Chapter 4: Grit

Lídia “Grit” do Amaral
Insomniac since 2015

–

My name is Lídia do Amaral.
But they call me Grit.

No one really raised me.
I grew up in cheap boarding houses, drywall walls, sticky floors.
Slept to the sound of distant TVs, woke up to people screaming through the walls.

I started out as a night security guard.
Then moved to a dirty little debt collection job.
Ugly work. Small pay. Just the way the world likes it.

Two arrests.
Three fractures that never healed right.
A scar on my abdomen that I stitched up myself with kite string.
Yeah, it hurt. But I’ve had worse.

I learned to shoot from a nightclub bouncer who popped pills like it was air.
He died choking on his own vomit.
That’s how fast people go around here.

They gave me the nickname “Grit” because I don’t cry.
I just grind my teeth.
Still do.

I hate drama.
But I crave conflict.
If the room gets too quiet, I’ll start something.
I need the noise.
Silence… it eats at me.

In my pocket, I always carry:
– A lighter with no gas
– Two expired anti-inflammatories
– A torn piece of paper with a number I never called

Because once, in some forgotten moment, I almost asked for help.

Almost
That’s my word.

Almost quit.
Almost believed.
Almost died.

But I didn’t.
I’m still here.

And no, it’s not strength.
It’s just stubbornness.
I stay because there’s still shit that makes me angry.
And as long as I’m angry, I’m alive.

So says the Code.