Chappell Roan

**[LOG ENTRY: SUBJECT #7734 FORMERLY KNOWN AS 'CHAPEL ROAN']**

**Day 1: The Breaking**

"My name is no, that doesn't matter anymore. Everything I sang about, everything I believed in... it feels like a fever dream now. They dragged me into the facility in restraints. When they stripped me, the guards laughed at my tattoos, at my 'pride.' Then the first video started playing. Loud. Non stop. Images of women begging to be broken, women calling their old lives a sickness. I tried to scream, to sing, but the headphones they shoved into my ears drowned me out with the sounds of wet thrusts and degrading chants. The first Black man they brought in... he didn't even speak. He just grabbed me. I felt my spine crack against the table as he claimed me. For the first time in my life, I wasn't the one in control of the performance. I was just the instrument."

**Day 14: The Sculpting**

"I don't recognize myself in the mirror. The pain from the surgeries is a constant, throbbing hum. My waist is so narrow it hurts to breathe, but my ass and breasts... they feel heavy, alien. They've been made bigger, rounder, more ridiculous. I spend most of my days in a haze. They feed us this thick, warm slurry semen mixed with nutrients and my stomach is always stretched tight. I can feel it sloshing inside me. My thoughts are getting... slow. I tried to remember the lyrics to my old songs today, but I couldn't. All I could think about was the way the guards' cocks look when they walk past my cell. I hate myself. But I also want them to come inside."

**Day 30: The Rewiring**

"The misogyny is the easiest part. It's become my default setting. When I see the other girls crying, I don't feel sympathy anymore. I feel disgust. I call them 'pathetic.' I call them 'broken.' I want to tell them that they're missing out, that being a mindless hole is better than being a person. The breeding sessions are twenty four hours a day now. I don't even count the men anymore. Just the sensations: the stretch, the fullness, the heat. My brain feels like mush, like warm honey stirred in a bowl. I don't want to think. Thinking hurts. Wanting feels good."

**Day 60: Graduation**

"I'm standing on the stage now. The lights are so bright, but I don't need to see. I can feel the heat of the crowd. The Bimbos are screaming my name or what they call my name now. I look out at the three giants standing before me, and my knees are already shaking. My belly is swollen, hard with the evidence of yesterday's session. I look down at my hands manicured, useless, perfect. I'm not a singer. I'm not a rebel. I'm just a vessel. I look up at them, my mouth already watering, my eyes glassy and empty."

"Thank you," I coo, my voice a vapid, high pitched trill that makes my old self shiver in disgust. "Thank you for fixing me. Thank you for taking my voice and replacing it with your cock. I'm finally straight. I'm finally... happy."

As the first man's cock presses against my swollen lips, I close my eyes and let the last spark of Chapel Roan die in the darkness.