The morning mist hung heavy over the forest, wrapping the tall trees in a soft veil. The troop of monkeys stirred awake, stretching, chattering, and leaping from branch to branch in search of the day’s first food. Among them, a mother monkey sat clutching her newborn against her chest. At first glance, the scene seemed peaceful—the kind of tender bond that holds the wild together. But beneath that image lay a storm brewing inside her.
The newborn was fragile, its eyes barely open, its small limbs weak and trembling. Every breath came with a tiny whimper, every movement accompanied by a faint squeak. Instead of filling the mother with patience and warmth, the sounds grated against her frayed nerves. She had given birth only days before, her body still aching, her belly empty, and her strength waning from lack of rest.
The baby wriggled against her chest, letting out a sharp cry that pierced the air. The mother’s ears twitched, her face twisted, and a low growl rumbled from her throat. She shifted her grip, no longer gentle, and shoved the infant roughly to the side. The baby tumbled onto the branch, whimpering. It instinctively tried to crawl back to her warmth, but the mother’s anger was rising like fire.
Her hand struck down. The slap echoed in the silence of the morning. The newborn squealed, its tiny body jerking under the impact. Tears welled in its eyes, its mouth opening wide in a desperate scream for comfort—but the mother gave no comfort. She smacked it again, this time harder, the force making its head snap back.
The troop grew quiet. A few monkeys turned their heads to watch. Some chattered uneasily, but none dared intervene. This was her baby. Her rage. Her right.
The newborn tried to cling to her fur, tiny fingers trembling, but she shoved it away with brutal force. Its small body hit the rough bark of the branch. The sound of its skull against the wood was sharp and terrifying. The baby wailed louder, blood beginning to trickle from a wound on its head. The sight should have softened her—but instead, her fury deepened.
She grabbed the infant by one arm and shook it violently. The baby’s head lolled, fragile neck straining, cries breaking into gasps. She slammed it against her leg, then hit it with the flat of her palm. Each blow left the baby weaker, its screams turning into pitiful whimpers.
The other monkeys shuffled nervously on nearby branches. A younger female edged closer, making soft cooing sounds, but the mother bared her teeth in a vicious snarl. The younger one retreated quickly. No one dared challenge her wrath.
The newborn’s tiny chest heaved as it tried to breathe. Its eyes, wide with fear, searched desperately for love, for safety, for anything familiar. Instead, it received another strike. The mother slammed the baby against the branch again. This time, the thud was heavier, and the cry that followed was faint, broken.
Blood smeared the baby’s fur, matting against its tiny face. Its body twitched, shuddering with each ragged breath. It no longer had the strength to fight, to cling, or to call out loudly. All it could do was whimper weakly, curling its tiny limbs in an instinctive attempt to shield itself.
For a brief moment, the mother paused. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, her face twisted in a grim mask of exhaustion and rage. She stared down at the injured baby, watching it writhe feebly. Her anger had drained her energy, but it had not yet softened her heart. She pushed the baby aside again, leaving it lying helpless on the branch.
The silence of the forest was suffocating. Even the birds seemed to have fallen quiet, as if mourning the sight. The newborn let out a faint cry—thin, hoarse, broken. Its head throbbed with pain, blood dripping slowly down the side of its face. Every small movement made it wince. Yet, despite everything, it still reached its tiny hand toward its mother, seeking comfort from the very source of its suffering.
The mother turned her head away, ignoring the gesture. Her eyes were distant, her breathing shallow. She licked her arm absentmindedly, as though nothing had happened. The baby, rejected and broken, dragged itself closer, crawling inch by inch with pitiful determination.
When it finally reached her, it curled against her leg, trembling. She did not strike it again, but neither did she embrace it. She simply let it remain there, shivering, bleeding, and weak.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher, burning away the morning mist. The troop moved about, leaping and foraging, but the injured newborn remained still. Its head wound had crusted with dried blood, leaving a dark stain in its fur. Its eyes fluttered half-shut, its cries reduced to faint whimpers that barely carried beyond the branch.
The scene was a tragedy of nature’s cruelest truth. The one who should have been its protector had become its tormentor. The baby’s suffering hung heavy in the air, a reminder of how fragile life can be in the wild.
As evening approached, the shadows stretched long across the forest floor. The mother monkey finally shifted, pulling the baby closer, not out of love but out of instinct. The infant lay limp in her arms, its tiny chest rising and falling with weak breaths.
Whether it would live to see another dawn was uncertain. But for now, the baby remained with its mother—injured, bleeding, yet still clinging to the faint hope of warmth in the arms that had caused its deepest pain.
