Questions That Will Make You Think Twice Novels & Stories

If you didn't enjoy it, please leave a comment on how you would improve it. '3. Do you have any suggestions on how to make murdering more easy/fun?' '4. Do you have any questions in general?' … These questions. They don't seem like a cocky attempt to rub in the situation to us. It looks like it's genuinely asking for advice for this… killing game. Almost as if this game was some sort of… practice run.

"If you ask questions that have already been asked, you will get answers you've already heard" "I find myself having to give answers to a question that has been asked many times" "A question with many answers" "An whatever action I take" "I would just be chosing amongst the multitudes of answers that have already been given" "What would you do if someone you love turned her blade against you?" "Do you strike back?" "Do you let them strike you?" "Do you find fault in them?"

But hold on—why is my silence the answer to her question? “Care to elaborate on why my silence is the answer?” I asked, genuinely curious. “And here I was, thinking you were smart? Well, let me explain it to you, Mr. Not-So-Smart. Your silence could mean two things: one, you weren’t pretending, and two, you didn’t want to lie to me. You took exactly 30 seconds thinking. If you were the murderer, I have this intuition that you’d have planned answers for my questions, even if you didn’t know what they were.”

I couldn't tell how long it had been since he asked the question… 10 seconds, a minute? I grabbed some groceries and turned away from him towards the cabinet. "Of course not, David," I said. "Don't be ridiculous." My words sounded transparently guilty to me. David and I always ask each other questions, about practical, philosophical, hypothetical, and just plain absurd things. It is one of the sweetest things in our marriage, that shared interest in thinking and talking. So why would I be attacking him for a question just like all the other ones we ask each other?

I read the email twice and closed it and went to pick up the children from school. I thought about it for a month. Not continuously. Not in the way that required active management, the thing I had learned to distinguish from genuine consideration. It moved through my thinking the way significant questions moved, appearing in odd moments, in the shower, while driving, in the specific window between finishing one task and starting the next. The question sitting in the background running its process. A memoir was different from a speech.

She asked suddenly making me trip instantly What? Oh my gosh! is that question for me? . . . T.B.C What do you think? What could be his response? Would he say yes? Or No?

My mind spun with a thousand questions, but one thought screamed louder than the rest. What just happened?

A hand takes it from mine. I know those hands. The syllabus leaves my fingers and I stare at my notebook and I think about the word why. How it lands differently than did you. How the whole shape of a question can tell you where someone’s mind already is before you answer. I think about an elevator. A lobby button. A decision I made in twelve seconds that I have not once regretted, not even now, not even in this room. Dr. Vass is still talking. I make myself listen.

A person who will search through the truth with her bare hands if she has to. She is not about to explode. She is not about to cry. She is not about to turn away. She is thinking. Thinking is worse. Thinking is slow. Thinking is quiet. Thinking means she will not let anything slide through without being examined. And the truth I have just given her is not small. It is not gentle. It is making her questioning everything.

I thought about my next question for a while. “Why are you the way you are?”