I did something like this once. Except horrifically bad.

I was in high school, and I was terribly exhausted from recently completing a semester's worth of schoolwork at the very last minute, and I went to sleep as soon as I got back from school. Sadly, this was not an uncommon way for me to finish a semester. Anyway, I went to bed as soon as I got home from school, fully expecting to wake up in the middle of the night after about 10-12 hours of deep slumber. The kind of sleep where you wake up coughing thick mucus like you've just been pulled out of the Matrix. Like I said, I'd done this before.

Anyway, I did wake up, but not how I expected. At 1:15 a.m., I woke with a jolt to the loudest, longest, most foundation-rumblingest cacophony of thunder I'd ever heard. I snapped up, silhouetted by the unbelievable glare of the lightning; it was so bright it was physically painful. Even though my blinds were still closed I could hardly open my eyes against the flash. It lit up my whole room as bright as the sun. The thunder was shaking the walls as my heart pounded.

For a heartbeat, then another, I just sat there arm shielding my eyes, as the walls shook, pictures rattling on the walls, waiting for the strike to clear.

But it didn't stop. After a few more heartbeats, the thunderous rumble subsided, but my room remained bathed in light, the window, closed blinds and all, blazing like the heart of the sun.

Naturally, I drew the only logical conclusion: the United States of America had come under nuclear attack.

I sprang into action, not knowing if I had a chance to survive but desperate to try. Our house was built into a hill, so I figured if I had any hope, I had to get below that line before the shock-wave hit. Ignoring the ladder, I leaped from my bed, (a loft) smashing my keyboard drawer to splinters on the way down, and leapt like an animal for the door. Another heartbeat.

I ripped open the door and dove directly down the stairs--more of a flying tumble than a leap--where I crashed into the bottom. My head spun and my ankle burned but I shoved off anyway. It didn't matter; there was a first aid kit in the theater room if I could live long enough to use it. I knew I had only a second or two more at the most. Another heartbeat.

I shoved myself off the wall and around the corner, never rising to my feet—no time, and my ankle hurt too much for that anyway. But I was almost there. I was half a heartbeat from throwing myself down a second flight of stairs, when I suddenly saw my mother and father staring at me, mouths agape, from the kitchen table.

Where they were eating lunch.

It wasn't 1:15 am, it was 1:15 pm. The U.S. wasn't under attack, it was just daytime. And there was a thunderstorm rolling in, though my side of the house still faced daylight.

And I was laying on the floor, naked save for boxers pulled down around the base of my ass, with a broken ankle and in need of a new desk.

But, you know, at least I remembered to Duck-and-Cover. Better safe than sorry, right?

TL;DR Made Burt the Turtle proud by breaking my ankle.