Not really sure what I should about this story. Um, I know I never finished my other stories. xD I'm so uninspired sometimes. Ah, well. What made me write this one? I don't quite know.

Tested: Positive

"He lives the poetry he cannot write. Others write the poetry that they dare not realize."

--Oscar Wilde

Six months he waited. Six months for that moment. And when the moment was over, he waited three hours to cry.

So, this is how it's going to be?

He sat in that office for a long time, waiting for a word on the outcome of his test. And when it came, all hope was lost for what he had been hoping for was not what he had read.


It does not matter how this came to be, and he will not speak of it ever again. It was frightening what happened, and now he could not escape it. The one word he feared the most was staring him in the face; screaming at him even as he looked away.

His brother drove him home, reassuring him everything would be okay. His brother wasn't clear how or why, but it would be okay. He didn't believe it for one moment, silently and bitterly whispering the word liar in his mind.

When he got home, he sat on the couch and stared off into space. He didn't want to come to terms with reality.

"Madoc. I'm here if you want to talk. Whenever you're ready." His brother had said, sitting next to the younger man on the couch-- and that was when emerald eyes met honey brown-- and that was when he broke down.

Madoc is the victim – or the hero – in this story; but that isn't for me to say.


Everyday, I look in the mirror. At first, it was like – I don't know. I don't really remember much of my thoughts. When I looked in the mirror I saw a funeral. I saw a dead being. I saw the disease that pumped through me. I saw the evil that had put it there. I saw the innocent that had died when it happened. Ultimately, I saw nothing.

I couldn't see the person I was or the person I was going to be. In truth, I couldn't see the funeral, or the dead, or the disease, or the evil. I couldn't see the fighter, or the lover, or the graduate, or the helper. I saw a black void where I stood. Because that's what was in my brain. A big black void.

Eventually, after I began to see my old friends and classmates and teachers and definitely my brother, I saw me again. The green eyed, chestnut brown haired, five-eleven soccer player I had always been. I decided, just one day out of the blue as I stared into that mirror, that I wanted to fight. I wouldn't let this thing take over.

I'd fight the HIV/AIDS.

Some days I'd forget about it, and for some reason that scared me. I didn't want to forget. That was me now, and I had always been one to accept me for me – even if the rest of the world didn't.

So I went out. I had the dog tags made. The two dog tags were red metal with black silencers, and a laser carved two words in silver, one on each dog tag – Tested: Positive. That way I would never forget.

Review, please :D I want to know what you think. ... Or do I? Ho hum.