There were some sort of bad guys coming after us, and my entire family goes to hide in my brother's old room. There's another guy with us in the house and I'm trying to convince him to go with me, that he'll be safe hiding with us. He is visibly distraught, and keeps mumbling about something that he has to do. I can hear the people outside getting closer so I leave him and hurry upstairs to the rest of my family. After a while of not hearing much, my grandma walks in very casually, asking what we're doing. We realize that the evil dudes never came in the house, but the guy I'd been talking to earlier is gone. Then it switches and I'm in a kitchen with just my parents. For some reason I am super suspicious of them--as if I don't believe they are really my parents. I pull a butterknife on my mother, and she draws one on me. She is definitely not my mother. We both start attacking each other, but for some reason we are both held back and can only reach each other's wrists. She digs a blade into my fingers, I dig one into hers. They're steak knives now, and blood is dripping. I oddly only feel it a minimal amount, and I'm determined not to give up so I let her push as hard as she wants, not even flinching. Blood is dripping off of both of our hands, neither of us blinking, until finally my dad convinces us to stop.