Petting the Lion

I can still taste the blood from biting down on my tongue, can still feel the heat on my neck, hear the harshness of his voice. It was not something to forget. I remember that first time. I remember it like dream: some parts fuzzy, others clear as dew. It was shower time. I was four. I had the towel ready on the toilet seat. But when I stepped out, it wasn’t there. The hallway door was locked. The door to the big bedroom was not. I creaked it open. There he was. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my towel in his arms.
"Are you looking for this?"
I was.
"Yessir."
I didn’t like his face. He wanted to play a game. I didn’t say anything. He wrapped me in the towel.
"Show me how a big girl dries herself off."
"Yessir."
Always doing what I was told.
"That’s a girl. Now come lay up here on the bed."
I was cold. Shivering. He rubbed me all over, pet me like a kitten. A little kitten, too young to meow, too young to draw claws. His lips were all over my body, kissing my eyelids, neck, ribs. Holding my soft feet, sucking on my toes. I was tickled. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream. Something, I didn’t know. He ran his big hands up to my belly.
"Do you want to see something cool?"
I nodded.
"I can touch your belly-button from the inside... See?"
No, no I didn’t know what that feeling was. It twisted and curved and was cold in my stomach. I couldn’t see.