A/N: This was in fact, my first time writing Spain. I just didn't upload it til now.
He didn't know when exactly it had happened; all he knew was that he could no longer bathe as normal people could.
But then, he reasoned, when had he ever been a normal person?
Every time he sat down in his clean white bath, every time he felt the rush of hot water over his skin, he panicked.
The pure whiteness turned into deep red, instead of water flowing over him, it was now blood. Blood of the thousands of people he had killed over the years.
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Spain hated it.
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He wished he could forget those days. Yes, they were days of great wealth and glory; of fame and adventure.
But he saw their faces looking back at him in his bathwater. The faces of native people, screaming and begging him for mercy. His eyes dark with blood-lust, he ignored their cries. His axe swung through the air, he brought it down, down, down...
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Those days he felt like screaming. He had tried to talk to other former Empires about it; he had had quiet talks with England and France.
But they were free from the guilt. They didn't seem to see the things he did.
He hated them for that.
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...Now, he took showers instead.
A/N: The conquest of Central America by the Spanish was violent, terrible and bloody. And it is my headcanon that nowadays, Spain is haunted by the memories. Rather than facing them however, he decides to run away from it and hope it will go away.
I see Spain as quite an arrogant nation. He knows he has done wrong, but he puts on a happy-go-lucky façade to cover anything he feels.