In the quiet afternoon deep inside the jungle, an adult monkey sat weakly under a large tree. His fur was dusty and tangled, and on his head was a deep, bleeding wound. The air around him was heavy with pain and silence. He kept one hand pressed gently to his head, trembling from the hurt. Every small movement made him wince.
The wound looked fresh — maybe from a fight, or a fall from a high branch. Blood had dried around the cut, sticking to his fur, and flies began to circle near it. The monkey tried to wave them away, but his arm was weak. His breathing came in short, uneven gasps. His eyes, usually full of life, were dull and tired now.
He tried to stand, but his legs shook beneath him. For a moment he balanced, gripping the rough bark of the tree beside him, but pain shot through his skull and made him collapse back to the ground. A soft groan escaped his mouth. The sound was low, full of suffering.
The jungle around him carried on as usual — the birds sang, leaves rustled, insects buzzed — but for him, the world had grown still. The pain in his head pounded with every heartbeat, like drums echoing in his skull. He leaned his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes, hoping the pain would ease.
Minutes passed, maybe hours. The sun climbed higher, and the heat pressed down on his tired body. Sweat mixed with the blood on his forehead, making it sting even more. He tried to lick his hand and clean the wound, but his reach was clumsy, and it hurt too much to touch.
Sometimes he looked around, as if searching for help — maybe another monkey from his group, maybe a friend. But no one came. The other monkeys had moved away earlier, scared by the noise of the fight or accident that had hurt him. Now he was alone, with only the sound of wind through the trees.
He groaned again and lay on his side, curling his arms close to his chest. His body twitched slightly every time pain struck. His tail, usually quick and lively, lay motionless behind him. A small trail of ants crawled near his hand, but he didn’t even move to brush them away.
Despite the pain, the adult monkey’s eyes remained open. Somewhere deep inside, he still wanted to survive. He blinked slowly, his chest rising and falling with effort. When a drop of rain fell from the leaves above and landed on his wound, he flinched but stayed still. The coolness of the water gave a tiny bit of comfort.
As the sky darkened, the forest began to cool. The monkey shivered, his body weak and tired. He tried once more to stand. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up with both hands. His arms trembled, but he managed to lift his body and lean on the tree again. His legs shook under his weight, but this time, he didn’t fall.
He stayed there, breathing heavily, his head bent low. Blood dripped from his wound again, but he ignored it. His heart was strong — he wanted to move, to find safety. With slow, staggering steps, he began to walk toward the thicker part of the forest where the trees gave shade and protection.
Each step hurt, but he didn’t stop. He paused often, pressing his hand to his head, blinking away the dizziness. The pain made him groan softly, yet he kept going. At last, he reached a small bush near a rock and sat down again. The spot was cooler, quieter.
He leaned against the rock, closing his eyes. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound throbbed deeply. He could feel his heartbeat pulsing inside it. His breathing slowed down, and finally, his body began to rest.
For a moment, a small bird landed near him, tilting its head curiously at the injured monkey. He didn’t move, just watched weakly with half-closed eyes. The bird chirped softly, then flew away, leaving the monkey alone again.
Night began to fall, and the jungle filled with the calls of nocturnal animals. The injured monkey curled himself tightly, trying to stay warm. His head still hurt badly, but his spirit refused to give up. His eyes blinked one last time before he drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep — hoping that when the morning came, he would have the strength to heal.
