In a forest hidden deep within the folds of green mountains and whispering leaves, a large troop of long-tailed monkeys thrived for generations. Their lineage was proud and ancient, marked by their graceful movements, high intelligence, and elegant tails that coiled like ribbons in the wind. Among them was a young mother named Lira, born from a dominant bloodline of strong, assertive females. Lira was admired for her striking beauty—silvery-gray fur, expressive golden eyes, and an unusually long tail that flowed like silk behind her.
But beauty is not always paired with compassion.
When Lira gave birth to her first child, a tiny male with delicate features and soft fur, the troop rejoiced. The infant was seen as a promising heir to the long-tailed line. But Lira did not rejoice. She stared down at her baby with cold, unreadable eyes. Instead of drawing him close, she stiffened. When he tried to nuzzle into her chest, seeking warmth and milk, she shoved him away with an abrupt jerk of her elbow.
At first, others assumed it was a temporary reaction—perhaps confusion or exhaustion from birth. But days passed. The infant grew weaker. Lira’s hatred grew stronger.
She avoided him deliberately. She didn’t groom him or let him cling to her belly as all monkey mothers did instinctively. When he cried, she hissed. When he reached for her, she struck him. Her rejection was not subtle. It was violent.
And it had no reason.
Some of the elder females whispered that Lira was rejecting weakness. They said she believed her baby was born frail, imperfect. She didn’t want to stain the proud bloodline of long-tailed monkeys with what she perceived as flaw. But others saw something darker—perhaps Lira had no ability to love at all.
The baby, who had yet to be given a name, didn’t understand why the world was so cruel. His instincts told him to reach for his mother, to cry when he was hungry, to cling when he was afraid. But every attempt was met with brutality.
One morning, while the troop rested near a riverbank, the baby tried to climb onto Lira’s back, trembling with effort. His little arms wrapped around her fur, and he whimpered softly, hoping she would let him stay.
But Lira turned suddenly, her eyes flashing with rage.
With a growl, she grabbed the infant by his neck, dragged him along the rocky ground, and slammed him against a tree root. The entire troop froze at the sound of his scream. It was sharp, high-pitched, and so pitiful it made even the alpha male look away in discomfort.
The baby rolled onto his side, panting and shivering. A scratch bled on his tiny shoulder, and his limbs twitched with pain. He cried, weakly, his voice hoarse from hours of screaming.
Lira stood over him for a moment, staring with disgust.
Then she turned and walked away, her long tail curling behind her like a banner of disdain.
The troop moved on. The baby was left behind.
He tried to follow, but his legs gave out. He collapsed, face in the dirt, breathing in ragged bursts.
For two days, he lay near the tree, surviving on rainwater that trickled down the bark and licked up dew from leaves. He was starving. His ribs showed. His fur was matted with blood and mud.
But Lira never looked back.
The hatred in her heart was inexplicable. Some mothers, even those burdened or sick, still held onto their babies. But Lira saw this child not as her own—but as an object of shame. She treated him as if he were a curse cast upon her life. And that hatred grew each time he dared to live.
On the third morning, the troop returned near the same area. The baby, lying still under a bush, heard their calls and weakly tried to stand. He saw his mother, and once more, hope flickered in his dimming heart.
He dragged himself out, wobbling on shaky legs. With all the strength left in his tiny body, he called out to her with a desperate cry.
“Mmm… mahh…”
Lira turned.
Her face twisted—not with sorrow, not with guilt—but with fury.
She charged at him.
Before the elders could stop her, she was upon the baby, biting his back, clawing his side. The baby screamed in agony, rolling away, bleeding and gasping for air.
One old female tried to intervene, stepping forward with a loud warning bark. But Lira barked louder, standing over the infant with a look that silenced everyone.
“This is my child,” her posture seemed to say, “and I will deal with him as I choose.”
She struck the baby one more time across the face, hard enough to knock him against a rock. Then she walked away.
This time, for good.
The baby lay limp, his chest barely moving. His cries were now only quiet wheezes. A deep gash ran along his back, and his face was bruised and swollen.
He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He didn’t know why the one creature he had been born to love had turned on him so cruelly.
He closed his eyes as the wind rustled the trees above. Somewhere far off, the troop resumed their movement. Lira leaped from branch to branch, light and graceful, as though nothing had happened.
But behind her, she had left her own blood to die.
And she did not care.
No funeral would be held. No goodbye. No mourning. In the forest, nature moved on. But beneath a large fig tree, under its thick roots and dripping leaves, a story remained. A story of a mother who hated her baby from the moment he drew breath. A baby born into the proud legacy of the long-tailed monkeys—only to be broken by the very one who gave him life.
The forest holds many sounds—wind, birds, rustling leaves.
But sometimes, it holds silence too.
The kind of silence left behind when a baby’s cries are no longer heard.
