At first I said sorry, because remorse is what everyone thinks of when they're about to die. But I only really meant it the first time because when I was brought back, it was the same place and I knew what was coming.
"Sorry-" Dead.
After a while I said other stuff. The gunman said: "get on the fucking ground!" and I said, "no you!"
Dead.
I said: "I bet you that's not even loaded." Dead.
"Guns don't kill people, people kill people!" Dead.
"Does anyone have change for a-" Dead.
After a while this became tiresome. I tried saying nothing at all. In the silence the gunman held off from firing initially. If I stayed standing up, dead. If I slowly started bending over, he'd wait a few seconds, then I'd be dead. If I sprawled flat on the ground, he wouldn't shoot at all. The first time this happened I figured the cycle was broken, so I jumped to my feet and rejoiced in breaking the cycle.
Dead.
The second time I stayed down until the gunman left the trolley. I waited until the police came, I filed a police report, I took a bus home, I ate dinner and fed my rats and watched TV. I woke up the next day happy to have broken the cycle, but then a texting driver smashed into the bus stop I was waiting at.
Dead, and back to the trolley.
"Dickbutt." The gunman froze and a woman laughed. We both died, which made me return to "sorry," directed more to whoever laughed than the gunman.
After an unknown amount of time I simply gave up. At one point I lasted 70 years. I was convinced I broke the cycle. I stayed inside all day and did freelance graphic design for local businesses.
During that time I met Hannah, another unfortunate victim of the cycle. She was a freelance copywriter, a career that enabled her to work from the safety of home. We talked online at first, until the need for face-to-face interaction was too strong. I carefully walked the three miles from my house to hers. Over a bottle of Old Guardian we revealed where our cycles started. We were on the same trolley. She laughed when I said "dickbutt" to the gunman.
Some time later we got married. Had kids. Got old.
On the eve of my 94th birthday I had a massive stroke. My eyes went black. "This is it," I thought.
"Get on the fucking ground!"
Dead. Back to square one.
"At least we have each other," Hannah said from across the trolley.
Dead.