My Dad, The Corrupt Politician: A Noir Tale of Power and Plastic Bags

It was 2 AM. Rain lashed against the balcony. The city lights blurred like tears on glass. I held a lukewarm cup of coffee. The silence screamed louder than any accusation.

I finally understood what it meant to be truly alone.

The Golden Cage

My father, a mayor in China, a “pillar of the community.” That’s what they called him.

He told me being a politician was hard. He spoke of land disputes, of powerful men twisting arms. He offered me a shortcut, the fast lane paved with favors.

But I’d have to wear a mask. Forever.

The Fall

Then came the knock. The accusations. The dreaded “Shuang规” (internal party discipline). He was gone.

My mother was livid. A “relatively clean” official in a dirty system. How could this be happening?

The Fabrication

Connections were made. Back channels explored. The message was clear: it wasn’t about justice.

It was about quotas.

They’d “make” the case, find the numbers, build the narrative. It didn’t matter if it was true.

“Why him?” my mother asked. The answer chilled me.

The Four Rules of Corruption

No strong family ties. No powerful allies. No protective network.

And a high enough rank to make it worth their while. A big boss, ripe for the taking.

They needed a trophy.

The Nightmare Unfolds

My family was collateral damage. Relatives were dragged in. Pressure applied.

My father, a man of principle, finally broke. He confessed. To save his family.

The Torture Chamber

My mother was taken to Yanbian, a city known for its brutal disciplinary tactics. Seven days without sleep. Then, only two hours a night.

Plastic bags over the head. Suffocation. The brief gasp for air filled with cigarette smoke.

Electric batons used on women.

No Justice, Only Survival

My mother, a teacher, endured horrors. Her legs scarred from electric shocks.

The illusion shattered. The red flag now triggers a visceral disgust.

I’m living abroad now. Trying to find peace. Knowing there is none to be found.

The rain keeps falling.

This is article #357 of accepting my mediocrity.
I seek not fame in this world, only a clear conscience.
— The Observer