The morning in the jungle began with the golden haze of sunlight filtering through the thick leaves. Birds were calling, insects humming, and a troop of monkeys stirred in the upper branches. Among them was a mother monkey, clutching her little baby against her chest. At first glance, it seemed like a picture of tenderness—yet hidden beneath the surface was a storm of tension.
The mother monkey had grown restless. Food had been scarce the past few days, and her nerves were frayed. The troop was noisy, the younger monkeys quarreling and scrambling for fruits. Her baby, still weak and small, clung to her with constant cries. At first, she tolerated the little voice. But the whining grew louder, sharper, demanding her attention while she herself felt hunger gnawing at her belly.
The mother’s patience began to crack. She shifted the baby roughly in her arms. The tiny one squeaked, reaching for her face with trembling fingers. Instead of comfort, the sound only stirred a rising anger within her. Her breathing quickened. The cries grated on her ears like sharp stones rubbing together.
Suddenly, in a burst of frustration, she pulled the baby away from her chest and shook it. The infant shrieked in confusion and fear. Still, the mother’s fury only deepened. She raised her hand and smacked the baby’s fragile back. Once. Twice. The little body twisted, trying to escape, but there was no safety in her grip.
The troop fell silent. Some of the other monkeys stopped eating and turned their heads. They watched, uncertain, as the mother’s strikes grew harsher. She hit the baby against the branch, causing the tiny creature to cry in piercing wails that echoed through the canopy. Each sound of pain seemed to ignite her further, as though she blamed the helpless child for all her suffering.
The baby’s cries changed from loud screams to broken, breathless sobs. Its eyes widened with shock, searching desperately for comfort that never came. Its small hands tried to cling again to her fur, but she pulled away, pushing the baby down roughly. The little one slipped, hitting its head against the branch.
A thud resounded. The baby lay stunned for a moment, then began trembling, its fragile body curling in instinctive defense. But the mother did not stop. She snatched the baby up once more and slapped its face. The pink skin of its cheeks turned red, swelling quickly. Tears streamed down its tiny face, soaking the fur around its eyes.
Other monkeys grew restless. A young female approached hesitantly, making soft cooing sounds as if to calm the enraged mother. But one sharp glare from the mother sent her scurrying back. None dared intervene. This was her baby, her right, her rage—no one wanted to risk her fury turning upon them.
The forest sounds dulled as if even nature held its breath. The only noises were the baby’s pitiful cries and the mother’s heavy panting. She lifted the infant by one arm and slammed it against her knee. The baby gasped, its breath catching painfully, ribs straining. Every hit left it weaker, until its wails became faint whimpers.
For a moment, the mother froze. She stared at the tiny creature she had injured so badly. Blood trickled from a small cut on its head where it had struck the branch earlier. The sight did not soften her heart—it only seemed to remind her of her power. She struck again, a sharp blow to the baby’s side. The whimper stopped, replaced by a weak cough.
The little one was now barely able to move. It tried to curl close to her chest, still instinctively seeking the mother’s warmth, even from the very hands that hurt it. This blind trust, this desperate clinging, was perhaps the most tragic of all.
Gradually, the mother’s energy drained. Her breaths slowed, her arms trembled from the effort of her violent outburst. She let the baby slip down into the crook of her lap. The infant shivered, gasping, eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
The troop remained hushed. A few monkeys shifted uneasily, muttering in low tones, but no one dared interfere. They watched as the injured baby tried weakly to nuzzle its mother’s belly for comfort. At last, the mother allowed it, but not out of love—simply out of weariness.
Still, the damage was done. The baby’s tiny body bore the marks of her fury—swollen bruises along its back, scratches where her nails had torn the skin, and the ominous bleeding wound on its head. Its breaths came shallow, each one a struggle.
The scene was unbearably heartbreaking. A mother, meant to protect and nurture, had become the very source of pain. The jungle, so full of life and sound, seemed weighed down by sorrow. The other monkeys eventually moved away, perhaps to distract themselves with food or play, but the echo of the baby’s cries lingered in the air like a ghost.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, pouring harsh light upon the wounded infant. Sometimes, the mother licked at its fur absentmindedly, but there was no true gentleness in her touch. The baby no longer cried—it had no strength left. It only lay curled in her lap, trembling, breathing weakly.
What tomorrow would bring was uncertain. Would the baby heal, scarred but alive? Or would its tiny body give in to the pain? The forest had no answer. All it offered was silence, a silence heavy with grief.
The tragedy of that moment burned itself into the memory of the troop. A lesson, perhaps, about the fragile bond between love and fury, about how easily protection can turn to harm. The image of the baby—innocent, trusting, yet broken by the one it needed most—remained etched like a scar upon the day.
And as the shadows lengthened, the baby monkey lay still in its mother’s arms, the cruel marks of violence standing as a reminder of suffering too deep for words.
