I’m in my dorm room, trying to finish a paper for my writing class. This is a very important paper and I need full concentration. Suddenly a smug smile invades my thoughts. A smile I am all too familiar with. To my great misfortune, I turn around and Douchey Derek is standing over my shoulder, reading my work with that signature sinister smile of his.

His smile is wide and intimidating, his lips thin and stringy. His eyes are the edge of a sharp knife. Ears, large and droopy, shaking when he speaks. Douchey Derek is bone thin, swaying with the slightest breeze. However his head is monstrous, the size of a newborn.

Derek open his mouth and as soon as the words escape his crooked teeth, my body recoils instinctively.

  “This is trash bro,” He snorths, “really lacks any kind of depth or meaning.”

I know what he’s doing, this is a game I’m all too familiar with. Derek's head is big, his ego is big, but his self confidence is non-existent. He wants to put me down so he can pick himself back up.

As he continues to put me down, I notice someone, or something, smudged in between his neck fat. Upon further inspection, it appears to be a small man. Old and aging, with too small glasses for his bulging eyes. His liver spotted head is partially obscured by a pathetic attempt at a combover. He looks feverish, constantly jittering with snot running down his pig nose.

 “Who’s that?” I ask meekly. Derek rolls his eyes and a noise escapes his lips.

  “What?” I repeat

  “My Dad.” He mumbles.

I laugh.

Now it all makes sense, hs father is his source of woe, of insecurity. His fat head comes from his father. Both literally and figuratively. A most sad yet enlightening discovery.

 “Derek you need to look a person in the eye when you speak to them.” His dad thunders, “Speak clearly too. No one can understand you! You know I would never do that. I’m the greatest, most intelligent and elegant person you know!”

Derek looks down at his misshapen feet  in shame, a scenario I’m sure he’s all too familiar with.

 “You need to be perfect son, no mistakes in whatever you do.!”

Derek goes for a rebuttal, or an apology? We will never know which one, because his tongue goes fat and his mind numb.

   “Woulda shoulda coulda? Ha ha yes me too thanks! Icecream ice cream! Err care to dance?”

Douchey Derks face turns the color of spoiled milk, and is ears go red. His father gives him a disappointed look, and clicks his tongue at him. Derek flies into a fit of rage, taking my desk lamp, my laptop, anything he can grab his hands on, and starts smashing. He yells profanity mixed with other nonsense phrases.

 “Pootles slept with the Archbishop! Not my chair not my problem that's what I always say! Up to sixty up to sixty!’

I continue to watch him in absolute horror, as his ginger hair starts to fall out, and his eyes sag and droop out of his skull, onto the floor. He lets out a blood boiling scream, as his skin starts to melt, and his ego with it.

Dereks dad slides off his sons melting shoulder, looking back up to him in disgust.

 “I warned him this would happen, you think too hard about yourself, you end up losing yourself!”

With that, he walked out never to be seen again.

One last scream, and Douchey Derek is a warm wet puddle on the floor. Fear floods my mind. What should I do? Whats my roommate going to say? I see a dirty jar that remained intact during Derek's fit of rage, and an idea pops into my head.

I remember the jar, it was an old used salsa jar, unwashed and moldy. I scoop Derek into the jar, handful by handful, until he is nicely contained for the first time in his life.

I seal the jar, and keep it on my desk to this day, next to my broken lamp. He serves as a reminder now, that he will never control me, I control him.