My Father's high backed chair.

My father had a high backed chair. It was made of oak, I think, with no cushion for comfort. When I pointed that out, my father simply said that I had cushions enough on my rear already.
And that was that.
The chair has, in my mind, come to represent my father. Hard. Harsh. Utilitarian. Even now, long after his death, the chair sits in my cellar. It faces the wall, and in my mind it still holds him, just waiting for me to pass by looking especially scruffy or moody. Then, he will rise from it like a vampire from the grave, to lecture me once more.
And what lectures they were! He'd sit me there, on the hard wood, and walk around and around me, telling me what I'd done wrong, how I should improve, how he'd never had these problems with my sister. He never raised his voice; it was just a long, cold stream of disappointment, accompanied by the occasional gesture or prod at whatever was objectionable about me that week.
Sometimes it was my hair. Too long, unkempt, too bright. It didn't look 'proper', as he said.
Other times it was my clothes, and then he'd spend hours dissecting my outfit and why it just wouldn't wash in the 'real world'. Always too scruffy, apparently.
Worst, however, were the times, and they were often, where he took objection to my weight. He'd call me into his study as I tried to creep past, always with the same phrase.
"Christina. Can I have a word?"
The others 'invitations' were random, but if it was about my weight, it was always the same.
I'd go in, and he'd gesture to the chair. Nothing but a single finger telling me to sit, but there was a threat there as tangible as a loaded gun.
Once I'd sat, feeling the the wood creak beneath me, my buttocks sag over each side, he'd begin his most vicious lectures of all. Cruel suggestions and crueller observations flew at me like bullets, hitting at every angle as he circled. My round stomach, my flabby arms, my thick thighs. None were safe from him. And then, half way through a sentence-
"Undress".
And then I'd have to stand, hearing the wood sigh with relief as I did, and strip down before his judging eyes until I was in nothing but my underwear. Then I'd sit upon the chair once more, and together we'd suffer the worst of the worst.
Without my clothes to shield me, I was barer and more vulnerable than ever. He'd pinch the flab that spilled over my bra strap between a disgusted finger and thumb. He'd prod my fatty rear where it was too wide for the chair's narrow seat. He'd lift my belly with one hand, then release it to spill back over my crotch. And all the while, he was continuously blasting at me with his heartless tongue.
Finally he'd step away, then turn his back as though suddenly overcome with revulsion. That I could understand. I felt it every time I looked in the mirror.
Then, and only then, was I free to flee the cursed place. I remember vividly the strange look I always got from my sister, whose room was across the corridor.
Now that I think of it, it must have been strange to see your sibling half naked, eyes full of tears, running from her own bedroom.