To start this off, I'm not much of a writer.
That's not a great opening sentence. Scratch that.
Writing was never my strong point. Neither was grammar. Or spelling. Thank God for modern technology and spellcheck.
No, wait. That doesn't work either.
Forget it. Honestly, if there wasn't a good reason for it, I wouldn't be writing this at all. But there is a good reason. And I'm sorry for it. It was all Alice's idea, not mine. She said it would work. And never again will I doubt Alice.
She said I needed to have this story told before it's too late. Kind of an auto-biography that's not about me at all. Well, I guess it is, but more about a single person that changed me completely: the reason I'm writing this—the good reason.
It's about my—eh—changes, her, and the adventure that could very well kill both of us.
Which you won't know the outcome of until it's already over. Alice won't even know. Which is why she thinks it's crucial I write this. Now. So I am sitting here writing this under her command while I have one week until I die, my good reason dies, or both.
And I'm praying it's me. Otherwise, this is pointless.
Ugh. Alice would like me to add that if we both die, then the story would still be told. Someone would know who we were, what we did. If she lives, this story is for her; if we both die, this story is for the rest of you out there, who can do nothing about it. The worst that could happen is they—they—would kill us if they knew I told you. But, if you are reading this, odds are I'm already dead. So are the rest of us, the resistance, the secret army, if you will. They can't do anything.
Except kill you. I didn't think of that.
Which is why you can't tell anyone. You're life is now at stake.
Yeah, sorry about that.