The clearing was damp and quiet after the storm, wrapped in a heavy stillness that lingered like a forgotten breath. Broken branches lay scattered everywhere, and the leaves glistened with fresh rain. In the middle of this disarray, partially hidden beneath torn vines and fallen palm fronds, lay the small, lifeless body of a mother monkey. Her fur was soaked, her limbs still, her eyes half-closed as if she had succumbed mid-struggle.
Only inches away from her, two newborn babies were trapped in the chaos that had taken their mother’s life. Their tiny bodies were tangled in long vine-cords, thin but strong, wrapping around their arms, legs, and bellies. One cord looped tightly across the chest of the smaller infant, restricting each breath. Their weak cries trembled into the forest, soft and broken, lost in the vastness of the world.
Morning passed slowly, and the forest returned to movement. A few ants, at first just scouts, wandered near the scene. They approached cautiously, antennae twitching as they sensed the mix of life and death. Soon more ants joined, forming a narrow black river flowing toward the still form of the mother.
But it didn’t take long for them to discover the babies.
One ant crawled onto the larger infant’s foot. The baby jerked, letting out a sharp cry. Another ant climbed up the smaller infant’s arm, attracted by the scent of sweat, milk, and fear. Within moments, dozens of ants began moving across the ground toward the helpless pair.
The babies writhed, kicking weakly, trying to escape—but the vine cords held them tightly, cutting into their skin when they struggled too much. Their cries grew louder, rising into the humid air, desperate and frightened.
Flies buzzed in overhead, circling the lifeless mother before drifting toward the infants. The movement of living flesh attracted them, and they landed on the babies’ faces, their tiny legs tickling across eyelids, nostrils, and lips. The newborns squirmed, gasping and crying, but their tiny hands could barely swipe the insects away.
The ants, sensing opportunity, became bolder. They crawled over the infants’ legs, across their bellies, onto their chests. The babies cried harder, voices cracking with exhaustion. Their tiny bodies trembled violently as they tried to twist away from the crawling sensation that overwhelmed them.
The smaller infant’s foot became the first target. Ants climbed around the toes, exploring the soft creases of the skin. The baby cried out—a thin, heartbreaking sound that faded weakly at the end. The larger infant, tangled badly around the shoulder, managed only to turn its head to the side, mouth open in a silent scream when flies landed inside.
The vines around them tightened with every movement, knotting further. One cord dug deep into the larger infant’s thigh, leaving a red mark beneath the fur. Another looped around the smaller infant’s arm, turning the skin pale where it restricted the blood.
Though the sun climbed higher, warming the clearing, no help came.
Birds fluttered in distant branches, unconcerned. A lizard crawled across a nearby trunk, pausing only for a moment as the babies’ cries reached it, before continuing on its way. Nature listened—but nature did nothing.
As the minutes dragged by, the ants’ numbers doubled, then tripled. The ground seemed alive with crawling bodies. They marched across the mother’s unmoving chest, onto her face, and then toward the infants again. Some ants attempted to bite at the wet patches on their skin. The babies screamed at the sudden sharpness but couldn’t escape.
Their voices echoed through the trees, but they were too small, too faint, too far away from any troop that might have recognized their calls. The forest canopy, thick and tangled, swallowed their cries before they reached any ears that could save them.
The larger infant’s chest rose rapidly, each breath short and panicked. Its eyes were wide, filled with fear as flies crept across its forehead. One fly crawled near the corner of its eye, and the baby squeezed shut, tears mixing with dirt and sweat.
The smaller infant’s cries grew weaker. The tight cord around its belly had shifted, pressing painfully into its ribs each time it struggled. Its breaths came shallowly now, little gasps that barely stirred its chest.
The ants continued their invasion. They crawled across the babies’ necks, across their fragile ribs, exploring every inch of exposed skin. Some ants began biting more aggressively, sensing the infants’ weakening strength.
The larger infant cried again, a high, desperate sound. It tried to roll, but the vines held it down. It managed to lift its head for a moment before falling back onto the wet ground. Its tiny hands opened and closed repeatedly, seeking something—its mother, her warmth, her comfort—but there was nothing left to touch.
The sunlight shifted as the day continued. The clearing brightened, and the heat intensified, making the babies’ suffering even worse. Their cries, once sharp and constant, now came in broken intervals, fading between sobs.
The ants marched on.
The flies swarmed lazily.
The cords held tight.
The forest watched without mercy.
As the afternoon approached, the babies lay exhausted, their bodies still trembling but their energy nearly gone. Their fur was damp with rainwater, sweat, tears, and the touch of countless insects. Their cries slowed, becoming faint whimpers.
They pressed against each other, tangled together, sharing the last bit of warmth they had.
Their mother, silent and unmoving beside them, could no longer protect them from the cruel world that had found them.
Under the indifferent sky, the tragedy unfolded quietly—two helpless infants crying beneath a swarm of insects, trapped in the cords of fallen vines, waiting for a rescue that had not come.
In the heart of the forest, sorrow often spoke softly.
And today, it spoke through the fading cries of two babies who still wanted to live.
