No matter who someone is in life, as soon as they die, they become a saint and a martyr.
The alcoholic bum who raped his wife and beat his daughter after losing all of their money in a game of dice gets stabbed in a bar fight and suddenly he was only in a rut, fighting with his addiction, hoping to make a better life for them. If he knew the right people, he gets a modest funeral and is buried in a decent wood box in a plot in a cemetery under a tombstone that says, "Valued husband and father, taken from us too early," or something to that effect. That ugly judge who took money to declare guilty men innocent and sentence innocent men to hang falls down the stairs in his beautiful estate and breaks his neck. Everyone knows what he's done but it's all swept under the rug in a tidy fashion and his loyal wife-she ignores all this and buries him in a beautiful mausoleum with beautiful statues of angels all around. Every Sunday, she'll walk by after church and leave a beautiful flower, whispering how good he'd always been to her, how she missed him, how she loved him (but they hadn't had a conversation in years). But that flower is dead, too.
In death, every single miserable nobody is some noble somebody; every truth is made false while every lie is called true. If someone were truly a good person with an honest life and decent values, they shouldn't have to die at all. Their families shouldn't have to cry and cry over the inevitable end that came to that person, and they shouldn't feel the need to lie at a funeral to exaggerate those good qualities to the point that maybe they never really existed at all. Really, people should-
The carriage went over a rough bump in the cobblestone road and just like that, the train of thought was jostled out of existence. The brunette head of Daniel Norwood whipped around in confusion for just long enough that the graveyard disappeared out of the sight range covered by his small window. Just as well. There was no point in getting all worked up over nothing.
"Watch how you're driving, you bloody imbecile," he shouts over the clatter of hooves on the street and voices from the buildings on either side. By the time he looks back to the window which so long has occupied his focus, disgruntled by the lack of response from his manservant, they're in the slums. Suddenly he isn't so interested in looking outside anymore. With a sneer, he lowers the curtains and tugs at the hem of his expensive vest. He hates going through the slums. Though it may be redundant to say, they were so… dirty. Made him feel dirty, too, just seeing that filth.
And never mind those intolerable poor people that occupied the area, living off the money they snatch from one another's torn and greasy pockets; the entire environment was just oppressive and dark to the point of hopelessness. It was contagious.
Though he'd only been gone a couple of hours to visit his terminally sick aunt's home just outside the city, Daniel absolutely couldn't wait to get back to his own family's personal dwelling by the strolling park right in the center of the blossoming city of London. The desire to see his shining reflection in the silver and dine on fine china again was almost unbearable.
Also, he hadn't yet taken his evening tea and that in itself was positively inexcusable.
To make the final twenty minutes of travel pass more quickly, he pulled the pocket watch from the safety of his pocket by its chain and examined his reflection in its pristine gold back. Nothing in the universe had greater value than keeping aesthetically gifted people looking as perfect as possible-and he did count himself, invariably, as one of those blessed with good looks. He wasn't wrong, really. There was always room for improvement, though, so he smoothed the hair around his face and straightened his neck. Perfect.