Monkey Drags Her Baby Across the Cement
The morning sun was just beginning to rise, sending pale streaks of gold over the crumbling walls of the old park. The place was not built for monkeys, but over time, they had made it their home—swinging from wires, climbing broken poles, and scouring the ground for food. Among the many families of monkeys that lived there, one mother carried a newborn baby close to her chest. The infant was fragile, with big eyes that reflected both innocence and fear of the world around it.
But that morning would become a memory of suffering, a moment etched in the silence of cruelty.
The mother monkey, restless and agitated, climbed down from a wall and grabbed her baby’s tiny hand. She did not hold it with tenderness. Instead, she pulled harshly, dragging the baby along the hard cement floor. The little one squealed at the first pull, its small voice breaking the air with a cry that no one could mistake for anything but pain.
The Dragging Begins
The mother’s grip was tight—too tight for a baby so small. She yanked at the fragile wrist, and the infant’s body stumbled forward, scraping against the cement. The baby’s soft skin tore easily against the rough ground, leaving trails of red scratches along its arms and legs.
The baby tried to crawl, tried to regain its footing, but the mother had no patience. She dragged it again, harder this time, across the open ground. The little monkey’s cries grew louder, shrill and desperate, echoing through the old park. Other monkeys lifted their heads, some watching in silence, others chattering nervously. But no one intervened.
The cement ground was unforgiving. Every few inches, another patch of the baby’s skin was cut open. Tiny toes scraped raw, knees bruised, belly rubbed harshly against the surface. The infant reached out with its free hand, trying to cling to something—grass, rocks, even cracks in the ground—but the mother pulled relentlessly, ignoring the trail of wounds appearing on her own child.
Cries of Helplessness
The sound of the baby’s pain was heartbreaking. Each cry was sharper than the last, almost like a plea for mercy. Its eyes were wide, filled with tears, darting around as if searching for someone, anyone, to stop what was happening.
The mother seemed blind to it. She continued dragging, moving from one side of the open space to another, sometimes stopping to look around, then pulling again. The infant rolled onto its side, its thin chest hitting the ground, scraping across the rough cement until the skin peeled away. Blood began to show, staining its tiny fur.
At one point, the baby tried to twist and clutch at the mother’s leg for safety. But she shook it off, seized its arm again, and pulled forward. The force of her dragging snapped the baby’s head back and forth. It let out a high-pitched wail that pierced the air like a knife.
Injuries Multiply
By the time the dragging reached the far edge of the cement space, the baby was already covered in wounds. Its elbows and knees were raw, its tiny fingers bent awkwardly from being pulled so hard. The delicate skin on its back bore lines of torn flesh where it had scraped over sharp pebbles pressed into the cement.
Still, the mother did not stop. She turned sharply, dragging the baby back in the other direction. The infant’s small body jolted violently as it hit a crack in the ground, rolling slightly before being yanked upright again by its frail arm. The pain was unbearable, but the cries went unanswered.
The little one’s face pressed against the cement more than once, leaving it with scratches across its cheek and forehead. Tears mixed with tiny droplets of blood, matting the fur on its face. Its body shivered in distress, yet the dragging continued.
The Other Monkeys Watch
From the walls above, a group of monkeys watched the scene unfold. Some were curious, their heads tilting from side to side. Others seemed distressed, pacing or making uneasy sounds, but none dared to intervene. The hierarchy among them was harsh; mothers were rarely challenged when dealing with their young, no matter how violent their actions became.
A few juveniles crept closer, eyes wide as they watched the baby cry out. But when the mother bared her teeth in irritation, they backed away quickly. The baby’s suffering was left unanswered, a spectacle of cruelty hidden in plain sight.
The Baby’s Struggle
As the dragging continued, the infant’s strength began to fade. Its cries grew weaker, its tiny chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Still, it tried to resist, flailing its little limbs weakly against the cement, hoping to free itself from the relentless pull.
But the mother’s grip was iron. She pulled the baby’s hand until the wrist twisted unnaturally. The baby let out a final strong cry, the sound breaking into whimpers as exhaustion overtook it. Its tiny body was trembling, covered in scratches, bruises, and bleeding cuts from head to toe.
Every inch of the baby’s skin bore the cruel marks of the cement—scraped raw patches across its stomach, bleeding toes, deep scratches along its back and arms. Its eyes were swollen with tears, barely able to stay open, yet still it looked toward its mother with something resembling desperate hope, as though begging for kindness that never came.
A Moment of Stillness
Finally, the mother stopped. She dropped the baby’s hand and sat on the ground, panting lightly from her rough movements. The infant collapsed where it was left, its small body sprawled across the cement like a broken doll. It whimpered softly, the sound no longer sharp but faint, almost fading into silence.
The mother did not comfort it. She did not pick it up, lick its wounds, or offer warmth. Instead, she sat apart, distracted, her eyes scanning the surroundings as though she had done nothing unusual.
The baby, lying there in agony, tried to curl itself into a ball. But every movement hurt. Every time it shifted, the raw skin scraped against the ground, making it flinch and cry out softly. Its little hands shook, trying to cover its wounds, but the damage was too severe.
Time Passes Slowly
Minutes felt like hours. The baby remained on the ground, its weak cries echoing until even they began to fade. Blood smeared the cement beneath its body. Its fur was matted, sticky with sweat, dirt, and its own injuries. Flies already buzzed around the raw cuts, landing briefly before being brushed off by its trembling movements.
The mother, uninterested, eventually walked a short distance away to forage through trash, leaving the baby alone. The little one tried to crawl toward her, dragging its body inch by inch, but every movement left new smears of blood on the ground. Its strength was almost gone.
Still, it tried. With every ounce of energy left, it reached out, stretching its tiny arm toward the figure of its mother, hoping she might finally notice and offer the comfort it had been begging for all along.
But the mother did not turn. She ignored the broken cries, the desperate reaching hand, the suffering her own dragging had caused.
A Scene of Silent Agony
The other monkeys eventually lost interest and wandered away. The park fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint cries of the injured baby. The little one lay there, body covered in wounds, breathing weakly, each sound more fragile than the last.
The cement bore witness to everything. Its rough surface was stained with blood, fur, and tears, a cruel reminder of the suffering that had unfolded. The scars on the baby’s body told the story more loudly than words ever could: dragged against its will, across harsh ground, by the very hands that were meant to protect it.
The baby closed its eyes for a moment, its breathing shallow and strained. Its tiny chest rose and fell weakly, fighting to keep going. It was too young to understand why its mother had treated it so harshly, too innocent to make sense of the pain. All it knew was that the world was merciless, and its tiny heart longed for comfort it might never receive.
