St. Patrick's hospital bore a glum look as the night set in. The Dublin sky was dark, the dull yellow light pouring out of the few rooms whose occupants were still awake. On the second floor, to the right of the atrium, were one of these rooms. The Dermot Walsh ward was its name. The ward was nearly empty, but for a few beds with patients, and the nurse in the corner. Most of the occupants were asleep, the remaining pandiculating, some awaiting their medicines. A middle aged man paced across the ward. Fidgety, unshaven, and of an anxious countenance, he shuffled from end to end, muttering under his breath. More shuffling followed, and after a few minutes of indecision, he approached the nurse's table. 'What is it, Dr. McMurdoch?' she inquired, observing him to gauge the course of action. 'It's hopeless, the wee girl, she'll no' listen! How can you break something like this to anybody?' he whimpered, burrowing his face in his palms. The nurse winced, her's a foregone conclusion. 'You should get some rest, Doctor, so.' she suggested, the gentle Cork lilt showing in her proud Irish voice. 'No, no, she's my daughter, my wee girl. Och, you wouldn't understand! I can't just watch this happen to her, let me at least try once more, by God!' he begged, as if asking for her permission. The nurse stared out of the window, silently pondering the preoccupations of the doctor's unyielding mind. When she turned back, Seamus L. McMurdoch had proceeded towards the last bed in the ward, shuffling in his trademark fashion, firm in resolve.

'Miriam, look here. There's a good lass. Miriam, look at me, by God. I need you to listen to me carefully, so I do. Sweetheart, the accident that happened last month? Cormac died in the crash, aye. No, no, he's not standing next to you, bugger it. No, himself here, he's a hallucination, darling.' he knelt down. 'Young lady, you listen to me now, and listen sharply, aye? The trauma has triggered what we call schizophrenia. No, I'm not pulling one, by god, you have to trust me! Cormac isn't real, you're just . . .' he stopped, not knowing what to say. Watching her struggle to come to terms with what he had to say, for almost the tenth time now, he paused a minute to see if the message reached her. It was not believable, for who in their right mind would believe that a large part of their life was spent on something that simply didn't exist? The pause extended, and he decided that for a change, he would hear her out, instead of talking the whole while. She clearly had a lot to say.

Her questions intrigued him, and he found himself contemplating on them involuntarily. There was some logic to what she said. What was real, what was imaginary? It seemed blindingly obvious. Things that everybody could experience were real, the rest were imaginary, at least in the physical world. However, like she had said, it wasn't just the physical world that mattered. Everywhere else, the boundaries between one and the next were blurred, obscure. 

More disturbing however, was her question asking him why she ought to choose the real over the imaginary. It was true, the 'real world' gave her a hard time. The first mention of a mental illness and people avoid you like the plague, even though mental illnesses were never contagious. None of her relatives who came to visit even spoke to her. Even upon his insistence, they would stare distantly and murmur their hellos, before leaving. It would make him boil, but there was little he could do about it. He himself had stopped taking patients and spent nearly all day with her, but that didn't undo what other people did, it didn't make the outside world any better. On the other hand, her Cormac would stand by her all day, holding her hand. Her choice was almost natural. It just pained him to think that his daughter would probably never get to live a normal life anymore. Then again, what was normal anyway?

Further argument was pointless; both internal, or with her; so he squatted on the floor, and stared emptily at the ceiling. All was not lost, though. At least she was happy. Yes, that was the most important after all. Cormac or reality, he was fine as long as she was not unhappy, he thought, as he slowly drifted off to sleep against the metal leg of the hospital bed. He awoke sharply a half hour later, hearing the door creak open. He turned and smiled at the nurse who had come in to take over for the rest of the night. She returned his smile. He hadn't seen this girl before, must have been new.

Edna, a young girl of twenty one, smiled back at the strange man leaning against the bed. She looked at the senior nurse inquiringly, who in turn chuckled at her. 'You see, himself here is Dr. McMurdoch. Grand man, rare breed, don't make many like him no more. His wee girl died in a car accident last month, along with her boyfriend, and the trauma induced the schizo. Not one person can break it to him, so. Believes that he has to stay here all day to take care of the lass. The rest are just lovely, you'll be fine. Away off with you now, so.' she nodded reassuringly before picking up her handbag and leaving.
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Can't get a good title. Duh. Help, if possible. Thanks! :-p