Before we go on this journey together, I would just like to point out that I do refer to things that happened in the series, but I'm adding and tweaking things to make it fit my story.

Plus, English isn't my first language, so please bear with me as I struggle to keep the grammatical mistakes as low as possible ;)

2:21. Bloody hell. That gives me about two hours of sleep before the alarm clock decides to wake me up. That is, if I actually manage to fall asleep.

Go to bed early, my mum said, because tomorrow is going to be a long day. Well, thanks very much, mum. I've been lying awake for over four hours now. What was the average amount of time it takes for someone to fall asleep? Seven minutes, right? Well, not in my world.

One glance at the alarm clock tells me three more minutes have passed.

I turn around, hoping that if I turn my back on the alarm, it will stop mocking me. Evil piece of technology. Almost as evil as my parents. Their two lovely children, my brother and I, decided to go to Cardiff for two weeks. On their own. Surely our parents would be kind enough to take us to the airport? No such luck. They both have to work, which leaves us in the unpredictable hands of public transport. Here is to hoping that it is not going to be too windy, too rainy, too early or whatever other excuse they have for delaying trains.

Brilliant, 22 years old and already a bitter person. It's not my fault, though. It seems as though everyone has an opinion about everything nowadays, and those opinions are always about them knowing it better.

Oh well, in just a couple of hours I will be on the plane, going to the land of castles, sheep and… I don't really know to be honest. I wanted to go to Wales because I've never been there before, but I hardly know anything about it. I suppose I just have to wait and find out.

I turn around one more time, expecting to see those floating red numbers to be even closer to the time of 5 o'clock, when the time bomb that is my alarm clock goes off. 2:53.

This is going to be a long night.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear music. At least, I suppose some people would call it music. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to play this loud, terrible noise at this time of the night? Wait a minute, what time is it anyway? As though he could hear my question, the man on the radio tells me it is two minutes past five.

That means I did fall asleep after all. Then why do I still feel so tired? I can vaguely recall having a dream, but they say that is just your brain dealing with and processing experiences from the previous days, so that shouldn't make me even more tired.

Now I come to think of it, this was a rather weird dream. I can remember seeing two eyes. Two very blue eyes. They belonged to a man who was standing in my bedroom. I read somewhere that the faces your brain uses in your dreams, are those of people you cross in the street or see on the train for instance. I suppose I must have seen this man's face in a film or something, because he looked like some kind of Hollywood actor. A bit like Tom Cruise, but way more handsome.

The more I think about that dream, the more details I can remember. The liveliness of this dream fascinates me, but it scares me at the same time. His eyes looked so real. They were full of sadness and pain. They were the eyes of someone who has seen too much and experienced too many losses. But why was he in my dream? I mean, I'm sure I would have remembered a face like that, and it was not as if the dream was very spectacular. The man was simply standing there, looking at me with those piercing eyes, his hands in his pockets.

Oh well, it was just a dream and I'm wide awake now. Time to get out of bed and into the shower, before someone beats me to it.

During breakfast, I'm aimlessly flicking through the newspaper. Not being able to concentrate on the text, I decide to just look at the photos and headlines. Wars, political scandals, reality TV-stars getting married and divorcing again after a couple of months, cheating footballers... Just another day in our Western society.

After being dropped off at the train station, my brother and I are just in time to catch our train, which, surprisingly enough, is right on time.

Half an hour later, we find ourselves at a very busy airport. Fascinatingly enough, life never seems to stop at an airport. Whatever the time is, there are always people flying from one place to another. So many different lives, so many different stories to be told. Quite extraordinary when you think about it.

Right in the middle of my little philosophical moment, some dark-haired man in a suit bumps straight into me. Without even turning around to apologise, he walks on as if I don't exist. I angrily look at the back of his head, hoping that I've suddenly developed the ability of exploding someone's head. Unfortunately, this was not the case, so we just walk on.

"Shall we get a coffee somewhere?" I ask my brother, realising that I had hardly spoken a word with him since arriving at the airport.

"Yeah, sure," he replies, "but I want proper coffee. Not that terribly sweet Starbucks-shit."

My brother the coffee-lover. He'll laugh at you when you say you want sugar or milk in your coffee. Since I don't really like the bitter taste of coffee, and certainly don't want to hear my brother's speech about the wonders of the black liquid, I decide to order tea.

"So, baby brother Gareth," I say, after finding two chairs, "it's been almost three years now. I know mum and dad don't really want to talk about it, but I thought, maybe you want to. You know, get it off your chest. Because it can't be good for you if you keep sulking. You do know it's not your fault that-"

"Yes, I know. By the way, you're rambling again," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He looks back at his empty cup of coffee, his face serious again. "But I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

I drink the rest of my tea in silence.

Finally, we're on the plane. I don't understand why people think it is a good idea to rush into the plane as if there won't be enough seats. Most of you are British, you should know how to queue! I suppose you can't rely on stereotypes anymore these days.

When we finally found two seats next to each other and shoved our bags into the overhead cabinet with some violence, it is time for the standard welcome-to-this-plane-speech and the procedure of showing where the exits are.

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Today I will be flying you to the beautiful city of Cardiff."

"Hey, he's American," I mumble to myself, rather than to anyone in particular. Gareth heard me, though.

"So what? Aren't Yanks allowed to fly us from one place to another? It is not as if you have to be born in the country you're flying to or from."

"Yeah, I suppose," I answer, still finding it slightly strange, for some unexplainable reason. "I guess I'm seeing things that aren't there again."

"Yes you are, you schizophrenic madwoman," he laughs, hitting my head playfully with the leaflet that was just handed out.

"Oi, stop it!" I say, ruffling his neatly styled hair.

We hear a cough coming from the seat next to us. A middle-aged woman looks at us in disdain. I smile at her, realising that we were acting like two excited children. But so what? I'm on holiday with my little brother and I'm not going to let a grumpy woman spoil my fun. I know how easily things can turn around. I feel a shiver going down my spine and try to repress the memories. Anyway, that's all in the past and I'm not going to let it happen again. I look at my brother who is reading a book with a smile on his face.

This is going to be a brilliant holiday.