This past week has been the most difficult of my life, ever.

(names changed to protect the innocent)

When I came back from having my STI tests, they found that I had Chlamydia. I slotted nicely into the "one of the 1/8th of UK youth who has a STI"- statistic.

I will be the first to admit that I've led a... What shall we say... Sexually promiscuous life. I am not sure how that happened. I have always been very unsure of myself. Whenever anybody showed me the least bit of attention, sexually, I have been utterly unable to turn it down.

With the piece in paper in hand saying I had to be treated for chlamydia, my life crumbled. Not because the treatment would be bad (just some antibiotics, apparently), nor because I was ashamed or worried. But because the only Right Thing to do would be to call all of my previous sexual partners, and let them know. Advise them to get tested.

Doing the Right Thing is important to me.

I did put it off for several days, however. Cowardice, mostly, I presume. As I promised, I went back to the clinic a couple of days later, to get the results of the tests they sent off for. Which was when the real truth was rammed home.

HIV positive.

"What?", I said, and stared into the nurse's eyes, somehow expecting her to start laughing, and tell me it was a joke. But no such thing happened. I felt like I must have stared into her sad brown eyes for several hours. She was talking to me, but I couldn't listen. I couldn't hear a single word of what she was saying, and my tears were slowly overflowing into my eyes and down my cheeks. Just before my world was fogged up completely, I realised that this nurse had probably read out this death sentence (that was how I perceived it. And I still do.) to a handful of teens before me. And that her sadness did not stem from the fact that she had to tell me, but to her knowledge that I most certainly would not be the last youngster she would condemn to an early grave.

HIV positive.

That was on Monday. Merry Christmas, Thomas. Merry christmas indeed.

The only reason I went to go take the test was that I wanted to do it as a symbolic act. Having found Lynne is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Getting tested for STIs was never even about the test itself, nor about finding out if I was infected with anything. I never thought I would be. It was more of a symbolic line in the sand. There is a Before Lynne, and an After Lynne. And After Lynne, there would only be one sexual partner for the rest of my life.

Except for all I know, I may have killed her already.

When I found out I tested positive for Chlamydia, I sat down and wrote a list of all the people I had slept with. Then I wrote a second list, of all the people I had had unprotected sex with at one point or another. Shamefully, I realised that the second list was only about six names shorter than the first list. And the first list was a lot longer than I seemed to remember.

The task of calling them all suddenly went from uncomfortable to downright mortifying. I would have to tell them my test results. I would have to tell them to get tested. I would have to tell them that I have no idea how long I have been carrying the virus. And I would have to tell them to not panic, stay calm, and wait for their test result.

Today was the day that I told everybody. Lynne I told first, of course. She came home from work. She skipped in my front door, leapt at me, hugged me, and told me she had missed me all day. Then she noticed I was acting strange, and asked me what was wrong. I told her. She nodded. She hugged me once. Then, without a single word, she grabbed her handbag, turned around, and walked quickly out of the house. Despite my protests, the next thing I knew was her racing away in her little car. I have been trying to call her all day, but her parents haven't seen her (and are now worried, because nobody can get a hold of her), and her mobile has been off.

I had promised myself that I would not put off the calling of everybody on the second list, no matter what happened. And I was not about to pussy out of it. This is too important. It was still about doing The Right Thing, but now it was infinitely more important.

I went through the list in chronological order.

The first call. Carrie listened to what I had to say, then she put the phone down. She called back just after I got off the phone with Elizabeth, to tell me she was sorry for being brusque. She also thanked me for letting me know. Through her tears, she also let me know that she had a fiancée now. She said she was going to get tested tomorrow. I wished her luck. It was horrible.

Phone-call after phone-call. I was met with hatred. Anger. Surprise. Remorse. Some of the split-ups I have been trhough have been truly horrendous.

Elizabeth especially.

After we broke up in May, a year and a half ago, we haven't spoken at all. I first had to call her parents to get her new mobile number. They were not amused, but I told them it was important. Her father told me to leave her alone. I must have sounded serious enough for him to give me the number, but only after threatening to kill me if I hurt her. I think what I had to tell her would hurt her, but I hope he does not make true his threats. Although I remember thinking (somewhat melodramatically, in retrospect) that being killed by a six-foot-six car mechanic who collects knives and machetes sounds like a better death than being slowly drained of life-force by AIDS.

Anyway. I got Elizabeth on the line. She immediately launched into a monologue about how she was just planning to call me, as she was wondering how I was doing, and if I had gotten rid of that Lynne girl yet. The question lingered in the air, and rendered me unable to speak. The longest silence, broken by her voice (now realising she had probably said something stupid) asking a quiet "hello?". Then I told her. And another long silence.

I took Elizabeth's virginity after we had dated for a few months, and I have had only two sexual partners since. Statistically, I suppose that means that chances are overwhelming that I have given her the virus. She realised that at the same time as I did, and I am still convinced that I could hear the very moment she realised it. As if I wasn't in enough emotional turmoil. Before she hung up, she admitted to me that she had never had intercourse with anybody but me. (Only Elizabeth would ever actually use the word "intercourse". She was a fantastic girlfriend, I cannot believe our relationship did not work out.) And now, in a foul sweep of an STI test which I am now convinced will come out positive for her as well, I just know that she will never have unprotected intercourse with anybody, ever again.

I can not believe how good I felt about taking her virginity. And now I will be the only one. I feel like a murderer. Perhaps I am.

It has been several hours since Lynne walked out of the house. I have tried to call her fifty times, but her phone is still off. I am wondering if I should call her parents again, or the police. Or perhaps start calling the hospitals. For all I know she has driven into a bridge support or off a cliff. Not that there are any cliffs around here.

I feel like I have stabbed all the people I loved (or rather, made love to) in the heart.

I do not have a clue whom I picked up the virus from. It could have been Christina, the first girl I ever had sex with. It was a holiday romance in Germany, many a year ago. It may have been one of the too many one-night-stands I have had (although I did use a condom on most of them). I do not know of anybody around me who has ever been tested for STIs. I am not sure if any of my ex-girlfriends or partners have ever been tested. It could have been any of them, I suppose.

Except Elizabeth.

This write-up is fiction.