Perry.

It was my mother who decided on naming me Perdita. My father tried to talk her out of it, Jessica sounds nice dear, or how about Emily? But she just smiled at me and shook her head.
And so I became Perdita, but I preferred Perry. My father held onto the notion that once I was old enough I could change my name to whatever I liked. He told me so late one afternoon in May. Now Perry, he said taking both of my hands into his, You know that one day, when you are older and wiser and have seen more of the world, if you still don’t like your name, you can change it to whatever you like. I stared at his wrinkled, calloused hands, covered with an array of scars, going this way and that, they were a map of his life. Really? I asked him, and I looked up as he smiled down at me. Do you promise? I said to him with my chin raised, determination moulding my face into a pair of crinkled eyes and a firm mouth, just daring him to say no.
But he promised. And ever since then I’ve tried to figure out who I could be.


(This is something new. I've been having trouble writing lately, but I am attempting to change that and this is the result.)