The screaming cut through the forest like a sharp cry of pain and fear. The baby monkey was crying so loudly that even the birds nearby flew away in surprise. Its small mouth opened wide, and the sound that came out was raw and desperate, filled with emotion far bigger than its tiny body. This was not a playful cry. This was a cry for help.
The baby sat alone on the ground, its little chest heaving as it screamed again and again. Tears rolled down its soft face, mixing with dust and leaves. Every cry shook its body. Hunger, fear, and shock all came together, turning into one powerful scream that refused to stop. The baby did not know how to be quiet when everything inside hurt.
It cried because it was hungry. Its stomach felt empty and tight, like something was missing that should never be missing. Milk had not come. Warmth had not come. Comfort had not come. The baby screamed louder, believing that if it cried hard enough, someone—anyone—would hear.
The forest felt enormous and dangerous. Tall trees towered over the baby, and shadows moved with the wind. Every sound made the baby jump. A rustling leaf, a distant call, even its own echo frightened it more. Crying was the only thing that made the baby feel alive, the only way it could push back against the fear.
Between screams, the baby gasped for air. Its voice cracked, but still it cried. The sound grew rough and hoarse, yet it did not stop. Newborns do not understand silence when they are scared. Silence feels like being forgotten. Crying feels like hope.
The baby tried to stand, screaming as it moved, but its legs were weak. It stumbled and fell back down, the shock making it scream even louder. Pain flashed through its body, adding to the fear. The crying turned into screaming mixed with sobbing, loud and uncontrolled.
Where was its mother? The baby did not understand why she was gone. It only remembered her warmth, her smell, and the safety of being held close. Without her, the world felt broken. Every scream was a question: Why am I alone? Every cry was a demand: Please come back.
As time passed, the screaming echoed through the trees. The baby’s throat hurt, but still it cried. It pressed its tiny hands into the ground, clenching and unclenching in frustration. The baby was not angry—it was desperate. Desperate to be noticed. Desperate to be saved.
Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in. The screams became uneven. Loud cries turned into shaking sobs. The baby’s body trembled as it cried, then paused, then cried again. Even rest did not bring peace, because fear never left.
The saddest part was not the loudness of the crying, but the reason behind it. Babies scream when their needs are not met. They scream when the world feels unsafe. They scream because they trust that someone will answer. That trust makes the crying so powerful—and so heartbreaking.
The baby curled its body inward, still crying, but now with less strength. Its head dropped slightly, and its screams softened into broken sounds. Still, it did not stop completely. As long as it could cry, it would.
Screaming and crying so loudly was the baby’s way of surviving. It was saying, I am here. I am alive. I need help. Even in fear, even in pain, the baby held on.
In that moment, the baby monkey was nothing but a small, fragile life surrounded by a huge world. Its screams were not noise. They were a message of need, of innocence, and of hope—echoing through the forest, waiting for an answer.
