Baby Monkey Falls from the Chair – Head Injury on the Cement
The small room was dimly lit, with streaks of sunlight slipping through the gaps of the wooden walls. A family of monkeys had wandered inside, curious and restless as always. Chairs, bowls, and scattered clothes became their playground. Among them, a tiny baby monkey clung nervously to its mother’s side. Its fur was soft, its eyes wide with innocence, and its fragile arms trembled as it explored the human objects around it.
The mother sat on the floor, scratching through an empty basket in search of food scraps. She trusted her baby enough to let it climb nearby, but her eyes flickered back and forth, watchful and protective. The baby, however, was enchanted by a wooden chair. It was taller than it had ever climbed before, standing proudly in the center of the room like a mountain.
With clumsy determination, the baby monkey pulled itself up. Its small hands gripped the legs of the chair, and its feet slipped against the smooth surface, but still, it tried. Slowly, painfully, it reached the seat. For a moment, triumph shone in its face. It sat proudly on the edge, looking around as though it had conquered the world.
But the chair was not stable. The baby leaned too far to the side, its little arm sliding against the polished wood. In an instant, it lost balance.
The world seemed to slow. The baby monkey tumbled forward, arms flailing helplessly. Its mother turned at the sound of her baby’s squeal, but she was too far to catch it. The baby’s tiny body twisted in the air before crashing down. Its delicate head struck the hard cement floor with a sickening thud.
The sound echoed in the room.
Silence followed—an awful, heavy silence—broken only by the mother’s cry. Blood began to trickle from the baby’s head, seeping quickly into its fur and forming a small red pool on the cement. The baby twitched weakly, its body trembling, its breaths shallow and uneven.
The mother monkey rushed forward, shrieking in panic. She scooped her baby into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest. Her eyes darted wildly, her voice rose into sharp cries that shook the air. She licked at the wound, her tongue trembling as she tried to clean the blood, but it only smeared across the baby’s fur.
The baby whimpered, its tiny fingers curling and uncurling, searching for comfort. The crimson mark on its head grew darker, glistening under the faint light. Its fragile skull had suffered a terrible blow, and every movement of its chest was a painful struggle.
Other monkeys gathered, alarmed by the commotion. They circled the mother, some peering curiously, others keeping their distance. The air was thick with tension, their sharp calls filling the space. But none dared to touch the injured infant. Only the mother, desperate and heartbroken, rocked her baby back and forth.
She pressed her face against his, as if begging him not to leave. Her cries softened into low moans, the sound of grief no creature could mistake. The baby’s eyes blinked slowly, clouded with confusion and pain. A weak squeak slipped from his lips before his head drooped against her arm.
The cement beneath them bore the mark of his injury—a dark, spreading stain that would not fade quickly. The sight pierced the hearts of the humans nearby who had been watching from the doorway. Their laughter at the monkeys’ antics earlier turned to horror now. A child gasped and clung to his mother’s skirt, whispering, “The baby monkey… he’s bleeding.”
Some villagers stepped closer, wanting to help, but the mother monkey’s shrieks grew louder whenever anyone approached. Her teeth bared, her body hunched protectively over her child. She would not allow anyone near. Her instincts screamed that only she could care for him, even as his strength faded in her arms.
Minutes dragged like hours. The baby stirred weakly, his cries fading into soft whimpers. The mother continued to lick the wound, her movements frantic, then tender, then desperate again. Blood stained her mouth and chest, but she did not stop. Her entire world was her baby, and she clung to him as if her love alone could stop the bleeding.
The troop slowly dispersed, their curiosity giving way to unease. They climbed out of the room, leaving mother and child in a fragile silence. Only the humans lingered, whispering about whether they should intervene. But fear of the mother’s rage kept them back.
The baby’s breaths grew slower, weaker. His tiny body shivered, then went limp, only to twitch again with fragile effort. The mother rocked him, cooing low sounds, her tears mixing with blood on his fur. She would not let go.
The cement floor, cold and merciless, seemed to mock the fragility of life. A simple slip from a chair had turned into a nightmare. The chair itself stood tall and untouched, as if it bore no guilt for the tragedy it had caused.
As evening shadows crept into the room, the mother monkey remained still, cradling her injured baby. Her cries quieted, replaced by a heavy, mournful silence. The baby no longer moved. His small chest rose only faintly, then stilled again.
The villagers watched, their own eyes wet with pity. Some whispered prayers, others shook their heads at the cruelty of fate. No one knew if the baby would survive through the night, but everyone felt the weight of sorrow in that moment.
The mother did not move from the cement floor. She held her baby close, rocking gently, her face pressed against his bloody fur. The world outside faded—the sounds of crickets, the laughter of children, the warmth of the setting sun—all forgotten. Only her grief remained, raw and unending.
And so the little story of a curious baby monkey ended in tragedy—a slip from a chair, a head against cement, a wound that no love could heal.
