Realization had been painful, but necessary. Spain finally realized what the problem was, why everyone had left and stabbed him in the back. He had spent too many years living in the past—trying to keep customs, projects and ideas that were long dead and ignoring that the world was progressing. That was why he had been left behind...

He was open to criticism. He hanged out with intellectuals who exchanged their impressions with him, was willing to read points of view that he had forbidden or despised not long before. He started reading the Echo of the Working Class magazine, Emilia Pardo Bazán's New Critical Theatre, Spanish Soul; Ramiro de Maeztu, Miguel de Unamuno, Azorín...His interest encouraged feminists, anarchists, socialists and regenerationists to send him their publications, hoping that their writing had an influence on him.

One of them, Joaquín Acosta, sent him a signed copy of his work Oligarchy and chieftainship as today's form of government in Spain: urgency and ways of changing it, and took the liberty to underline a certain phrase for him:

«This surgical policy, I repeat, must be the personal charge of an iron surgeon, who knows the anatomy of Spain well and feels an infinite compassion for it»

Spain didn't have that strong, compassionate man who would take away all the sickness he had inside. The regent queen could barely help him deal with everything he was going through, and the king was still a child; and a timid one.

Named after the father he never got to meet—and that made thirteen Alfonsos—, called affectionately Bubi by Spain and the Queen, the King's character was influenced by his mother's overprotection, the overwhelming responsibility he was born with, and a natural sickly nature. All of that made a terrible combination, resulting in a very timid and coward boy, who was scared of having his nails and hair cut, darkness and losing his teeth.

This seemed to be his greatest fear. That one night, he found Alfonso sobbing in his bed, with his fallen tooth on one hand and the other touching the hole dreadfully. He had been hearing his howling from his room and Maria Christina had requested his help to calm him down.

"Hey, it's not that bad." Spain smiled at him, sitting by his side. "That means a bigger, harder tooth will take its place."

Alfonso kept weeping, looking at that teeth like he was not convinced that it would be replaced. Spain asked for his permission to take it and look at it closely.

"You're lucky, you know? That means Ratoncito Pérez is going to come tonight."

"...Ratoncito Pérez?" Alfonso raised his eyes at him.

"Yes. Didn't I tell you? I've seen him once or twice. He travels through the pipes of Madrid to take the milk teeth children lose and leaves presents in exchange."

"And what does he do with the teeth?..."

"A castle! You see, he lives in a tiny box of Huntley cookies at Prasts'..."

"Huntley! My favorite brand! And Prasts' That's the candy store we always go to, in Arenal Street!" Alfonso exclaimed, his watery eyes opening wide in awe.

"Right! Didn't I tell you the other day that I thought I had seen a mouse from the corner of my eye? I'd bet an arm it was him. But I know of someone who saw him once. He told me the story a long time ago. His name was King Bubi..."

Alfonso smiled, recognizing his nickname there. Tears stopped flooding and he listened to his story with attention. Spain would always remember his little pretty face while listening to him. It had always been like that: he got along with the children of his royal family. He knew how to entertain them and played with them when their parents were too busy to even notice them. Alfonso really needed him back then, more than Spain needed him.

So when Alfonso was declared an adult at the age of sixteen, Spain could barely believe the young man he had turned to was his Bubi, the child who was scared to lose his teeth. Would he become the iron surgeon Acosta thought he needed?

1906

Alfonso was a man now; as much as he was still a child in Spain's eyes, there was no point in denying it. Look at him. Married!

The bride, Victoria Eugenie of Battenberg, was Queen Victoria's granddaughter. Since her dignity was not as high as Alfonso's, and in order to avoid a morganatic marriage, she was given the title of Royal Majesty one month before her marriage. She was an Anglican, what made Maria Christina oppose to the wedding, but Spain thought she could convert some time. The day of her wedding, she was wearing a cape given to her by Isabella, from her exile in Paris, the fleur de lis diadem, made of diamonds and set in platinum, given to her by Alfonso, a very long white dress sewn with silver thread, and the brooch Spain had given her, an imitation of the Peregrina pearl (the original was one of the things France had taken as a souvenir from his house...).

All European monarchs—many of them related, even just distantly—were present. Spain would have loved to say that other nations had attended, but it seemed he was not very popular and the others had better things to do. Things were getting a little tense in Europe, apparently, to go to such social event and hide their feelings towards their neighbors...Probably the attack threats also helped.

"Everything is under control. There are guards everywhere. Press won't be allowed at the church and no citizen will be allowed to throw bouquets at the couple." President Antonio Aguilar assured Spain.

All over Europe anarchists were making a fuss...

But everything seemed to be going well. Alfonso and Victoria were declared husband and wife and Spain gave them his blessing. He was eager to go back to palace to taste the three hundred-kilogram wedding cake, a British custom Victoria had brought from England's house that Spain thought was one of the few good ideas England had ever had.

The newly wed couple waved their hands at the thousands of Spaniards who cheered from every corner, every balcony, every window. Spain mounted a horse behind them, and received no less attention. This way, they entered Mayor Street.

In the fourth floor of building number 88, a man watched the party. His name was Mateo Morral. He had written a book some time before called Revolutionary Thinking, in which he explained, among other things, how to build a bomb, which he called Orsini.

He gave Spain a demonstration, throwing it at the carriage Alfonso and Victoria were in.

What Spain saw before the explosion was just a bouquet of flowers, getting tangled up in the streetcar wires and falling right by his side.

Then...A persistent ringing. A numb pain.

It took him long to see a thing. He had his eyes fogged for quite some time. When he realized, there were soldiers and horses lying on the ground all around him, some undoubtedly dead, others terribly hurt, screaming, crying in pain. There were civilians too, hanging lifeless from the balconies.

As for him, the explosive had blown his arm off and his leg was in a very horrifying angle. He was lying on a pool of his own blood.

Although it hurt, he knew he would regenerate in no time. Twenty-five people wouldn't.

1909

Paulino lit himself a cigarette and glanced at Spain.

"I really don't know what you're doing here, man."

Probably it went against so many social rules and protocols to call the nation 'man'. But Spain was with them, sleeping in the same fragile tents, shooting guns, eating the same crap, getting as dirty as them. He was one of them, so he thought he had the right to call him 'man'. Anyway, all things he had heard about Spain being some kind of god, unapproachable..., those were myths, he realized when Spain walked around and talked to the soldiers as if he was not the highest authority there, but just one more.

"I mean, you should be in palace, with the king, eating like a pig, sleeping in a real bed, inaugurating shit. Not here, getting shot."

"What about you?" Spain smiled him back.

"Me? Eh. I'm poor. Cannon fodder. People like me have no better use. At least I've got something to eat in here. Like shit, but at least they feed us. Back home, I had to go to charity every day to survive. I was about to go to Argentina when they recruited me."

Argentina...He kept her letter, assuring him that she would take care of the refugees, close to his heart. His baby Argentina...

"So is it better for you to be shot than dying of hunger?" Spain asked.

"I'm going to die young anyway, so..." Paulino expelled the smoke bitterly. He offered Spain a drag, which he refused. "I would have refused it that was of any use. For my mother, you know. I know me being here, in danger, is killing her. That's why I send her letters every day, so she knows I'm alright. Dude, it really sucks, not having money to bribe someone...You know what happened in Barcelona, right?"

"Sure I know. I know everything."

"Right. Sometimes I forget you're not human..." Paulina got closer to him. "What's it like?"

"What?"

"That. Being a nation. That's so...freaky. How do you know...I don't know, what's happening in Barcelona, for instance."

Spain had not been asked that question much in his many centuries of life. It seemed people just accepted what he was, the same way nobody questioned God aloud. He was glad to explain. It would distract them from the heat.

"It feels like...well, it depends on the situation. When there is a plague you start feeling the symptoms but you can't infect other people, except another nation—you can't die from it, but it feels very close to dying. There was a time, back in the 12th century, when my heart stopped and all. Things like revolts, on the other hand...they bring me a pressure in the chest, like I need to cry. It's...like anxiety, yes. It leaves me so restless I can't do a damned thing."

"But how do you know it's something that's happening and not, I don't know, food poisoning or sleep deprivation?"

"It feels different, tougher...I don't think I can explain it."

"No, I think I got it. If that's true...I'm glad I'm just a man."

"Yeah, sometimes I wish I was. It has its perks, being a nation, not gonna lie, but there's always people telling you what to do, a long life which grants you lots of chances to do thing you'll regret..."

"Look at the bright side: the skirts are getting shorter every year—one day you'll see things any man would pay for, even if immortality is shit."

Spain chuckled, and almost chocked when a bullet blew off his hat.

"إسبانيا!" A female voice screamed in the distance.

"There she is, that bitch..." Spain muttered, grabbing his rifle and charging it. "Hey, Morocco! Did you have breakfast yet?" He shouted as he shot.

1912

"Good morning, Mr. President!"

"Ah, good morning, Antonio!"

"Nice day for a walk, isn't it?"

"It sure is!"

"Have a nice day!"

Spain smiled at the way Marianita looked at Mr. Canalejas, the way he talked to Spain. Antonio, he had called him! Like he was the sales clerk from the shop around the corner and not the nation!

"I don't know why you are intimidated by him, he's so nice."

"He's the President..." She said.

"He's a nice fellow, I assure you. Look, Marianita, I have learned that in the end we are all equal: rich, poor, plebeians, kings, presidents—nations, too."

"Don't tell me you have been seduced by those Marxist ideas, Mr. Spain."

"I have been reading a few books, just to know what the hullabaloo was about and...I must say I agree on one thing or two."

"You surprise me." Marianita seemed honestly shocked. Like any other rural-born girl she was so impressionable, the poor thing. "After what all those people have done to you, to all of us! Have you forgotten about our king's wedding, the massacre?"

"How could I forget?"

"Then how could you excuse them?"

"I do not excuse them. I just think most of what the workers are asking for is fair. Do you think I like being so poor?"

"Sure it is fair, but the methods they are using, and these ideas, removing all Government, rejecting all religion...Oh, I understand. They want you to be completely free and not having to obey rules, and... That is why you like them."

"That's absurd, come on. Look, the lower classes are not the enemy. Poverty, ignorance, sickness; those are. I do everything I can, but my hands are tied by..."

A shot made them stop. Spain protected Marianita in a reflex movement. A police officer ran towards him.

"Mr. Spain! You have to get out of here at once!" He told him.

"What happened? I want to know!" Spain demanded.

"No, you need to go, there might be more of them and could try to kill you too!"

"Take Miss López back to palace!" Spain did not obey and ran into the direction people were heading to, not listening to the cries of the policemen.

He broke through the human mass which contemplated the corpse of a young man whose brains were splattered on the wall, a gun in his hands. He then ran to Puerta del Sol.

Mr. Canalejas loved books. Sure he couldn't resist stopping on his way to work to take a look at the window of that book shop. It was the chance that man—now corpse— Spain had seen earlier had taken advantage of to shoot him three times in the back. Not much longer, Spain was told he was an anarchist.

1920

"Look who's here! You do want to participate in games, huh?"

Romano was mad at him the last time he saw him, in Amberes, when Belgium hosted the Olympic Games. Spain knew his decision not to intervene in the mess all of those countries had created would bring him trouble, but he was just in no condition to fight. He could barely have a normal life, with all those revolts and the hunger. He wanted to intervene, really. He thought it was his duty. But he just couldn't decide on whose behalf. Alfonso's mother was Austrian and wanted him to defend his old spouse. The current Queen was English and thought she had to be on England's side on this. Spain just couldn't decide who to help and who to attack—it would have been a painful decision either way. So abstaining seemed like the only way to stay safe and not to spoil his relationship with the others. But the war still made him weaker, because the whole Europe was suffering an economic crisis, and some thought his decision was a selfish one. Romano was not the only one who glared at him: Austria really seemed to expect help from his former husband and attacked him with the whip of his indifference. But it was alright. Spain had a nice time, despite everything. It was nice, seeing the guys again. Also, it was a relief that Veneciano was way more forgiving than Austria and his brother.

"Don't listen to him, he is just a bit grouchy." He smiled at him.

"I know, no hard feelings." Spain smiled. "How are you, Italy? Is...everything alright?"

"Yes, yes. Well...My arm still hurts a lot. It regenerated after a grenade wrecked it. But...you know, it just takes time!"

"Sure."

"Good thing you were not there. War isn't what it used to be. We used to do this differently before. With swords...I don't know, it was closer. More honorable. You had a chance to defend yourself. This time they used gas on us. You have no idea of what it is, not being able to breathe, your eyes itching so much you can't see where you're going...And staying in a trench for days feels so long, so unbearable..."

"But you guys won in the end, right?"

"Yes, it was not nice, having to kick Austria's ass, but we did. Well...Now we are poor and we still haven't received what the others promised us...And those communists and anarchists..."

"It is scary, right? What happened to Russia..."

"It sure is. The bad thing is that Russia could come and do the same to us..." Veneciano took deep air and quickly drew a smile. "But it's okay. There is this good man called Benito Mussolini, and a group of very nice fellows, who are trying to make things better at home. I am very hopeful about the future."

"That's the spirit, little brother." Spain smiled, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Italy chuckled. Sure, lots of things had happened between them, but Spain was sure there was nothing Veneciano or Romano could do he couldn't forgive. That was the good thing about being a nation. They were very resilient.

1923

Spain was taught by the Scriptures that there were moments when one had to be patient and be confident in God's will. But that captain, Miguel Primo de Rivera, was so outraged by what was happening to him he showed up one day at his office and told him that he was going to tell him what to do from then on. Spain was scared at first, but Primo de Rivera tried to earn his trust:

"I love you, Spain. I have always loved you. That is why I had to do this. It hurts me to see you this way. You are spending all your money and energy on this war against Morocco, and these communists and anarchists are plotting to destroy you. Every day there is a new murder. I am not waiting with my arms crossed for someone to destroy you!"

His discourse was so passionate Spain had to assure him it was alright. In fact, it felt nice, to have someone who cared so much about him. Alfonso, understanding, made him the only minister.

...Then allowed him to dissolve the Parliament, suspend the Constitution and declare state of war...

It was...all for the best, right?

Perhaps this was the iron surgeon Spain had been waiting for. And in all surgeries the patient bled a little and had to feel pain for some time...

And so Catalonia and Basque Country saw how their anthem, any symbol related to them were completely forbidden and the Spanish Patriotic Union became the only party in the country. Primo de Rivera was tough, but he accomplished a few things. Thanks to his support, Spain reached an agreement with France and both managed to teach Morocco what her place was, with planes, rifles and lots of mustard gas. The deal was that she stayed under France's dominion and Spain had the right to keep some territories at the North.

"That Rivera is doing well, right? I see you look better." Alfonso observed, both of them relaxing in the living room.

"Mhm."

"What are you reading?"

"An essay, by Victoria Kent."

"What is is about?"

"Women. The little rights they have."

"Huh..."

"No, it's actually quite interesting..."

Alfonso was definitely not interested in that sort of things, even found them ridiculous. Letting out a yawn, he stretched and got up from his armchair.

"I'm going to see a play. Tell Victoria and the servants not to wait me up." He said.

He left before Spain could say a thing. He didn't offer him to come, even if he knew that Spain loved theater. That made him suspect where he was going in reality.

He had heard that old excuse before, so, so many times...It was not that Alfonso loved plays. He was more interested in actresses. Specially one called Carmen Ruiz.

Spain stopped his reading, hearing a faint sound. He closed the book and walked towards the wall to press an ear against it. He frowned when he recognized a weep.

Victoria knew, of course, that Alfonso had many 'nenetas' and 'chiquitucas'.

How disappointing this was. Spain would have expected this kind of behavior from any king, but not from Bubi...

1927

Alfonso couldn't help smiling at Spain's face. In an attempt to comfort him, he took his hand.

"I'm not sure I want to do this..." The nation muttered.

"Relax. It's all under control" His king replied.

"How can a thing this big fly? It's just beyond reason..."

"I don't know how it works exactly, but it does."

Spain closed his eyes and started muttering something. Alfonso thought it was a prayer, but it was actually a poem.

«La luna vino a la fragua / con su polisón de nardos / El niño la mira mira / El niño la está mirando...»

Poor Spain, trying to distract himself from what was going on by trying to recite that poem by heart. But when the plane started moving, he yelped and Alfonso felt he was going to break his hand.

A few minutes had to pass until the plane stabilized. Truth be told, he also felt quite nervous, even if he had people around him assuring him everything was going just fine.

Spain finally opened his eyes and breathed deep. Although he knew he would regret it, he looked through the window, and saw the houses and parks and palaces getting smaller, and smaller and smaller!

"My God! We are in the clouds! Those are the clouds! Look, Alfonso! The clouds! We are flying like birds!"

His fear turned into excitement. First those carriages which were not moved by horses, the underground streetcars, now this. He remembered his friend Paulino, what he said about the length of skirts, and felt more excited than ever to be alive to see the future.

1931

Spain waited the news trying to distract himself in vain.

Primo de Rivera turned out to be a disaster. Maybe it was his fault; maybe he was too much of a mess to be saved, but the thing is, Primo de Rivera was forced to resign, and now that man in the government, Berenguer, if he was not mistaken, was preparing something big.

But he had these feelings inside. Something big was coming indeed, but he wasn't sure of what. Alfonso...He hoped it all turned alright. He couldn't stop thinking of what happened to Tsar Nikolai Romanov and his family. The change of regime didn't respect him, not even the children, and in the end he, his wife, his children and even his servants were taken to a room and with the excuse of taking a photo...

It was around lunch time when Alfonso finally showed up. Seeing the look on the faces of everyone who came with him, Spain sensed what the result of the elections was.

"...People have spoken. You are a republic now."

Spain gazed at Alfonso for long.

"And Mr. Alcalá Zamora has suggested me that I left the country before sunset, so, I must hurry..."

He walked away and Spain, after a second of shock, followed him.

"But..."

Alfonso turned to him with a smile.

"It's alright, Antonio. I value you more than the throne. If that is the general will—your will—, I shall leave. I don't want any quarrels. I love you and that is why I am leaving you."

They didn't have much time to say goodbye. They had to pack so many things. A whole life...Spain wished they had had the time to talk, to have a last beer together, to...

He couldn't say he didn't see this coming. Deep inside, he had this feeling. A feeling he had denied for long. He had tried to show Alfonso a kind face, but he hated him. He hated him as much as his wife did, for the same reason. He did not defend him. He broke his vows. He let Primo de Rivera dominate him, even hanged out with him like a friend, knowing that he was hurting him too much, that he didn't want his help...He never understood, he was in a cloud...He wasn't what he wanted, or needed...

Still, that was still Bubi. Spain still saw in him the boy who was scared to lose his teeth, who slept only after he told him a fairy tale and cuddled him in his arms. He couldn't believe it, when the due time came and Alfonso had to go through the door and never come back.

"I will call you when I get to Marseille." Alfonso said.

"Please, do. I...I'm going to miss you so much..."

"Goodbye, Antonio. Good luck."

"Thanks. You too."

They embraced, and Spain couldn't believe what was happening...It felt surreal, seeing another Bourbon go to exile, and finding himself alone again in that big palace.

Back to Las Ramblas, he guessed...

"I guess...This makes everything alright, doesn't it?"

Catalonia, sat with her legs crossed in front of him, gazed at him with an expression he couldn't decipher.

"The conditions seem...acceptable." She finally said, leaning back in the sofa.

"I want you to know that you are like a sister to me, and I will treat you as such."

"I don't know. You don't have a very clean history concerning your siblings."

"I...well, I didn't know better at that time, but I am different. I swear. Time gives you lots of perspective, I assure you."

"Hm."

Catalonia sat correctly and continued to look at him like there was nothing else in that café.

"You still have it better. New government, new constitution." Catalonia said.

"Yes. They are going to let me rule myself." Spain replied.

"How important..." There was quite a lot of animus in Catalonia's remark.

"I will try to intercede so you gain rights." Spain assured her.

"Can I trust you?"

"Of course."

"I don't know..."

"I know what I have done in the past, but, please, I want to do things right this time, okay?"

But there were still things he couldn't control.

Three days after their interview, in a visit to his friend Pablo in Málaga, he was informed that there was something he had to see. The church of his friend's town was in ruins. Just a jumble, which would crumble as soon as the wind started to blow. However, people still wandered around the remains, seeing if there was something that could be saved.

There was nothing at all.

Pablo started to cry, biting his fist.

"Sons of bitches...Those fucking sons of bitches...Motherfucking red atheists..."

Spain knew his friend was very devout. He always carried a card of the patron virgin with him. But the wooden statue they took on procession in Holy Week had been destroyed in the fire, as well as the paintings on the walls, the altar, the crucifix...Everything. Everything at all...According to what Spain heard, the fire was provoked early in the morning, while everybody was sleeping. The flames could be seen kilometers away. The priest could barely escape on time.

Provoked. Because this was not an accident, obviously. It was not a coincidence that everything had been lost in the fire—except the silver goblet, and everything made of gold and precious metals.

"Why are you on their side, Spain?" Pablo kept weeping, turning his eyes to him. "How can you be friends with these people?".

"I...Dear God, Pablo, I never wanted this...This is as disgusting to me as it is for you..." Was Spain's response.

He knew the government had nothing to do, but...at that moment, seeing—feeling the loss that town had suffered, he really didn't know what to think anymore.

"Just one argument: even if you don't want to and if you admit the feminine incapacity, you vote with half of your incapable being. Me and all women I represent want to vote with our masculine half, because there is no degeneration of sexes, because all of us are children of a man and a woman and equally receive the two parts of our being, argument the biologists have developed. We are product of two beings; there is no possible incapacity from you to me, nor from me to you."

From his seat, Spain listened in awe to congresswoman Clara Campoamor. Wow, was that woman fascinating...

"I, ladies and gentlemen, feel a citizen more than a woman and I consider it would be a deep mistake to leave the women out of this right, the woman who waits and trusts you; the woman who, as happened to other new forces during the French revolution, was undeniably a new force which is incorporated to right and there is nothing that can be done but push her to continue her way. Reject it if you want; you are free to do so, but only in virtue of a right you have held, because you have laws to yourselves; but not because you have the natural right to leave the woman out."

Like many, Spain stood up to clap when she finished. And then the people started voting, he scratched the table nervously. He saw many Republicans voting no, and Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Nelken too—if women voted, they argued, they would be too influenced by their husbands and the Church. But the result was clear.

"161 against 131." Spain read aloud. "...Women are now allowed to vote with no restriction other than their age."

Upon hearing the news, Spain's friend Alicia made a fuss, letting out a scream and running to hug her nation."We did it! We did it!"

Spain was so happy too that he didn't try to stop her and hugged and cheered too, instead.

"You see? The Republic is good! Those old, trad kings wouldn't have let you do something like this! Thank you!" Alicia said to him, kissing his lips. How indecent, many people in the room thought. But Spain didn't mind it. That day, his feminine side felt more intense than ever.

1933

Spain's advisors didn't want a democracy. They wanted a revolution similar to the one Russia had embraced, so they recurred to every measure possible for Spain to overcome his hesitations and accept the ideas which, they said, would make him great again. They made him read a lot of books, talk to certain people they said were erudite and wise. Each faction of the Left in his house had its own ideas and referents and wanted him to accept them, but Spain wasn't sure of who to listen, the socialists, the anarchists, the communists...He wasn't even sure that their ideas were that good, after all. What happened to Russia was something no nation in the world wanted to go through. He did agree with some of them but he was hesitant.

Also, the revolution was not only intellectual. That was a reason not to trust these ideas.

His Catholic faith was being questioned like he would have never seen before. Had he listened to any of those claims he was starting to hear often just a couple of centuries before, he would have grabbed his ax and beheaded a few people, but now, now he could only gaze as the government consented with its silence and indifference churches to be burned to the ground and their men of the cloth chased, while they, thanks to the law, forbade them to keep teaching in schools, stole their properties and even forbade mass at some times. Divorce was allowed, as well as civil marriage and burials. Religion was not taught at schools anymore. He knew of some kings and queens of the past who would not have been pleased at all by all this. They were surely rolling in their graves, asking themselves why Spain didn't do anything about it. Spain! God's chosen one! Just watching while the Church was being destroyed and looted!

But what could he do? Wasn't that what his people wanted?—what he wanted?

Perhaps progress meant getting rid of those ideas that dragged him down.

God had been silent lately. Had taken everything away from him. Didn't speak to him.

Growing up meant saying goodbye to things that were comforting. Perhaps...He had to get rid of God...

And he felt so bad for thinking such thing that he prayed for hours for forgiveness.

He didn't know...He had ears...He heard things, rumors...Rumors like it didn't matter what people voted, what his will was, the Republic would destroy any chance of center and right parties to get representation. Like a dictatorship.

Riots started to become daily news. The bad thing about it was that said protests were not pacific. Spain could feel in his guts the amount of people who were killed when the Government, not waiting for his approval, sent the army to stop it. General Sanjurjo, arguing that the Republicans were forcing Spain to take so many abhorrent measures, tried to stage a coup d'etat. The military, sent to repress the people, humiliated by Spain's advisors, missed the times when Spain counted on them like they were the fingers in his hand. There was no need for the government to lie to him, to hide it, to censor the press—he knew. At the end of the day, he found out.

His head hurt all the time, he found himself unable to think at times. Too much thinking, surely. That was why he needed moments of recreation, when he didn't think at all. When he forgot about the Republic, the monarchists, the bombs, the churches burning, the Bolshevist taking control of Russia's destiny and rotting his mind (perhaps saving him?), what Germany was doing in Europe, with that new leader of his, that man with a Charlie Chaplin-like mustache called 'Adolfo' Hitler.

He didn't want to think of anything.

He just wanted to know what that big ape in the screen was going to do with the blond lady he had captured.

1936

Spain refused the snack President Azaña offered him with a hand on his stomach.

"Oh...You still don't feel well, huh?" Azaña told him.

Spain shook his head.

"I haven't felt good in a while, honestly..." He replied.

"Yes, you are not fooling anyone. You are going through so much, why don't you go to the cinema, go on holidays, and...?" Azaña suggested him.

"I've tried. I've done all of that already. But it still hurts."

"Sure...It is those nationalists...They claim to love you, to protect you, and look what they are doing to you."

"What happened in Asturias was not done by the nationalists..."

A furrow appeared on Azaña's face briefly. "That was two years ago, when are you going to forget about that?" He asked then, like it was a trifle.

'It is so easy for you to say; you don't feel the pain of all the people who are murdered...', Spain thought.

"Look, Spain, what Lerroux did...That has nothing to do with us. Not all of us Republicans are rascals like him...We are going to do so many great things."

"How are you going to do that, if you don't agree with one another?" Spain sighed.

"Spain, I don't want to think you are on their side..."

"I am on no one's side. I just want you guys to pull yourself together. You are supposed to help me, not confuse me. I want this feeling to end...All the murders, all the attacks, the protests..."

Azaña sighed. Of course, he didn't understand he couldn't just intervene in someone's favor. Spain wasn't sure of what he needed exactly, of who were the good guys in that picture...He was so confused...

To make things even more confusing to him, the so-called Axis came to visit him that precise morning, unexpectedly.

Spain was frankly surprised when someone knocked at the door and, when he peeked through the peephole, he saw familiar faces. He opened the door to find Germany, Prussia, Veneciano and Romano there.

"Hi, Spain!" Veneciano smiled at him, waving his hand.

"May we come in? We would like to talk to you." Germany said, his hands behind his back.

Of course, Spain allowed them to come in and get themselves comfortable. Since they were already there...

He was intrigued, too, he couldn't lie...

"Nice house." Romano commented, looking around. "Did you mamma decorate it?"

Spain chuckled. He then observed their uniforms, but particularly Germany's and Prussia's. He had heard that the two of them became exceedingly poor after the Great War. But now...Look at them! Everything they were wearing was shiny, nice and new. Good quality, it seemed.

"We came because we heard the situation here is very complicated." Germany spoke.

Spain nodded.

"And you know why is that, right?" Prussia said, pausing to drink from the beer Spain had served him. "Those fucking commies in your government."

"I don't know...These days it seems like everyone is a walking bomb..." Spain replied, and added, as he sipped from his drink: "Sometimes literally..."

"Nah, I'm telling you, those people are the worst. All they do is ruin everything, step on values like they're doormats. They are a pest."

"But we came to help you." Veneciano intervened, with this big grin.

"To help me?" Spain blinked.

"Yes. Europe is looking at you, Spain, I don't know if you've noticed." Germany said. "What you are going through is what happens when you let the communists whisper in your ear."

"It hurts so bad, right?" Prussia gazed at him with those red eyes, as if they pierced through his skull and reached his brain.

"Let's go to the point, okay?" Romano said then. "Listen, you have to make a decision. Join us and we will help you get rid of that problem, okay?"

"How?" Spain asked.

"You don't need to give us an answer now, of course." Veneciano said in his sweet and calm tone of voice.

"We just want you to know that nobody is going to move a finger to help you when you reach the point of no return...But we will be there to help." Germany said.

Spain looked at the four nations not sure of what to say.

"This man has pronounced his last discourse in this Parliament!"

Mrs. Ibarruri's words echoed in Spain's head when he read the headlines of the newspaper that morning. They turned out to be a very accurate prediction—maybe orders. Minister Calvo Sotelo had been murdered, and everybody knew who did it: Republican officers, because their Socialist colleague had been killed by the left wing some days earlier. Eye for an eye, surely.

Spain knew Calvo Sotelo, but hadn't talked much to him. Still, his murder left a very uncomfortable feeling in his chest, like...like...

Four days later, he found out what that meant.

Sanjurjo had not given up the struggle to render his nation free. Spain had managed to commute the death penalty over him under the condition that he got out of his house. From the exile in Portugal, he got in touch with other military men who feared that Spain was in the hands of people who were torturing him, filling his head with bad ideas. Former Director-General of Security, before the Republic, Emilio Mola. Generals Spain had fought with against Morocco and admired, like Francisco Franco.

The day Calvo Sotelo was killed, they decided that Spain was in terrible danger. From Melilla, the participants rose their voices, claiming that someone had to free the nation from the claws of those 'murderers' once and for all. A cry that echoed in all corners of the country and shook Spain's heart.