Mother Monkey Fighting Her Baby Until It Cries in Pain
The afternoon sun burned weakly through the dusty air that drifted across the temple ruins. The forest around was heavy with heat, silent except for the rustle of dry leaves and the shrill cries of cicadas. Among the moss-covered stones, a troop of monkeys moved restlessly—grooming, playing, and sometimes fighting for scraps left by tourists earlier in the day.
But near one corner of the crumbling wall, away from the others, sat a mother monkey and her tiny baby. The mother’s name, as the local caretakers called her, was Mina. Her baby, just three months old, was Toto—a fragile little creature whose big eyes always seemed full of wonder and fear.
That day should have been peaceful, but something in Mina’s eyes had changed. She looked tired, her fur dusty and rough, and her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. Hunger had been biting the troop for days. The fruits around the forest had been picked clean, and the monkeys had been fighting more than usual—over food, over space, over power.
Little Toto didn’t understand any of that. He only knew his mother’s warmth, the soft rhythm of her heartbeat when he clung to her belly, the way she used to groom his fur with gentle care. But now, when he reached out for her face with his tiny fingers, she didn’t smile.
Instead, she pushed his hand away.
Toto whimpered softly. He thought maybe it was a mistake. He climbed closer again, pressing his face against her chest, hoping she would let him nurse. But Mina shoved him harder this time. The little baby tumbled backward, landing on the hot stone ground with a small thud.
He started crying—a high-pitched, pitiful sound that echoed through the ruins.
Mina’s eyes flickered, torn between instinct and exhaustion. The other monkeys turned their heads to watch. One old female clicked her tongue in disapproval, but no one interfered. In a troop, every mother was left to handle her own child.
Toto crawled closer again, trembling. His left arm ached from the fall, but hunger made him brave. He reached for his mother’s fur and pulled himself up, squeaking softly. Mina turned sharply and slapped him across the face.
The sound was small but sharp—a soft crack against his cheek. He froze, stunned.
She hit him again. Then she bit his shoulder, not hard enough to kill, but deep enough to draw a thin line of blood. Toto screamed and tried to run, but his legs were weak. He stumbled and rolled onto his side, crying and gasping.
The sound pierced through the trees.
Nearby, a few juvenile monkeys began to mock his cries, jumping from rock to rock, chattering loudly as if enjoying the drama. One young male even tugged Toto’s tail, making him yelp louder. Mina turned toward them, furious, her eyes wild. She chased them away, barking sharply. The juveniles fled, but her anger didn’t fade—it turned back toward the helpless baby.
She grabbed Toto by the neck and shook him. He dangled limply in her grip, crying weakly.
For a moment, Mina’s face softened. Her teeth unclenched slightly as she stared at the small creature in her hands. He was her baby, her own blood, the one she had carried through cold nights and rainstorms. She remembered how he had clung to her chest, shivering under the dripping leaves when thunder rolled across the sky. She remembered licking his face clean after birth, his first tiny cry echoing under the trees.
But hunger was stronger than memory. Stress, fear, and exhaustion twisted inside her like fire. She dropped Toto to the ground again and turned away, pacing in circles.
Toto tried to crawl toward her. His tiny body trembled; his right arm was bleeding from her bite. He squeaked faintly, trying to call her, his voice weak and broken. He didn’t understand why his mother was angry. He only wanted comfort, warmth, milk—anything to stop the pain.
Mina ignored him. She sat on the stone ledge, staring at the forest below. Her body was shaking slightly, her stomach sunken. The wind carried the smell of food—rotten bananas somewhere near the temple’s entrance—but she was too tired to move.
Toto finally reached her foot. He pressed his little head against her ankle, crying softly. Mina looked down at him again, her eyes glassy. She wanted to lift him, to hold him, but something snapped inside her once more.
She grabbed him by the arm and tossed him aside.
The baby hit the ground and rolled until he bumped into a broken brick. His head struck the edge, and he let out a loud, heart-piercing scream. He lay still for a moment, then began to cry again—high and trembling, as if the air itself hurt him.
A few meters away, an older female named Sari approached carefully. She was not related to Toto, but she had lost her own baby weeks ago. When she heard the crying, her heart stirred. She inched closer, watching Mina warily.
Sari reached out, trying to comfort the injured baby, but Mina lunged at her with a loud snarl. Sari backed off immediately, chattering in fear. No one dared to challenge a mother’s fury, no matter how misplaced it was.
Toto continued to cry. His small face was wet with tears and dust. His right shoulder was bleeding, and his back showed red scratches where he had scraped against the stones.
Minutes passed. The forest wind grew colder as the sun dipped lower behind the temple walls. The troop began to settle down for the evening, grooming and curling together in small clusters. But Mina sat alone, her baby lying a few feet away.
The air grew silent except for Toto’s soft, uneven sobs.
After a while, Mina stood and walked toward him again. Toto froze, unsure whether to run or stay still. His heart pounded fast. When she reached him, she didn’t hit him this time. She crouched down slowly, sniffing him. The smell of blood reached her nose, and something inside her trembled.
She touched his back with her hand. He flinched but didn’t resist.
Then, very slowly, Mina lifted him up and placed him against her chest.
Toto clung to her weakly, his small arms shaking. He pressed his face into her fur and whimpered. Mina licked the wound on his shoulder, cleaning it carefully. Her eyes softened with guilt. She held him tighter, rocking slightly, making quiet grunts as if to calm both herself and him.
But the peace didn’t last long.
The sound of another monkey fighting nearby startled her. A large male, dominant in the troop, was chasing away a younger rival. The commotion reignited Mina’s fear. She jumped up suddenly, clutching Toto too tightly. He squeaked in pain.
When the noise continued, Mina’s panic grew. She looked around wildly, unsure where to run. Toto wriggled in her grip, crying again. In her confusion, she smacked him to quiet him—but her blow was too strong. He screamed, his tiny body curling.
The fight nearby ended, but now Mina’s anger had returned. She threw Toto down again, this time against a root. He hit it with a dull sound and lay motionless for a moment.
Mina panted, her chest heaving.
When she saw him lying there so still, fear crept through her rage. She crawled closer, sniffing him, then touched his back gently. He twitched, then gave a faint cry. Relief washed over her face, but it was mixed with sorrow.
She picked him up again, more carefully this time, and held him close.
The night began to fall over the forest. The shadows stretched long and deep across the temple stones. Fireflies flickered near the trees, and the cicadas’ song gave way to the low croaking of frogs.
Mina sat under a fig tree, rocking her baby softly. Toto’s breathing was uneven, his body trembling. She groomed his fur, removing bits of dust and dirt. Sometimes she paused and just stared at him, her eyes dark with sadness.
The other monkeys had gone quiet, huddled together for warmth. Mina and Toto were alone under the stars.
At midnight, the wind grew colder. Mina shivered, pulling Toto closer to her belly. The baby tried to nurse, but her milk was almost gone. He sucked weakly, then stopped, his small mouth opening in silent exhaustion.
Mina lowered her head and pressed her lips to his forehead.
Tears glimmered in her eyes.
She didn’t understand her own actions—why she had hurt him, why she couldn’t stop. Something deep inside her was broken by hunger, fear, and loneliness. She had no one to trust, no safety, no rest. All the pain of her life had spilled over onto the only one who truly loved her.
She lay there for a long time, watching him sleep. His breathing was shallow, his little arm swollen where she had bitten him. Each rise and fall of his chest made her flinch with guilt.
As dawn began to break, the first light touched the treetops, painting them gold. The troop began to stir again. Mina sat still, her fur covered in dew.
Toto opened his eyes slowly. He looked up at her, unsure. His face still showed fear, but when she reached to touch him this time, he didn’t pull away.
She lifted him carefully, placing him on her belly. He clung to her once more. His small fingers dug into her fur, and his head rested against her chest.
Mina began to walk slowly toward the edge of the forest, where the first fruits of the morning could be found. She limped slightly—tired, weak, but moving.
As she walked, Toto made a faint sound, half a cry, half a sigh. Mina stopped and looked down.
She brushed his cheek with her thumb and whispered a soft grunt—the same sound she used when he was a newborn, before hunger and fear had clouded her heart.
For the first time in days, she smiled.
They disappeared into the forest shadows together.
But behind them, on the stones where the blood had dried, the memory of that long, terrible night remained—a silent reminder of how fragile love can be when life itself turns cruel.
And yet, even after all the pain, there was a faint glimmer of hope—because though the world had driven Mina to violence, something inside her still remembered tenderness. Something still wanted to protect. Something still loved.
