In the soft morning light of the forest, the cries of a baby monkey echoed weakly among the trees. His tiny voice, once full of life and laughter, now trembled with pain. The little one had been hurt — badly. A deep wound marked the side of his small face, and one of his eyes was swollen and red, barely able to open. His trembling body showed the marks of a struggle, scratches on his soft fur and dirt clinging to his tiny hands.
He sat alone on the ground, near a fallen branch, crying softly. The pain was unbearable. Every time he moved, his wound throbbed, and tears filled his good eye. His little heart was full of confusion. He didn’t know how it happened — whether it was a fall, a fight, or the sharp branch that cut him. All he knew was the burning pain that made him whimper again and again.
The sunlight filtered through the trees, touching his injured face. He tried to cover his eye with his hand, but the touch only made it sting more. “Eee-eee…” he cried, the sound breaking the stillness of the morning. His mother was nowhere near. He looked around desperately, searching for her familiar figure among the branches, but there was only silence — only the rustle of the forest and the distant calls of birds.
He tried to climb the tree, dragging himself slowly upward, but his small hands slipped on the bark. The pain shot through his face and eye, and he fell back onto the soft dirt below. He lay there, breathing fast, his tiny chest rising and falling in panic. His wounded eye throbbed, and tears mixed with the blood that trickled slowly down his cheek. The sight of the poor baby was heartbreaking — so young, so innocent, yet already suffering deeply.
After a few moments, he tried again. His body trembled, but the will to survive pushed him forward. He climbed to a low branch and sat there, holding onto the tree with both arms. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, smearing dirt on his face, but he didn’t care. He only wanted the pain to stop. His cries grew weaker now, turning into soft, broken sobs.
He looked up at the sky, blinking through the pain. One eye could still see — the other was half-closed, swollen from the wound. The world seemed blurry, full of shadows and light that hurt to look at. But even then, he didn’t give up. His little body was fragile, but his spirit still held on.
A few birds landed nearby, chirping curiously as they watched him. The baby monkey tilted his head toward the sound, his lip trembling. For a brief moment, he stopped crying, comforted by the company of other living things. But when a breeze touched his wound, he flinched sharply and began to cry again, louder this time — a sound full of hurt and helplessness.
As the day grew hotter, the wound on his face began to dry, but the pain remained. He could feel it every time he blinked, every time he turned his head. Flies buzzed around, drawn by the scent of blood, and he tried to swat them away with his weak little hands. His body was tired, his energy fading, but his instincts told him to stay alert.
He wished his mother was there — she would have cleaned his wound, held him close, and made him feel safe. But she was gone, and he didn’t know where. Every sound in the jungle made him nervous now. He hid behind a thick branch, pressing his body against the tree, hoping nothing dangerous would find him in this helpless state.
Hours passed slowly. The sun moved high above, and the baby monkey’s cries became faint. His injured eye began to swell more, the skin around it tender and red. He tried to touch it again, whimpering softly, but the pain made him stop. He rocked himself gently, the way he used to when his mother wasn’t near, trying to calm his fear.
Eventually, the forest began to cool as evening approached. The orange light of sunset spread through the trees, and the baby monkey sat quietly now, his voice almost gone. He was exhausted, both from crying and from the pain. His little arms hugged his knees close to his chest as he rested his head down. The wound still burned, but the warmth of the setting sun brought him a tiny comfort.
A few older monkeys from a nearby group noticed him. One of them, an adult female, approached slowly, curious and cautious. The baby lifted his head weakly, his good eye full of tears. He reached out a trembling hand toward her. The adult monkey sniffed him, sensing the wound, then gently touched his arm. The baby whimpered but didn’t pull away. For the first time all day, he felt a bit of safety.
The female monkey began to groom him, cleaning around the wound carefully with her fingers. The baby cried softly, but he didn’t resist. He leaned closer, pressing himself against her fur, seeking comfort. It was not his mother — but in that moment, her gentle touch was enough to calm him. She stayed with him for a while, licking the dirt from his fur and keeping him close as the night fell.
When darkness came, she climbed higher into the tree, carrying the hurt baby on her back. He clung to her weakly, his injured eye still shut, but his heart finally slowing from fear. The stars above shimmered faintly, and the jungle grew quiet. For the first time since his injury, he stopped crying.
Though his wound was deep and his eye badly hurt, he was not alone anymore. The gentle rhythm of the mother monkey’s heartbeat comforted him as she carried him to a safe branch to rest. He closed his good eye, finally drifting into an uneasy sleep.
In the peaceful silence of the night, his small body lay curled against hers, breathing softly. The pain remained, but so did life. The jungle, cruel yet full of quiet kindness, held him close. The pity baby monkey, though wounded and suffering, had survived another day — a tiny symbol of strength and innocence in a world that could be both harsh and tender all at once.
