We were best friends, Neela and I. Sort of the same, in fears, likes, and loves. At the age of nine we were more like sisters. We played, laughed, and cried in agreement. I think she was more sensitive than I was, or maybe I was a bit tougher. Either way, the day of the attack was a turning point in our friendship, or maybe the end of it. 
    It was a fun day. A day of events, games, parties, food, and friends. Our elementary school only did a few parties like this every school year. There was always a Bounce-about, which was a ton of fun. The best part was instead of our usual school uniforms, we got to wear regular clothes. My Mother and Neela’s Mother allowed us to wear brightly colored clothes with fun accessories so we could feel pretty. I liked the freedom that came with the clothes. It felt like I got to play by my rules, which meant no rules at all.
    Neela wore something that I wouldn't have worn that day. It looked like something cat woman would put on to go pick up groceries. A jean- jumpsuit with a front zipper that went from the top of her chest to the bottom of her tummy. I never would've worn that to school. My mother wouldn't put me in something like that, ever. Our school wasn't safe anyway. It was in a dangerous neighborhood, with crazy people and crazy kids. The boys could be really mean. They always picked on girls, especially the ones they liked. 
    After playing a few games, we got some punch and headed out to the playground. The swing, benches, and some of the other kids were out there having fun. We sat on the swings and 

finished our drinks. Before long, we were swinging up in the air, laughing at the other’s face as we went up and down. We tired out after a few minutes, the sun beating down on our little heads. I cooled down fast enough. My outfit of choice was a jean dress with a red blouse. Neela was still pretty warm in her jumpsuit. She started complaining about the heat, and proceeded to pull her zipper down. I suggested going inside to cool off, out of the sun, but she wanted to stay outside and play. Okay, I thought. I wanted more punch.
    A group of older boys, fifth graders, were walking past the playground. I saw them stop and look in my direction. They weren't looking at me. I looked back at Neela, who was still pulling her zipper up and down. I told her to stop doing that, that those boys were staring, but Neela thought the attention was nice. She turned to the boys, quickly flashing her chubby little chest, then pulling her zipper up in a flash. She did it over and over again. I told her to stop, but she ignored me. Fine, I thought. I walked away. Within seconds, the group of boys surrounded her. I walked away as fast as I could. I was scared. That many boys hanging out together was never a good thing. When I looked back again, I couldn't see Neela, but I could hear her screaming. I ran into one of the classrooms to find a teacher, but one was already outside. Mrs. Miller heard the screaming. 
    All the boys ran off, leaving Neela on the ground. She was crying by the time the teacher got to her. When I got there she was brushing dirt from her chest. I tried to help her stand up, but she pushed me away. All I could do was watch as she walked back to the classroom.

Response
    Having spoken about this, it's clear that you still hold some guilt for what happened to your friend, Neela. I can tell by your words you think you're responsible for what happened to her, though you did nothing wrong. You were, like Neela, a child. You couldn't have done anything more than you already did. Two little girls can't fight off five or six boys. If you had stayed both of you could've gotten hurt. In more ways than one you were there for your childhood friend. She was simply too upset to see it. Try not to beat yourself up about the past. We can never go back to change it. I'm sure most people closest to you appreciate the fact that you care. If Neela was a true friend, she realized at some point that you were trying to help her. Don't hold on to guilt. You were never guilty to begin with.

From a psychologist.