She remembered when she was sixteen, when everyone told her she was beautiful-- dark curls, pouty lips, and sultry eyes. Strangers would throw disgusting catcalls her way every day, and when she was with her friends they would roll their eyes at them, threatening to call their fathers to teach them a lesson. As soon as she closed the door to her bedroom she would collapse on her bed and let her mind explore her innermost fantasies where those catcalls were well received. That was when she was beautiful. These days, as she sat at the hotel bar, a cigarette in one hand a shot in the other, Candice smirked as she considered her shitty luck. At sixteen the world was hers, but now, now she was just a has-been.