The smell is haunting me.

I seem to be haunted by pie. This smell, it won't leave. It wafted through my window the other morning. I hate pie. Pie has ruined deserts for the rest of my life. The smell of sweet things, candies, baked goods, prostitutes perfumes. They remind me of my mother, a cheap and lowly baker. She came from a family of bakers living here in Watershed Heights. They were the poorest of the poor. With no sense of business. If she hadn't married my father who knows what would have happened. He brought her family to fortune by creating a large bakery, factory on the outskirts of town as he built his own real-estate empire. Mother's entire family worked in it, baking pies and sweets. On the unfortunate occasional day, I was forced to go to work with her, among her poor factory relatives and forced to do manuel labor along side them. Those fools didn't they see how worthless the blue collar job of a factory was? How my father hadn't helped them but rather made them slaves to themselves and the supply and demand of the economy. My working cousins would stuff me into the flour and sugar bins forcing me to choke as I tried to take in a breath laughing as I sputter when they pulled my head out of the flour and I coughed out white clouds of dust. How I hated that factory of sweets. As mother got old, and after father had died, I changed her will so that they received nothing from this family. Now, I refuse to eat pies and cakes or any sweet that passes my way.