The forest was quiet in the early morning, filled only with the sound of rustling leaves and distant bird calls. Among the tall trees, a mother monkey sat perched on a low branch, clutching her tiny baby against her chest. The baby was barely a few weeks old, fragile, soft, and still learning to hold tightly to his mother’s fur. He was innocent and defenseless, depending on her for everything.
But this morning, something was different. The mother’s mood was restless, her eyes sharp, her breathing heavy. Perhaps hunger gnawed at her, or the stress of protecting her child had become too much. Whatever the reason, a darkness seemed to cloud her instincts. Instead of the gentle grooming and warmth she usually gave, her grip on the baby became harsh.
The little one whimpered softly, confused by the sudden change in her touch. He pressed closer, trying to nuzzle into her chest for comfort. But the mother, agitated, suddenly bit down on his tiny arm. The sharp teeth sank into his delicate skin, and the baby screamed in shock and pain. His cries echoed through the quiet forest, a sound of pure helplessness.
She bit him again, this time on his back, her jaw clamping hard as if trying to punish him for something he could not understand. The poor baby squirmed, his limbs trembling, his eyes wide with terror. His tiny voice rose higher, desperate, pleading, but he could not escape her grasp.
Blood welled up where her teeth had broken his tender skin. The red drops soaked into his thin fur, staining him. The sight was unbearable—such a small, innocent creature, wounded not by a predator, not by danger from the outside world, but by the very one who should have protected him most: his own mother.
Other monkeys nearby stirred at the sound. They looked over but did not intervene. In the wild, such cruelty sometimes went unanswered. The baby’s cries continued, piercing and heartbreaking, but the troop only watched with wary eyes. To them, it was nature’s way, even though it was filled with tragedy.
The baby tried to cling to her fur for safety, even as pain throbbed through his little body. His trust had not yet broken, his instinct told him his mother was his only refuge. He whimpered, pressing his small hands into her chest, as if begging her to stop. But again, her teeth came down on his tiny shoulder.
The poor baby shrieked louder, his fragile voice carrying far. Each cry was a plea: Please don’t hurt me. Please keep me safe. But he could not speak those words—only his cries told the story. And those cries were heartbreaking enough to make even the trees seem to mourn.
His fur grew matted with blood. His body trembled with shock. Every time she bit, his small muscles flinched violently, and his little face twisted with unbearable pain. Still, he did not fight back. He was too weak, too small. All he could do was cry and hope that mercy would come.
The mother finally paused, her teeth pulling away, leaving marks across his body. She looked down at him, her eyes strange, almost empty. He looked back at her with tears streaming from his dark eyes, as if asking: Why, Mama? Why hurt me when I only want your love?
For a moment, her expression softened. Perhaps instinct returned, perhaps she realized the damage she had done. She licked at his wounds, but her tongue could not erase the deep marks of her teeth. The baby whimpered quietly, exhausted now, his voice weak from crying.
His small chest rose and fell rapidly as he panted in fear and pain. Every movement hurt him. Still, he clung to her, his love for her undiminished, because he had no one else. He did not know anger or hatred. Only trust. Only need.
The sight of his pitiful state was enough to break any heart. His innocence, his tiny body trembling, his wounded skin—everything about him cried out for protection. Yet the one who should have been his shield had become the cause of his suffering. It was one of the most tragic truths of nature.
The troop eventually moved on, and she carried him along. His little body dangled weakly, barely holding on. Each step jostled his injuries, but he did not let go. His cries had quieted into soft whimpers, like a broken song.
Somewhere deep inside, the mother still carried her instinct to care for him. She pressed him closer as they walked, her warmth surrounding him again. But the wounds remained, raw and painful. And though he clung to her, the memory of her teeth, her sudden cruelty, would forever mark his short life.
The poor baby drifted in and out of rest, his small hands twitching as if in dreams. Perhaps in his innocent mind, he still imagined safety, warmth, and love. Perhaps he hoped tomorrow would be better—that his mother’s embrace would once again be gentle.
But in this moment, he was a symbol of helplessness, a reminder of how fragile life is in the wild. One bite, one mistake, one moment of cruelty could change everything. And yet, despite the blood, despite the pain, the little one still pressed his face into his mother’s fur, searching for comfort from the very source of his suffering.
The image of that baby—injured, pitiful, yet still full of desperate love—was one of the saddest scenes in the forest. His cries lingered even after they faded from hearing, echoing in the hearts of anyone who could imagine his pain.
Very pity, the poor baby monkey. His life was only just beginning, yet already marked by wounds too deep for words.
