips from the room, leaving behind a concerned Host with only one piece of the puzzle:*
*Something’s not as it seems with Bim Trimmer.*
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*Awake for another late night Bim sits at his computer, typing away at the script for the next Hire My Ass relentlessly. He’d gotten the editing finished early to work on the script without anyone knowing. Bim Trimmer doesn’t use detailed scripts. He improvises and bounces off the contestants’ humour and works with his space. But now...he needs it. If he doesn’t know exactly what to do when he risks slipping too far off course. Drawing attention to himself. Risks them catching on.*
*His eyes are starting to ache in the low light and the show host disappears into his dressing room to remove the irritating brown discs and carefully place them in their container. A shiver wracks it’s way through his body, dragging it’s icy fingers down his back.*
*Slowly Bim raises his gaze up to the mirror, locking it with the amethyst looking back at him. Endless, swirling voids of crystalline violet hues that glow ever so faintly in the dim lighting, accented by the furious internal struggle*
“Bim?”
*The confused voice is enough to snap his frantic gaze up to the reflection of the doorway, locking on a familiar brown. The show host stands so quickly that his chair tips backwards, hanging there for a moment before spinning to right itself. The dressing room door snaps shut on the doctor’s shocked expression, the smell of lavender and gunpowder spreading from the room with a thin sheen of lilac, creeping across the wood. It muffles the world beyond it - the constant rattling of generators, the buzz of lights, the crackle of speakers - even the doctor’s panicked words. It all slips away into a suffocating silence*
*Within the walled prison, Bim Trimmer falls to pieces.*