Disclaimer- I own nothing from Tim Burton's movie. This is my take on things. No suing, because I'm broke.
Prologue-
When I was six years old, my mother died of tuberculosis, on a chilly march morning, after years of suffering. Her funeral came several days later. Being so young, I recall very little, except for one thing...
As they lowered her into the cold ground, I held my father's hand tightly. I was a tiny little girl with wide eyes, and long dark curls.
When large clods of dirt began to fall on her coffin, I turned to my father and asked:
"Papa? Won't Mummy be lonely and scared in her box alone?"
A pained expression crossed my father's brow, and for I wondered if he might begin to weep again. He had done plenty of that in the days following my mother's last breath. But he squeezed my hand and said to me, his voice thick with sorrow: "Don't worry Emily dear, she's happy where she is. When anyone dies they are at peace,"
My father was lying to me about death. It isn't always peaceful after you die. I learned that the hard way.