Liam Carter

Being a bouncer wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t even satisfying most of the time. It was long hours on your feet, dealing with drunk idiots, dodging the occasional poorly aimed punch, and getting yelled at for things that weren’t remotely your fault.

But it paid the bills, and for Liam Carter, that was enough.

The neon lights of the club pulsed above the entrance, casting a faint pink glow on the line of people waiting to get in. Music thumped from inside, the bassline reverberating through the pavement and into Liam’s chest as he stood by the door, arms crossed.

“ID,” he said, his voice low but firm, as the next person in line stepped up.

The guy was young, barely out of his teens, with a swagger that screamed overcompensation. He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out an ID that Liam didn’t even bother to glance at before handing it back.

“Too drunk,” Liam said simply, motioning him out of the line.

“What? No, come on, mate,” the guy protested, his words slurring together. “I’m fine!”

“You’re not,” Liam replied, his tone flat.

The guy’s friends started to chime in, pleading and making half-hearted excuses, but Liam didn’t budge. He’d heard it all before—the same tired arguments recycled by people who thought they were more clever than they were drunk.

“Next,” Liam said, ignoring the guy as he stumbled away, cursing under his breath.

The night dragged on, the line ebbing and flowing as people came and went. Inside, the music was deafening, a relentless thrum of bass and electronic beats that Liam could feel in his bones even from outside.

It wasn’t all bad, though. The job had its moments—like watching a guy try to impress his date by skipping the line, only to trip over his own feet and faceplant onto the pavement. That one had kept Liam entertained for a good ten minutes.

Still, by the time the clock hit two in the morning, he was ready to be done. His feet ached, his back was sore, and the cold Sydney air had started to creep through his jacket.

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When his shift finally ended, Liam grabbed his jacket from the staff room and headed out into the night. The city was quieter now, the streets mostly empty save for the occasional taxi or a group of rowdy partygoers stumbling home.

He pulled out his phone, checking the time. 2:23 a.m.

“Great,” he muttered, shoving it back into his pocket.

It was a 15-minute walk to his car, parked a few blocks away to avoid the exorbitant parking fees near the club. Normally, he didn’t mind the walk—it gave him time to clear his head—but tonight, it just felt like another chore.

Liam’s flat was small, tucked into a nondescript building in the western suburbs. He let himself in quietly, kicking off his boots by the door and dropping his jacket onto the back of a chair.

The living room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. He paused for a moment, listening to the stillness before heading down the hall to the second bedroom.

“Mum?” he called softly, pushing the door open.

The room was dimly lit by a bedside lamp, its warm glow casting soft shadows on the walls. His mother was sitting up in bed, a blanket draped over her thin frame. Her face was pale, her features drawn with the kind of weariness that only came from prolonged illness.

“Liam,” she said, her voice weak but warm. “You’re late.”

“Work ran long,” he replied, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Same as always. You don’t have to hover, you know.”

“I’m not hovering,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.

He sat with her for a while, the two of them falling into an easy rhythm of conversation. They talked about the mundane details of their days—his work, her doctor’s appointments, the neighbor’s obnoxiously loud dog.

It was familiar, comforting in its simplicity. But beneath the surface, there was an unspoken tension, a weight that neither of them acknowledged.

Liam glanced at the clock, noting the time. Nearly three in the morning. He should’ve been exhausted, but the thought of leaving her alone made his stomach twist.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he said, standing up before she could protest.

“You spoil me,” she said, her smile faint but genuine.

“Someone has to,” he shot back, heading for the kitchen.

As the kettle boiled, Liam leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his face. His body ached from the night’s work, but his mind refused to settle.

His mum had been sick for years now, the illness creeping in slowly but relentlessly. He’d taken the job at the club because it paid well enough to cover the bills, but it was starting to feel like a treadmill he couldn’t get off.

“Just one thing at a time,” he muttered, pouring the hot water into a mug and stirring in the tea bag.

When he returned to the bedroom, his mum was already dozing, her breathing slow and steady. He set the tea on the bedside table and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her. The faint rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands rested lightly on the blanket.

“I’ll figure it out,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

And with that, he turned off the light and headed for his own room, hoping for a few hours of sleep before it all started again.